The Fabulous Life and Times of Pratt Mandango

Island Time

2010-01-26T20:13:00.000-08:00

Some say I am uptight because I like to make to-do lists and set goals for myself, even when I’m on vacation. Maybe it's true because when I am on vacation I do set goals for what I want to get accomplished. For example, when in Paris I like to visit Montmartre for the spectacular views and the Champs Elysees for high-priced window shopping. When in Germany it’s the nearest beirgarten for a Hefeweizen and maybe a castle ruin. I like to see or do at least one interesting thing each day.

So, when it came to preparing for our family vacation in the Caribbean I listened to those who had gone before me and learned all about the casual “Island Time” and “Rum o’clock” culture. Given the laid back nature of the Islands, I decided to keep my to-do list short and easy to accomplish. What I didn’t know at the time was that the Island had some goals of its own.

Here was my list:

1. Get away from snow

2. Learn to snorkel

3. Drink rum in all its manifestations

4. Avoid wearing socks

The first goal involved simply stepping off an airplane. Upon arrival we were greeted with chilled Cruzan rum and rain. Lots of rain. It rained for four days. It wasn’t the typical refreshing rain that lasts an hour in the morning and reappears again in the afternoon. This was continuous, impressive rain. We tourists scurried to purchase $20 umbrellas and resolved to ride it out while the islanders were just happy to refill their cisterns. To the locals rain water means laundry is washed and toilets are flushed. It rained so much I thought my shoes would never dry. But at least it wasn’t snow. Objective one accomplished.

On the first day of sunshine we couldn’t wait to start snorkeling. We headed to the rock-strewn beach in front of our villa, strapped on our gear, and fought the rough surf to get our first look at life sub-marine. This being my first time I was amazed by the life teaming below. Then I was quickly overwhelmed by mouthfuls of saltwater, scrapes against the rocks, cramping legs, and constricting lungs. In addition to my first snorkeling experience, I had my very first panic attack.

After a few hours of sitting in a dark, quiet room my lungs returned to 75 percent and I could reflect on the experience. I knew I needed to see the fish and coral again, but I never wanted to panic like that again. The next day we took an official outing with others on a beautiful sailboat to calm waters with no rocks and a professional snorkeling teacher. Instead of taking up the offer to join the newbies on the beach for a formal lesson I opted to try again on my own with my swim buddy who doubles as my life buddy. I figured no rocks, no waves and a life vest I couldn’t go wrong. Five minutes later they are pulling me out of the drink and pouring fresh water over my head. “Every ting OK mon”.

Watching my wife and ten year old daughter cut through the water like dolphins and listening to them recount their adventures I resolved to try it one more time. But this time I knew I better practice on the beach. My brother-in-law gave me some excellent pointers and instilled me with confidence and technique just in time for our final outing to the British Virgin Islands. I slipped on a flotation ring around my waste, strapped on the gear, and set off with my buddy. This time I was relaxed and the sea revealed its treasure to me. I was awe struck. My buddy and I held hands and explored the caves of Norman Island. I was transformed. Objective two accomplished.

Now, I should be honest and say that from the very first day on the Island I felt like I was getting fleeced. Every time I turned around it was another $20 for this and $60 for that. Everybody had their hand in my pocket. Everything is expensive. Everything except rum. Rum is as cheap as running water on the continent. What milk is to Wisconsin, rum is to the Islands.

So, we indulged at will; Painkillers, Nilla Killas, Pina Coladas, Rum Punches, Bushwhackers, rum and Cokes, rum on the rocks – just to name a few. I consumed more rum in ten days than I had in ten years. Although I am not terribly proud of it, goal three accomplished.

As for socks, there didn’t seem to be anywhere that required pants, let alone socks. Even the nicer restaurants with $100 dishes were "no shirt, no shoes, no problem mon!" So, not wearing socks was a lot easier than I thought it would be. Goal four accomplished.

So, the vacation was a success. I accomplished my goals without even thinking about it. But as I look back on the experience I see now that my goals for the Island were nothing compared to the goals the Island had for me:

1. Respect water. It can kill you, but you can’t live without it.

2. Respect money. A fool and his money are soon parted.

3. Respect the Island. The best things on the Island come from the Island

4. Respect time. "Island Time" is always right now, and right now it’s rum o’clock.

My talk with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

2009-08-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

A dialoged I imagined today:

Pratt Mandango: I see you inducted Metallica and Jeff Beck into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year.

Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: Yes

PM: Little Anthony and Run-DMC too
RRHF: Yes

PM: Seriously? Little Anthony?
RRHF: It was his time.

PM: Run-DMC isn’t even Rock and Roll.
RRHF: Says you. What’s your problem anyway?

PM: No Moody Blues, no Chicago, no Kiss, and no Rush.
RRHF: They didn’t make the list.

PM: I worked that one out on my own. Kiss I can understand but no Rush? What gives?
RRHF: It’s not their time.

PM: 35 years recording, touring, selling, and influencing. Doesn’t that make it their time?
RRHF: No. Rush qualifies but didn’t make the list.

PM: Because it’s not their time.
RRHF: Right.

PM: That’s bullshit.
RRHF: Says you. Besides, years in the business only qualifies an artist, it’s not a guarantee.

PM: Rush has been around longer than Metallica.
RRHF: True, but not as long as Jeff Beck. And not as long as Lynyrd Skynyrd or Black Sabbath, both inducted in 2007.

PM: Rush is #4 in consecutive number of gold records behind only the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Aerosmith and has 40 million records sold worldwide.
RRHF: Impressive. But it’s still not their time.

PM: Says who? Who decides who makes the list?
RRHF: A nominating committee comprised of a cross section of rock and roll historians and industry personnel.

PM: Where do fans come in? Do we have any say?
RRHF: No. This is not a popularity contest. The foundation recognizes those performers who have had a significant impact on the evolution, development, and perpetuation of rock and roll.

PM: You sound like a brochure. But seriously, Rush has had a serious impact on my own personal evolution, development, and perpetuation. And I’m not alone. There are millions like me.
RRHF: You continue to miss the point. Induction to the hall isn’t based on popularity, record sales, or even talent relative to others.

PM: That explains R.E.M. …. Sorry
RRHF: As I was saying, it’s not their time. It’s Jeff Beck’s time. It’s Metallica’s time. It’s –

PM: Little Anthony’s time
RRHF: Exactly

PM: So it’s really not about how great they are.
RRHF: Or how much you love them.

PM: Or how much other performers in the hall really suck. Like R.E.M.
RRHF: Um, right, I guess.

PM: So what can I do to persuade the Foundation to add Rush to the list?
RRHF: Write us a letter.

PM: I did.
RRHF: Then you’ve done your part. And maybe some time down the road it will be Rush’s time.

PM: Really?
RRHF: Maybe. Keep this in mind, Buddy Guy, the O’Jays, and Percy Sledge didn’t get inducted until 2005. So be patient.

PM: Um, OK….. It’s still bullshit though.
RRHF: Says you.

Letter written to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on August 12, 2009: Dear RRHH. 35 years of recording, hundreds of musicians influenced, thousands of live performances, millions of records sold. Please, please, please, in the name of Elvis and all that is holy, please induct Rush into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

My Trip to Amman Jordan - Day 2

2009-04-24T14:08:00.000-07:00

I arrive in Amman about mid-day. I was fortunate enough to fly business class and slept most of the way. I wake up in time for “snack” completely gas free. My flying neighbor seems content so I must not have offended him too much. However, being from New York City it’s likely to take more to offend him. We exchange pleasantries and de-plane.

I meet up with my colleagues who lead the way through immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Having been there before they know the ropes and I follow along dutifully. The customs line at the airport is similar to any I have seen in the US. Bored government employees behind elevated desks robotically process travelers with no emotion or humor.

What is different is the visa process. You must officially have permission to enter the Kingdom of Jordan. This is granted by way of a visa. Unlike my trip to Russia a few years ago where you must follow an elaborate process to gain permission and a visa, in Jordan you simply stand in line at the visa desk, pay 10 Jordanian Dinars (JDs), get your password stamped with a special mark, then move to the immigration line.

One of my colleagues passes through quickly, timing is everything. Another colleague and I end up in a one of two lines converging on the same desk. “Paperwork Guy” takes your passport with the visa stamp, writes an entry in a ledger, then stacks it up on the edge of the desk that belongs to “Stamp Guy”. The “Stamp Guy” reviews the visa and some information on a computer screen, then, if he is satisfies with what he sees, stamps the passport again.

It was clear by the backup caused by the converging lines that we were going to be awhile. “Stamp Guy” was too slow to keep up. After a few minutes, “Boss Man” comes up behind “Stamp Guy”, surveys the situation, and then begins to berate him for getting behind. After the two minute berating I start to feel sorry for “Stamp Guy”. But, “Boss Man” then picks up a few passports, attempts to say my name and my colleague’s name, and directs us to Window 10. After a few tries we finally understand and make our way out of line.

Not having been to the Middle East before, and having been pulled out of line by name, I become mildly concerned. We make our way to Window 10, which has a sign above it indicating residents only. We exchange confused looks and step up to yet another bored government employee, “Second Stamp Guy”. We hand out passports to “Second Stamp Guy” who spends a little over a nanosecond looking at the documents, stamps our passports and gestures to the exit.

We finally get to baggage claim and twenty minutes later we have our possessions. I expect that customs will be yet another set of lengthy lines, but after we pass by a vaguely official-looking person we find ourselves outside among limos, taxis, and busses. One of my colleagues had arranged for a private driver to take us to Amman. “Driver Guy” is waiting for us when we step outside.

“Driver Guy” is an impeccably dressed man in his fifties with a barrel chest and silver hair. He welcomes us with a very wide smile and beefy handshakes. “Good to see you my friends!” he announces. We pile into the large black sedan and “Driver Guy” zooms off.

Because it is in the middle of the day I get a clear view of the surroundings on the way to the city. For reasons I can only attribute to movies and TV, I expect to see sand, lots and lots of sand, and maybe a camel or two. Amman is in the desert you know. Instead I see rolling hills, bluffs, farm land and green grass. When I mention this, “Driver Guy” tells me about all the rain they have received lately. My colleagues are surprised by the green too because they tell me the last few times they were here it was brown. Still, no sand and no camels.

When we get to Amman I begin to recognize things that my imagination had conjured up prior to my trip. I see lots of white stone buildings and houses. They are exactly as I have seen on TV. The streets are windy, the traffic brisk, and the respect for traffic lanes, pedestrians, and turn signals non existent. As in other metropolitan cities around the world the car horn is used as a communication device between drivers – “Go ahead”, “Watch it”, “You’re an idiot!” etc etc.

We pull up to the driveway of the Marriott Hotel and stop at the iron gates. Security guards speak rapidly to “Driver Guy” in Arabic, he opens the trunk for inspection and a second security guard inspects under the car with a mirror attached to a long pole. I look over to the side and notice a soldier pacing nearby armed with a machine gun. There are two ways to take this, security is good, and the need for this level security is bad. I take it both ways. The whole process takes five seconds and we are allowed to enter. I realized then that it was simply routine. After a couple of days, and a few more inspections, I don’t even notice the machine gun any more.

The hotel is gorgeous. But before we can enter we must pass through another security check point. No machine guns, but a metal detector and x-ray machine makes me think of airport security. Again, security is good, right? It turns out even if you don’t have any metal in your pockets you set off the alarm. “Wand Guy” waves a hand-held metal detector up and down your body, carefully pats you down, smiles with kind eyes, and then let’s you pass. After a few of these searches I learn this is also just routine. I eventually end up taking some level of comfort in the ritual.

Since this is an American hotel, everything is in English, including the language of the hotel staff. They are impeccably dressed and intense on helping you feel comfortable. I say “intense”, and not “intent”. “Intent” is what you get at a Marriott in the U.S.. “Intense is what you get in the Middle East. It’s as if they work on commission, somehow able to monitor your level of satisfaction and get paid accordingly.

As an American property they also have an American-sounding sports bar called Champions. It has, as you might expect, big screen TVs, a bar, a bunch of tables, plenty of beer and booze, and of course, very intense waiters. The only thing different than an American sports bar is what’s on TV, English Premier League soccer. So, perhaps it’s more like an English sports bar. But, I have never been to England so I can’t really compare.

This first night in Amman though we forego Champions in favor of local color. My colleagues recommend a restaurant they have been to before that has great food and is in a hip part of Amman. Yes, Amman can be very hip indeed, but more on that later.

We hail a taxi to take us to a Chinese/Indian fusion restaurant. “Cab Driver” doesn’t understand what we are trying to tell him, but he does understand “Fitness Center” which is a health club close to the restaurant. He recognizes this because that’s the name of the club. Once at the fitness Center we guide “Cab Driver” to the restaurant. The meter in the cab reads 840. We pay him 10 JDs. He is very, very happy. We later learn why he was so happy. More on lessons on currency in another post.

The restaurant is clean, comfortable, and new. One side of the menu has typical Chinese options, Kung Pao Chicken, fried dumplings, etc. The reverse side has India options like Chicken Curry. The food was great and the service was friendly, and, of course, intense. I feel a bit disappointed in myself for not going native this first time out, but I figure I will be here for a week so there is plenty of opportunity for local cuisine.

After dinner we have a night cap at Champions – a round of Amstels and head off to bed. I check in with family to let them know I survived the trip, do about an hour’s worth of work to prepare for the big first day, pop an Ambien and hit the rack. From my bed I call the front desk to order a wake up call. “Front Desk Guy” greets me by name and an intense “Good Morning! How can I help you?”

So far I have observed the following:

1. Security is a priority
2. Customer service is paramount
3. Chicken Curry is my favorite Indian dish
4. People drive like idiots
5. Government employees are bored and slow.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

My Trip to Amman Jordan - Day 1

2009-04-19T14:53:00.000-07:00

12:30 p.m. – Dane County Regional Airport (MSN). Kiss wife and daughter good-bye

12:45 p.m. – In line at security behind “Hippy Man”. He must be 50 years old, 6’3”, hair down to his belt which is holding up impossibly tight blue jeans. He mumbles something from deep down his esophagus. I can’t see his lips underneath his thick, graying tar-stained mustache. I experience a waft of his Marlboro cologne and step back to give him a wide berth. He removes his sandals exposing severely gnarled digits and thick cracked toe nails. I keep myself from throwing up a little in my mouth and imagine him sitting on a park bench with snot running down his nose. (You know who I am talking about.)

1:10 p.m. – Find my seat on the aircraft and begin to read.

1:20 p.m. – Joined by Netherlands Girl” on her way to Amsterdam. Before she sits down though she attempts to stow a bag in the overhead compartment. This involves asking “Sunglasses Guy” if she can move his laptop. Without removing his earbuds, or his sunglasses, he refuses her request. Rolling her eyes she stows her bag somewhere further down the plane. When she returns we share a “WTF” look and together roll our eyes at “Sunglasses Guy”. Moments later, when the flight attendant pulls out his laptop to make room for a larger bag, she asks him rather rhetorically if she can relocate his laptop to a more efficient location. Having heard the official announcement that passengers must follow all crew member instructions, he grudgingly complies. “Netherlands Girl” and I exchange a look that can only be translated as “Take that, bastard!” and exchange a mental high-five.

3:45 p.m. – Arrive in Detroit International Airport (DTW).

4:00 p.m. – Concourse A at DTW – notice the flight to JFK is at gate “Hold”. WTF?

4:05 p.m. – Ask random gate agent what “Hold” means and am informed it means they don’t know which gate it is coming into and that I should wait till it changes to an actual gate number,

4:10 p.m. – Strolling down the concourse toward the center planning to check again. It still reads “Hold” until I realize I am looking at Arrivals. Damn! Rookie mistake! Checked the departures and find my gate (B16), Now Boarding.

4:11 p.m. – Began running to B Concourse.

4:15 p.m. – Dodging in and out of shuffeling travelers and meeting up with other travels also “on the run”.

4:20 p.m. – Find my seat, which is next to “Forearm Guy”, one of my fellow runners.
4:30 p.m. – Observe that “Forearm Guy” seems to know everyone on the aircraft. When I question him about it he happily explains, in detail, his relationship to each traveler around him. Learned that the girl sitting next to us was also a plane runner. Noted the woman behind us is a colleague of his, etc.

4:40 p.m. – Wheels up.

4:45 p.m. – After talking to “Forearm Guy” for a few minutes I notices that he has a massive, Popeye-ish right forearm, (hence the nickname). I note that his left forearm is of regular size and shape. When I question him about his over-sized appendage he performs a bit of a muscle-man, wrist curling pose, and then happily begins to tell me the story. Turns out he is an independent videographer. I make the absurdly obvious observation that he must be right handed. He confirms the suspicion and then proceeds to pull out his video camera from his carry-on bag. “Forearm Guy” and I enjoy a couple of beers together talking about family, flying, and forearms.

6:00 p.m. – Arrive at JFK.

6:10 p.m. – Navigate around the airport, looking at monitors for my flight. I am four hours early so the flight hasn’t been listed yet. I ask another random gate agent and she tells me B14.

6:20 p.m. – Stop by a bookstore and purchase The Definitive Guide to Stuff White People Like – The Unique Taste of Millions, by Christian Lander.

6:30 p.m. – Find my gate and begin reading my new book.

6:35 p.m. – Call Mom and Dad to check in.

6:45 p.m. – While still on the phone with parents, notice white smoke billowing up from the opposite side of the gate area. Notice people are milling about, covering their eyes and mouths, and coughing.

6:47 p.m. – Describing the scene to my dad as I make my way out of the gate area to see what was going on. Noted that a computer-type device, resembling an oddly shaped laptop, had smoke flowing out of its top. It looked like a cross between a laptop computer and a toaster set too high. I hear people discussing that it was a child’s toy. That would explain why it was sitting on the floor.

6:50 p.m. – The smoking machine catches on fire.

6:52 p.m. – “Maintenance Guy” takes off his neon green vest and proceeds to beat the machine over and over until the flames die out. I see pilots running around trying to find an extinguisher. “Maintenance Guy” hangs in there, inhaling the fumes, and making sure no one comes near.

6:53 p.m. – On the advice of my dad I beat it out of there. Besides, the stench from the electrical fire was getting worse.

7:00 p.m. – I am having a beer at Chili’s and describing the incident to my brother in L.A.

7:20 p.m. – I eat the boneless chicken wings and regret it at the same time.

7:45 p.m. – Meet up with colleagues and have another beer.

9:00 p.m. – In my seat, now ready to fly to Amman. (Remember, this is a story about my trip to Amman.)

9:05 p.m. Hand my suit coat to flight attendant

10:00 p.m. – Push back and begin to taxi.

10:05 p.m. – Where’s my passport?

10:10 p.m. – Can’t find it seat back in front of me.

10:11 p.m. - Can’t find it in my suit coat.

10:12 p.m. – With tremendous relief, find the passport in my briefcase.

10:20 p.m. – Wheels up.

12:30 a.m. – Finish dinner and pop an Ambien

12:45 a.m. – Sleep

1:00 a.m. – Wake up to baby screaming. Silently apologize to guy sitting next to me for having the chicken wings. No doubt in his head he is calling me “Gas Man”.

1:05 a.m. – Recall “Hippy Man”. He wouldn’t have minded “Gas Man”.

Hook-Up Appreciation Week

2009-03-20T10:22:00.000-07:00

You’ve heard the expression “It’s not what you know, but who you know”. I am a walking, talking example of this truth. My life and times have been fabulous due to what are commonly referred to as “Hook-Ups”. This is not to be confused with the kinds of hook-ups made famous by Charlie Sheen, Hugh Grant, and “Client #9”. Rather, these are people who hook you up with someone or something that greatly improve the quality of your life.

Recently I was both hooked-up and a hooker-upper for others. It was such a great experience that I would like to pay tribute to just a few of the numerous hook-ups in my life.

1. Mom and Dad who hooked me up with life, liberty, and the pursuit of learning.
2. Julie R. who hired me at the place where I met my wife.
3. My wife for hooking me up with a splendid life and beautiful family.
4. Gary F who hooked me up with free lessons on being cool.
5. Jim F. who hooked me up with single malt Scotch and the Kepler Launch.
6. Grace F. who hooked me up with my entire social network.
7. Steve J. for being in the military and hooking me up with Russia and Germany.
8. Maureen J. who hooked me up with the members of Rush.
9. Heather H. for hooking me up with Japan.
10. Dave F. for hooking me up with a good job.
11. Matt R. for hooking me with an even better job.
12. Anthony G. for hooking me up with an even more better job.
13. Byron G. for hooking me up with a new way of thinking.
14. Chad C. for hooking me up with San Francisco.
15. Aaron D. for hooking me up with the USS Constellation.
16. Carey W. for hooking me up Beth, Joern, Katarina, and Jens.
17. Brian O. for hooking me up with even more international travel
18. Steve S. for hooking me up with lots of golf.
19. Beth Y. for hooking me up with bungee jumping, Graceland, and Central BBQ.
20. Dave T. for hooking me up with a prime mortgage that I could afford and making my pay down debt first.

These are only a few and there have been many more. I’m sure if you think about it you will discover that many of the truly amazing things that have happened to you have happened because of a well timed, well placed, hook-up. You’ve heard the phrase “Count your blessings.” I suggest you “Count your hook-ups”. And, if you haven’t already done so, return the favor with a hook-up of your own. Or, at least tell them that it is Hook-Up Appreciation Week and you were thinking of them.

25 Random Things About Me

2009-01-28T18:43:00.001-08:00

I accepted an invitation on Facebook to post 25 random facts about me for the entertainment of others. I was also to distribute this list to 25 friends and then ask them to do the same. It's sort of like a getting-to-know-you chain letter. I post the list here for your entertainment:

I am sometimes inspired by greatness. My friend Beth's recent posting of 25 random things about her was great. Random thing # 23 said that if she won the lottery she would buy all of her friends lake houses in Madison, WI.
I also have some of the greatest friends in the world. They inspire me to be a better person.
I think I am a better person now than I was twenty years ago. I used to think I knew everything. I had a script that told me the way people are and the way the world works. I know now that I was wrong about most of it and have thrown that script away.
I know now that most people are decent and good. I know now that you don’t have to pass a litmus test.
I know now that I like fish and seafood. I like tomatoes and broccoli and cottage cheese. I wish I would have discovered shell fish sooner.
I know now that the things I like to do the most are the things I am the worst at, require the most discipline, and are the hardest for me to start. I like to exercise, play my guitar, and write.
I know now the more I need something the less I love it. This must be why I don’t smoke anymore.
I know now what it feels like to ache for someone. Every time I drop my daughter off for school by heart breaks a little.
I know now what it means to truly love someone. Every time my wife smiles at me my heart mends a little.
I know now that life is too short for black coffee.
I have always known that I was shorter than most men and always wanted to be taller. I know now that I still want to be taller but only to look better in a suit.
I have always known I liked cats better than dogs, even though I have both. I know now that cats love on their own terms and dogs love because they are programmed to. All love is good but I prefer it freely given.
I have always loved music but I know now that it is the blood that runs through my veins. You should hear the sound track of my life. It rocks!
I know that I have always loved my brother, even when we didn’t get along. I loved him because he was my brother. I know now that I love him because he is my friend.
I used to think that everything was urgent, especially at work. But having watched my dog lose her mind when the door bell rings, I know now nothing is more urgent than that.
I know I talk too much, criticize too often, judge too harshly, offer opinions when they are not asked for, and give advice when it isn’t solicited. But, I know acceptance is the first step to recovery.
I know that I’m not a “tough guy”. But, I know that when I watch a Clint Eastwood movie I walk a little taller for a few days.
I know I have always loved science fiction, particularly Star Trek. I know now that nothing is as frak’n good as Battlestar Galactica.
I know that if I had to choose between college or high school to do over again I would choose high school.
I know through personal experience that the French in Paris are extremely hospitable and downright friendly.
I know that I have never met a Canadian I haven’t liked. Speaking of Canadians, I know I still love Rush more than ever.
I know that I have always loved reading. I know now that Esquire Magazine is my bible.
I used to complain about slow moving traffic. But, I know now having been to Moscow that I have nothing to complain about. Not ever.
I know that Wisconsin will always be home, but when I walk outside and my nostrils stick together I know it is time to consider relocating.
I know that I will never leave Wisconsin, especially if my friend Beth buys me a house on the lake.

2008 is Over and I am Exhausted!

2009-01-07T16:35:00.000-08:00

I’ve been thinking about 2008 ever since the clock struck midnight last Thursday. And, like many people I know, I am glad to have it in the rear view mirror. I was reading Arianna Huffington’s recent farewell to 2008 and was reminded of just how long and tiring this year has been. Consider the following:

There are Red States and Blue States, and states that make terror
There’s King George the Second and his Reign of Error
We have the three networks, CNN and FOX
A plummeting Dow and stocks on the rocks

There’s Cuomo and Kennedy, Blagojevich and Burris
Franken and Coleman and Jeremiah the Furious
Charlie Gibbson and Katie Couric, – reporters the same
Ask straight forward questions and get answers inane

There’s Chicago and Wasilla, Arizona and Alaska
“Drill baby drill”, “Yes we can”, and “You betcha!”
There’s Change We Can Believe In and Bridges to Nowhere
Debates and Town Halls and that pesky Bill Ayers

There are houses for John and pantsuits for Hillary
Sarah’s big wardrobe and O.J.’s tomfoolery
Paulson and Bernanke tell us things aren’t so rosy
While tough times abounded for Reid and Pelosi

In a debate McCain called Obama “THAT One”
Other detractors called him “THE One”
But for those who were rooting for the OTHER One
At least the Supreme Court said you can carry your gun

There’s Bristol and Willow, Trip Track and Trigg
Russia and Putin and his reared up MIG
Suspended campaigns and pit bull mothers
Lipstick on pigs and Lehman Brothers

There are foreclosures and frauds and assets quite toxic
Robocalls and commercials make promises quixotic
Bail outs and buy outs and high oil prices
While men in stuffed shirts make speeches hypnotic

Although there have certainly been worse years than this
I can’t say that this year has brought lots of bliss
But even though last year indeed was a bummer
At least I take comfort that I’m not Joe the Plumber.

Pajamas - The New Business Casual

2008-12-30T22:04:00.000-08:00

Pajamas - The New Business Casual

Awhile back I saw a Dilbert cartoon where one of the characters, I think it was Wally, walked past Dilbert’s cube completely nude. Dilbert’s response was, “Don’t you think you’ve taken the casual dress code policy a bit too far?” I swear that Scott Adams, creator of the Dilbert cartoon, has followed me to every office I have ever worked. His commentary on life on the cube farm is one of the few perfect things in this world.

I have worked in many corporate environments just like Dilbert’s and have seen a variety of dress code policies. Most policies require you to at least change out of your pajamas, particularly if you sleep in the nude. However in some offices you were safe to express yourself as you saw fit, so long as you weren’t violating any local decency laws or creating a gaper’s block outside your cube. Management felt if Joe the Accountant could dress like Joe the Coach Potato he would be more relaxed and therefore more productive.

I don’t know whether these laisser faire dress codes actually increased productivity but it became clear that deregulation is not always a good thing. It seems that when left with no rules or guidelines to follow even the highest educated, best paid cube dweller can make the wrong choice.

I am not trying to be a fashion snob here, demanding everyone wear neck ties and blazers. In fact, I couldn’t tell you the difference between Ralph Lauren and Ralph Kramden. And, I don’t care if you wear white socks with brown shoes, belts with your suspenders, or anything with the word “Croc” on it. But I do know that sweat pants and tank tops are for the gym, shorts and sandals are for the beach, and tube tops and spandex are, well, for the garbage. (For more advanced wardrobe tips consult Esquire or Vogue magazines)

But now I must make a confession. I didn’t go into the office today and I didn’t visit any clients. I worked from the home office instead. The term “home office” is code for “kitchen table”. And since I had no in-person meetings or video conference calls today I didn’t feel the need to dress up. In fact, I didn’t even change out of my pajamas. I literally rolled out of bed, put on some coffee, and started working. Was I productive? Big time! I spent zero time showering, dressing, eating, commuting, parking, chatting with co-workers, going out for lunch, trying to look busy etc etc. I just worked. In my pajamas.

Now, I know I am not the only one who does this from time to time. I know for a fact that my brothers work from home too. So, for Christmas this year, instead of getting my brother a dress shirt and tie, I bought him a pair of “Lounge” pants. These are basically stand-alone pajama bottoms that come in a thousand different styles, patterns, and colors. Every clothing store has an ample supply of them. They are great to wear to bed, breakfast, and couch, and in some communities, even the grocery store.

Now since my brother has a home office I suggested to him that the lounge pants were for work. His eyes lit up and he looked at me in surprise as if I had stumbled upon a secret. When I mentioned that I have a few pairs for work too he shot me a knowing smile since we both knew that he would be wearing them “to work” someday soon.

We were also reminded the more that things change, the more they stay the same. Even though the work will always be there, pajamas had become the new uniform for the modern professional. We haven’t reached the point of “nude in the cube” yet, but getting to wear pajamas is pretty close. I just hope we stay productive. I would hate to have to go back to neck ties and blazers, or, God forbid, spandex.

Celebrity is as Celebrity Does

2008-07-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

This weekend we took our dog Bella to an outdoor festival. Now, she is generally skittish around new people, and as mentioned in an earlier post, slightly dimwitted. So, we were concerned about how she would behave around several thousand new people. I expected I would spend most of my time coaxing her to interact with the public. What happened surprised me.

She strained against the leash to explore every trash can, lamp post and ankle she could reach. She walked purposefully from one odor to another, dragging me with her on this new adventure. Unbeknownst to her, she delighted the hearts of children and the aged alike. Passersby whispered and pointed, children giggled, and teenagers waved. Other dogs kept a respectful distance and exchanged knowing looks with her as if they were colleagues. Bella was with her public.

Relieved that she wouldn’t turn into a basket case we explored the festival with ease, even stopping at a restaurant with outside seating. “Are we OK with the dog?” I asked. “Of course you are,” cooed the host. “She’s so cute! In fact you can have that nice corner table.” Having a dog in tow was actually working for us. Good tables, smiles from strangers, it was like we were celebrities. But then I realized that I wasn’t the celebrity. I wasn’t getting the tables and the adoring looks. It was Bella. And I was part of her entourage. I was actually working for her.

Most people just admired her from a safe distance. “She’s so sweet. Look at that little thing”. Others approached me cautiously and asked permission to pet Bella. But some were more aggressive, walking right up to pet her. I resisted the temptation to bounce them since they were mostly children who hadn’t yet learned the etiquette of meeting someone famous. It then occurred to me that not only was I working for her but that I was running security. Every person I saw became a potential threat. I was looking for nut cases with concealed weapons and scouting alternative routes and escape paths.

Bella treated them graciously but with the emotional detachment of a veteran Hollywood star. She seemed to know instinctively that the behavior of these people was perfectly normal and to be expected. But I kept her moving. I recalled John Lennon saying that New York City was safe as long as you kept walking, slowly, but never stopping. I kept Bella moving through the throng of adoring fans and she kept smiling all the way back to the car.

I could sense that she was getting tired and in true celebrity fashion she hopped in the back of the car, had a drink, and passed out. As for me, I was happy that her first outing was a success and that I had picked up a second job, body guard. Next time we take her out though I think I will give her a baseball cap and sunglasses as a disguise. New people make me a little skittish.

A moment of silence, please.

2008-05-03T07:41:00.000-07:00

The world is deafening and I am begging it to shut up, just for a second. I can’t find a quite place anymore. All the traditional places of solace are polluted with needless, unending cacophony. They are all outrageously loud. I read in a book that if a person from two hundred years ago were to visit us today he wouldn’t believe his ears, literally.

The world is begging for relief too. There are articles written about the power of silence in interpersonal communications. There are books that teach finding the stillness within, the quite that is your very soul. There are even products like noise-canceling headphones for sale to combat the barrage.

We as a species seem to be addicted to the din. Restaurants have televisions on at top volume. Stores, elevators and office buildings pipe in noise on purpose for their customers and employees. In many homes the TV blares from the crack of dawn till bedtime, and sometime even after everyone is asleep.

The problem is getting worse. As I write this I have my iPod plugged in and cranked up to drown out the unacceptable noise of a gym with the more pleasing noise of Jack Johnson. I am creating more noise in order to deal with the original noise.

It also seems like the whole world is one big coffee klatch. Everywhere I go women are talking to each other without taking a breath. Men are shouting into cell phones, hollering at their children and screaming at their wives. Teenagers are like, you know, like, chattering and stuff, you know, like, whatever, and saying absolutely nothing.

The library isn’t safe anymore either. Phones ring, workers babble on and on, chairs squeak, and computers click and clack. Outside is worse with cars equipped with woofers so big they rattle your fillings.

It seems the only time when it’s quite is between 2:00 and 5:00 in the morning. For even at home sound is non-stop. The TV is on, the phone rings all day, my cell phone beeps with a new message, the light in the kitchen buzzes, the dog barks.

WHAT DOES A GUY NEED TO DO TO GET SOME QUITE? My dad suggested fishing. But then even he mentioned the large, noisy motorized boats, screaming water skiers and jet skiers, and non stop planes and jets flying over head.

If this wasn’t bad enough, I can’t even find quite inside my own head. The endless voices always yammering on about family members, husbands and wives, life lists, punching guys in the face, and killing squirrels are enough to drive me crazy.

I’m begging you, please, let’s all join together, just for a minute, and turn off all electronic and mechanical devices, sit still without fidgeting, stop talking, typing, and clicking, and focus on our breathing until stop panting.

There. Now, doesn’t that feel better? SSSHHHHH! No talking!

Southern Fried Vacation

2008-04-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

The family and I recently returned from a week-long spring break vacation with the express purposes of escaping the cold and snow of the north and to spend quality time as a family. As planned, we returned well rested and happy. To my surprise, we returned roughly the same size we were when we left. Instead of a verbal slide show, I recount our nine day adventure from the perspective of our G.I. tract.

Day .5 – Road trip to halfway point – Springfield, IL: Home made ham sandwiches with tomato, onion, and mayo, baked potato chips, coffee, juice boxes, and Diet Cokes from the cooler. G.I. Score: HEALTHY, Guilt: LOW (A pretty balanced meal considering we were traveling and eating in the car)

Day 1 – Travel to and arrival in Memphis, TN: Cereal, coffee, and juice from hotel and Diet Cokes, chips and cookies from the cooler. BBQ sandwiches from Central BBQ – Memphis. G.I. Score: QUESTIONABLE, Guilt: LOW (It’s what you eat in Memphis when you are with friends, plus we’re on vacation! Woo Hoo!)

Day 2 (Easter) – Fabulous home made breakfast of bacon, eggs with cheese, pancakes, milk, coffee, Diet Coke; then cookies at church, Kentucky Bourbon (after church), another fabulous home made meal of turkey, mashed potatoes, asparagus, chocolate candy, meringue bites, cupcakes and ice cream. G.I. Score: DUBIOUS, Guilt: LOW (It’s Easter and we were graciously invited to attend our friend’s traditional family meal. Plus, we went to church. Note: the bourbon was consumed in respectable glasses at our friend’s house and not in the church parking lot.)

Day 3 (Day after Easter) - General grazing on cereal, chocolate and Diet Coke to nurse food hangover; then crab cakes and beer for lunch, and another fabulous home made meal of roasted chicken, potatoes, asparagus, wine, ice cream and brownies. G.I. Score: QUESTIONABLE, Guilt: MEDIUM (Starting to remember that we have different metabolism rates than we used to. Although the crab cakes at B.B. King’s bar were tasty, we started recognizing the need for some restraint)

Day 4 – Cheese grits, pancakes, coffee, Diet Cokes, tuna steak sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, fries, calzones from local pizza place, Scotch, soft pretzels and popcorn. G.I. Score: PATHETIC, Guilt: HIGH (Having a great time with our friends and the local cuisine, but this is starting to get ridiculous)

Day 5 (travel to Hot Springs, AR) - General grazing on cereal, chocolate and Diet Coke to nurse food hangover; then salmon, prime rib, veggies, coffee, apple cobbler. G.I Score: QUESTIONABLE, Guilt: MEDIUM (Proud of ourselves for making better choices, surprised we even know what those are anymore.)

Day 6 (Hot Springs, AR) – Hotel breakfast buffet with bacon, eggs, pancakes, sausages; then BBQ sandwiches, beer, and ice cream at the track; salmon and chicken at a chic fusion restaurant. G.I. Score: DUBIOUS Guilt: LOW (Kind of sad about the breakfast but we made pretty good decisions the day before, and we are in Hot Springs! Woo Hoo!)

Day 7 – Pancakes, eggs, bacon, coffee and Diet Cokes; pasta with heavy cream, chicken, seafood at Italian restaurant. G.I. Score: PATHETIC, Guilt: LOW (Who are we kidding? We are weak. We just keep reminding ourselves that it’s spring break. I’d cheer at this point but have to wait 30 minutes since I just got done eating)

Day 8 - Oatmeal, yogurt, coffee, Diet Cokes, club sandwiches, baked chips, red beans and rice, gator poppers, fried shrimp, hush puppies, beer. G.I. Score: QUESTIONABLE, Guilt: LOW (We finally got smart about breakfast. Now, how to tackle the rest …)

Day 9 – The drive home - Oatmeal, yogurt, coffee, Diet Cokes, sub sandwiches, baked chips, hot dogs, kettle corn, pretzels, various other road snacks. G.I. Score: QUESTIONABLE, Guilt: LOW (We are finally home and we can start all over tomorrow.)

All in all, we ate ourselves stupid and had a great time doing it. Special thanks to our great friends in Memphis for making us feel relaxed and welcome. Southern hospitality is safe in your hands. Oh, I almost forgot to mention: there was no snow and no cold wind, Woo Hoo!

The Beatle Has No Clothes

2008-02-13T06:38:00.000-08:00

Ringo Starr is now officially the hippie who won’t go away. He has regrettably recorded a new album with Eurythmics guitarist Dave Stewart. I say regrettably, not because the album isn’t any good, but because he has to promote it on every television show that will have him.

I’ve seen him on several talk shows now and on the Grammys and he reminds me of the uncle that still wears leisure suits and gold chains to family get-togethers and reminisces about the glory days when he was “fab”.

I can’t decide which is worse, the fact that someone tells Ringo every morning that it is still the 70’s or that nobody is willing to tell the Beatle he has no clothes. Out of respect for his status as a rock and roll god, we just smile and nod and hope he doesn’t embarrass himself too much.

Skeptical? Consider this: Ringo appears on stage sporting a silk lavender scarf, sun glasses and an unkempt beard and flashes peace signs to the audience, who are completely besides themselves being in the presence of a Beatle. The host is incapable of restoring order in the studio because the middle-aged women are in tears and won’t sit down. So, Ringo must step in and perform a preacher-esque “be seated” gesture. The audience obeys and Ringo informs the host not to worry, that he has done that many times before.

The interview continues with reminiscence of old Ringo favorites and the inspirations behind them. We learn that Yellow Submarine is all about, what else, “doing drugs and having fun, man”. Who knew. Upon his departure, Ringo flashes the peace signs again and wishes “Peace and Love” to all and slithers off to his next appearance.

On the Grammys he performs the same “peace train” entrance with Dave Stewart and greets the audience with a greasy “Hello, Grammy People”. I was kind of hoping for an Austin Powers “Yea, Baby!” with air guns and a wink. But, after an awkward moment of “who reads what line” Ringo introduces the nominees and announces that they are all “Fab”, which, according to Ringo, “is an old word that we still use”. All I could think at this moment was, “Oh, shut up Ringo! You are trying too hard!”

Now, please understand it is difficult for me to be so critical about a former Beatle and an overall pretty cool musician. I mean, they really were like gods and their music is like blood running through my veins – I can’t live without it. So, rather than just taking cheap shots at an aging celebrity, I offer an alternative approach for Mr. Starkey. (Ringo’s given name is a much less snappy Richard Starkey)

1 - You are a Beatle and therefore practically a god, act like one. Do not grant interviews to mortals inferior to you. This means that unless Springsteen or Bono get a talk show, you’re sitting at home with a drink in your hand letting the guy from Eurythmics make the publicity rounds.

2 - Your only appearance on an award show should be to receive the life-time achievement award, which you accept via satellite from your recording studio because you can’t be bothered while you are busy creating another masterpiece. (You didn’t see Paul at the Grammys, did you?)

3 - If you are going to record a new album, and it has to be with another artist, pick an artist that’s relevant, like Sinatra did on his Duets album. You need Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters or Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam. But Dave Stewart? Yeah, I know he’s a good writer and likes to also sport an unkempt beard with sunglasses, but still, Dave Stewart? I mean, really.

To some up, there is no doubt Ringo Starr is still one of the coolest guys on the planet. His music is still worthy of a listen, and he is, for sure, a rock and roll god. But, he needs to distance himself from the un-cool and keep his hippie-dippy shtick for “rap sessions” and “sit-ins”. And, would someone please tell him he’s not wearing any clothes!

Must Kill Squirrels, Must Kill Squirrels

2008-02-08T07:36:00.000-08:00

I learned a valuable lesson this week about duty, honor, commitment, and dogged determination. And it didn’t come from any heroic story of war or survival or even from the political campaigns that dominate the news.

This lesson came to me while watching my dog Bella defend our property against her arch nemesis, the neighborhood squirrel gang. Now, it is no surprise that dogs chase squirrels, it is in their programming. However, I am impressed by Bella’s undeterred focus and determination to catch, kill and eat the squirrels any time they wander in our yard. She is completely committed to the cause and will not be denied.

It is important to note here that Bella is a ten-pound toy rat terrier who stands about ten inches off the floor. She is slow, mildly dim-witted, and has no real socially redeeming value except to serve as a crumb licker and a hot water bottle with which one snuggles on the couch. So, suffice to say, she is utterly unsuccessful catching any member of the squirrel gang or any other rodent for that matter.

But, this does not stop her from carrying out her genetically given orders or from doing her duty. She is fierce. And I am confident that, due to the law of large numbers, she will eventually catch one, kill it, and eat it. The squirrel may have to fall on its head in front of her and knock itself unconscious, but she will ultimately prevail.

I believe Bella is teaching all of us an important lesson about life. The journey, not the destination, is the real reward. It’s the act of pursuing your destiny, in this case ridding the world of squirrels, that trumps the fulfillment of destiny. For, when our destiny is fulfilled, do we not cease to exist in some way? If the squirrel gang is defeated, isn’t Bella’s mission complete and her role here on earth over?

As I think about my destiny and role hear on earth a part of me is skeptical about ever fulfilling it. Am I smart enough, strong enough, fast enough, or tall enough? Do I have what it takes inside to catch that squirrel? Do I have enough guts to finish the job?

I am confident of one thing though, Bella has none of these hang-ups. She questions neither her physical abilities nor her character. She does not have confidence issues or an ego to bruise. She knows only one thing: “must kill squirrels”. And I believe she is truly content even though her odds of success are low.

I admire Bella in this way. I think from now on, whenever I am faced with a lack of confidence or anxiety about my performance, I will think of Bella and repeat her mantra: “Must kill squirrels. Must kill squirrels. Must kill squirrels”.

So, if you ever see me walking down the street muttering to myself, please don’t judge me right away. Just know that I am probably working through some personal issues on my way to meeting my destiny. Please don’t hesitate though to kick me to the curb if all I am good for is dropping crumbs on the floor and snuggling with dogs on the couch.

Put up your Dukes!

2008-01-30T19:38:00.000-08:00

So, I’m thinking I’d like to punch someone in the face. Not anyone in particular, just somebody that’s got it coming. You know, some guy in a bar that mouths off, or some jerk at the grocery store that stares at my wife for too long.

I’ve been thinking it would be cool to square up to him, ask him if he’s “got a problem”, then BAM, sucker-punch him! I’d warm him first though. I’d say something tough like, “You’d better watch it pal or I’ll give you a fat lip!”

This pugilistic urge has visited me on and off for years, but has gotten acute recently following a few unrelated experiences. First, I was reading the January issue of Esquire, in which there is an article about the death of boxing. The writer credits the downfall in popularity of the sport in part to the average guy’s inability to relate to someone in a fist fight.

The author contends, rightly I imagine, that most of us don’t live in an honor-based culture anymore where fighting is an essential part of protection and revenge. Also, men simply don’t fear the idea of getting into a fight anymore. It just doesn’t happen. I simply can’t remember the last time anyone asked me what I was "looking at". So the idea of watching two guys fight is about as meaningful as watching them duel with revolvers

Anyway, back when my father was a kid, it was nothing for men to settle their differences with a little fist-to-cuffs. Guys had their guards up all the time to protect their girl’s dignity from the roving hand of a scoundrel, or to demonstrate the superiority of their school, team, or branch of military, and, of course, to defend their mother’s honor. To the typical guy back then, fighting was a way of life and the heavy weight champ was the king, and the loser was a bum!

The second experience that fanned my desire for hand to hand combat was just a week ago when I watched the Maltese Falcon. I lost count how many times Humphrey Bogart just socked a guy in the jaw for no good reason. He always had that smooth, gangster comeback that followed the punch, like a beer chaser after a belt of scotch. We laughed at the absurdity of it until it occurred to me that the movie took place around the same time my dad was young. It’s a generational thing I guess.

So, it is all starting to make sense and I really want to have it out with someone. I even dream about it. Although in these dreams I get through all of the tough talk and the guy is still asking for it. But, when I get to the point where I unleash my hate maker for some reason I can’t lift my arm. My hand is so weak I can’t even make a fist. I am desperate to move my arm but it won’t budge. I start to hear laughter and snickering around me. I wake up in a cold sweat, only to notice that I am in bed and my arm has fallen asleep after having slept on it. Really tough, I know

Okay, so maybe I’m not really ready to take a swing at someone yet, but I really like the idea of being the tough guy. Maybe instead of risking a law suit or even jail time, I’ll just stay home and put on a Clint Eastwood movie. People are always asking him what he’s looking at.

Do I interview myself? Yes I do.

2007-09-19T17:34:00.000-07:00

I read once that if you are ever interviewed by the media it’s a good idea to follow a few simple rules.

1) Never compliment the interviewer on how well they conduct interviews, such as “That’s a great question, Dan”. This tells the interviewer that you are not yet rattled by their professional interrogation.

2) Never insult the interviewer either, such as “That’s a stupid question, Dan. You call yourself a journalist?” No explanation needed here.

3) Never answer the actual question the interviewer asks. Rather, answer a question you wish they would have asked instead.

For example, Interviewer: “Have you stopped beating your wife yet?” It’s a simple Yes or No question but, unless you are Ike Turner, answering either way is inadvisable. So, what do you do? Pretend the interviewer asks this instead: “How do you feel about the practice of wife-beating and can you give me an easy to understand example?” You then answer this new question thusly: “I am vehemently opposed to wife-beating, Dan, and as you know, you can go to jail for that kind of behavior.” If you are lucky, the interviewer will nod knowingly and move on.

I was reminded of this last point recently when speaking to a colleague who enjoyed asking himself questions as a way of making conversation with me. Maybe you have experienced this yourself.

Me: “So, I notice that a lot of people around here are very tan.”

Colleague: “People around here are much tanner than people to the south. Why is this? Because of the high level of Iodine in the water.”

Now, in normal conversation, the colleague would have paused after “south” and given me a chance to deliver the line, “Really, why are people tanner that those in the South?”

But anticipating that I may not ask this very important follow up question, he jumps right in and steals my line. This got me thinking about other self questioners I have encountered. These are people who seem to be giving an interview to an imaginary reporter while speaking to me at the same time.

“You know Pratt, we really appreciate your help on this project. Do I think we could have done it with out you? Yes, but it would have taken us a lot longer and cost us a lot more money.”

I resist the temptation to peek behind me for signs of Larry King and politely wait for my turn to speak.

“Is it our policy to spend more time and money on projects? Of course it isn’t.

I am now annoyed because that wasn’t the question I was going to ask.

“Do I think it was a good decision to bring you in? Yes, I do”

I am now starting to resent the implication that I am not capable of asking my own stimulating questions.

“Would I bring you back for another project? Well, --“

It is at this point I want to interrupt and tell him “That’s a really stupid question, DAN!”

But, clearly I’m not the one being interviewed, so instead I just nod knowingly and move on.

Life, Lists, Hogwarts and Heff

2007-08-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

I recently read an article in the New York Times describing a rapidly growing fad in America – “the life list”. For example, your life list could be “1000 places to visit before I die”, or “101 books to read before I die”, or “50 ways to drop dead before I die”. You get the idea.

Naturally, the article consults experts in the field of building life lists. (This is in case you were worried that you wouldn’t know where to start with your list and that there may be no one around to help you. Item #1 on your list would then be to “consult an expert”. See how this works?)

The expert we hear from is a “personal life coach”, whatever that means, who uses life lists in her practice. She explains why writing a life list should be on the top of everyone’s list . “What it does is give you a road map for your life,” she said. “To check items off your list gives you a sense of self-efficacy, or mastery.”

On the surface this sounds pretty good. She clearly is expert in the use of buzz words too. She could also have said that life lists help you to 1) think out of the box, 2) tell your own story, 3) write your own (insert favorite emotional body part here) monolog, 4) envision a new paradigm, 5) take a personal emotional inventory etc. In fact, I made up a couple of those to show how easy it is to talk like an expert. More on experts in another posting.

But before we go down the all-to-easy “let’s make fun of supposed experts” path, I will instead take a moment to reflect on what she is trying to tell us – life lists give people a purpose for living and checking things off the list gives them a reason to feel good about their lives. The implication here is that most people’s lives are meaningless and trivial and will never amount to anything unless there is some cosmic honey-do list to get them off the couch.

I disagree entirely. But before going down the ever-so-easy “every day is a blessing and should be cherished” path, I will instead let another expert consulted at the end of the article to illustrate my point – Playboy Magazine’s Hugh Heffner. When asked why he doesn’t have a life list, Heff replied, ‘I honestly can’t think of anything I don’t already have.” You saw that coming didn’t you?

He does make a good point though – he doesn’t want anything else. He is content with what he has, and what he is. But, before we go down that ever-so-easy “yeah but he’s got three girlfriends who look like Barbie Dolls” path, I will instead call my own expert to the stand: Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, made famous by J.K. Rowling. (If this name doesn’t ring a bell, add it to your “101 things to Google before I die” list)

Dumbledore was “coaching” young Harry Potter, who was sitting in front of the Mirror of Erised staring at a mysterious illusion of his dead parents. He told Harry that the mirror he was staring at shows us the deepest desires of our heart, and that the happiest man on earth would see only his own reflection. You see, he would have no deep desire reflecting back at him, and would therefore be content and happy.

What this all boils down to for me is if people can spend less time wanting what they can’t have, yearning for things that are unreasonable, and envisioning new paradigms and more time really soaking in the beauty of what they are experiencing this very moment, they could do without gimmicky lists that will only add to the frustration of a bunch of things left un-done.

As for my life list, I can now check off item #7 : “Post a blog that combines The New York Times, Playboy Magazine, and Harry Potter.” I'm feeling better already.

Old School Lessons for a New Age Dad

2007-06-17T09:19:00.001-07:00

This father’s day I reflect on my childhood and the lessons I have learned from dad. I wonder whether a dad who came of age in the 50’s can offer guidance to a guy who came of age in the 80’s. Had too many years passed in between us?

I am what is called a SNAG. Sensitive New Age Guy. Not a crystals and Enya kind of new age, but more of a “share your feelings”, “Hey, let’s talk it out”, modern, contemporary kind of new age.

Now, my dad is old-school. Not beatings-behind-the-wood-shed old school, but more of an “I’m your dad, not you best buddy”, “Do what I say because I’m your dad and I don’t need to explain myself” kind of old school.

My dad’s approach to parenting was that he had no “approach”. He didn’t sit down to develop a “Parenting Strategy”. These are new-age ideas that make perfect sense to me but would be preposterous to him. However, unbeknown to him, my dad did have a parenting strategy that speaks volumes to the modern dad.

If you asked him, he would tell you that he tried to raise strong, independent, Christian conservative sons through parochial school education, involvement in political organizations, and frequent, passionate lectures about politics, religion, baseball and the politics thereof, other nations and their politics and religion – you get the point.

These are efforts my dad took on purpose. Although I learned a great deal about religion and politics, and some interesting perspectives on sports, the lesson I took away that relate to being a dad he had no idea he was teaching. Here is my dad’s real approach to parenting:

1) He worked hard to provide us with food, shelter, education, G.I. Joes, BB Guns and tree forts. He was the first in his family to go to college. He was the first in his family to leave his home town to find the best work. He worked thanklessly for decades designing and building the world we live in.

2) He always came home at the end of the day. Always. He never hung around in bars, spent hours on the golf course or weekends at the office. I could set my watch by when he was home everyday.

3) He always tried to do the right thing. He fought subversives to protect our nation’s liberties. He fought butchers who would abort are babies. He upheld standards of conduct in the house. And he always apologized to us if he raised his voice.

4) He loved our mother. And still does. To listen to them talk to each other the casual observer my wonder about how they haven’t killed each other. Even after 50 years my mom is still his girlfriend. He defends her honor as if they were on the playground at school. I remember twenty years ago smarting off to mom in front of dad. He chilled me with a sideways glance and a few short words. I can’t remember what they were. I guess I’m sill in shock. I never smarted off to mom again, at least not in front of him.

I have learned from my dad everything I need to know to be a good father. And these lessons make perfect sense to a new age guy. Work hard, check. Come home to your family, check. Do the right thing, check. Love your wife, check. The fact that he didn’t realize he was teaching me these lessons makes them all the more powerful. All said, he would have made an excellent new age dad. I’ll never tell him that because I’ve already had the “New Age” lecture, and, now that I’m a dad, I guess I don’t need to explain myself either.

Comedians: Modern Day Philosophers

2007-06-03T21:22:00.001-07:00

In college I took a liking to philosophy classes where we would read, study and discuss the writings of Plato, Frege, Kant, Mills, Russell, Descartes, Aquinas and many other “thinkers” in history. The classes hit a certain “collegy”, pseudo-intellectual chord with me that made me feel smart. Looking back I consider most of the philosophers we studied complete gas-bags, but the classes helped to form a good foundation for more practical applications, like being a mobile disk jockey at wedding receptions. More on that later.

So, the other night I was surfing the countless cable channels I have running to the house when I stumbled across Robert Wuhl on HBO giving a standup routine in a classroom setting in front of college students. You may remember Robert Wuhl from his HBO show “Arliss”. The show is called “Assume the Position”. And the main topic of his routine was how badly history is taught in schools these days – that American history is basically taught as American folklore. Now the show was pretty funny and he made some interesting points along the way. Then I got to thinking how strange it was to hear a stand-up comic base an entire hour’s worth of material on American history. I mean history is generally boring to everyone accept history majors and dorks who like to pull out obscure yet useless factoids at cocktail parties. “Did you know that George Washington used to clean his teeth with Pledge?” or something like that. But Wuhl made history accessible and fun.

While I was watching him other comedians came to mind that I would put in the same boat as Wuhl, and they all happen to be favorites of mine: Dennis Miller, Bill Cosby, George Carlin, Eddy Izzard, Joe Rogan (Fear Factor) just to name a few. Now I am pretty sure most of these comics would cringe at the moniker of “philosopher” as they wouldn’t want to be taken that seriously. But they really are effective at tackling the issues of the day and providing a poignant, albeit sometimes obscene point of view. The point is, they help the average guy sort out an issue, provide him an interesting point of view, and keep his attention for more than five seconds.

If you pay close attention to what these comedians are saying you will notice that they cover topics such as history revisionism, multi-ethnic cultural comparisons, the use and abuse of language, metaphysics, religion, the human condition, relationships, and the occasional watermelon smashing. Okay, maybe Gallagher doesn’t fit in this particular crowd.

Anyway, next time you are watching one of our top comics, pay attention to the topic and ask yourself at the end of it all whether you learned anything. Without getting too deep here, suffice to say that I have learned a lot from comedians and have rounded off my view of the world with their insightful, slightly twisted ways of looking at things. To hear George Carlin rant about how the “establishment” has manipulated language to conceal their sins (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder used in Vietnam used to be called “Shell Shock” during World War I) is to pick up an interesting history lesson and a great laugh.

There are countless other examples from the comedians named above. Now, their routines may not be The Philosophy of Logical Atomism by Bertram Russell or John Stewart Mills On Liberty, but who wants to read that rubbish anyway? And besides, for you non-philosophy majors, this stuff is a joke anyway, right? Well, if it is a joke, why not make it funny then?

Alcohol + Drama + Microphone = (censor)

2007-05-20T17:19:00.001-07:00

I was reminded recently about a Bill Cosby bit about cocaine, where someone encouraged him to try it because it “enhances” your personality. His response was, “Well, what if you’re a (censor)?” Well, I found a similar recipe for (censor) this weekend: Start with a 200 lb moron, add five parts alcohol, one dash of drama and give said moron a microphone. Viola, you’ll have created a perfect (censor).

The Mandangos recently attended a banquet celebrating the end of our 2006-2007 bowling season. This is an annual event where awards are given to the bowler with the highest game, the highest series, and so on. Then awards are given to the best teams. So far, everyone’s happy because the awards are given in cash. They aren’t really awards since the cash was taken from our weekly bowling fees, held in escrow by the league secretary. But by the time the awards are given out we bowlers have drank half of our earnings already and we don’t consider that fact.

After we have eaten and the awards have been given out, our bowling league turns into the first congressional congress. It is at this time we pick our league officers, using essential tools of democracy such as Robert’s rules of order, and show-of-hands voting. It typically works like this: “Okay, someone has nominated Sue to be the president. Do I hear a second?” Several shouts of “second” echo across the room along with a few drunken obscenities. “By a show of hands, who wants Sue to be the president?” After all the hands go down and more obscenities are thrown, Sue is asked, “Sue, do you accept the position of president?” Since Sue is rapt in conversation with someone about the softball league that just started up, she needs to be asked again. “Oh”, she says, “sure”. And now we have a president. The process continues for Vice President and Secretary.

It is important to point out at this time that the positions of President and Vice President of our league are merely figure heads. The most socially adept bowlers get elected to these roles and they do nothing all year but accept or reject their title at the annual banquet. The secretary is the one who does all the work.

Which is why, at this particular gathering, it was very strange when the wheels of democracy fell off and the banquet was thrown into pandemonium. Following the induction of the league officers, we bowlers were debating the pro’s and con’s of making up for lost bowling within one week of the absence. (this is a serious issue for the league as it could impact rankings, but more on that another time) As the debate started to heat up, and no one was listening to anyone anymore, the recently re-elected, figure-head president staggered up to the lectern, grabbed the microphone from the secretary (almost knocking over her make-shift tobacco spittoon – a empty can of Bud Lite) and shouted through the loudspeakers, over the other shouts and obscenities, “Alri-, lissenup! I’m the presdent of this frickin’ league and I don’ care wha you frickin’ say. What I frickin’ says goes …”. She continued on in this vane for several more minutes but we never learned her actual point since Mrs. Mandango was mortified and demanded an emergency vacating of the premises. (Mr. Mandango wishes they could have held on for the fist-to-cuffs)

What we did learn though was the importance of effective meeting facilitation. Should you be in a meeting where the attendees are under certain “personality enhancing” influences, and you are the one in charge, hide the microphone lest you unknowingly concoct the perfect frinkin’ (censor)!

Marriage: The Ultimate Client Service Relationship

2007-05-11T15:56:00.001-07:00

Just this week I celebrated my 15th wedding anniversary with Mrs. Mandango. As I do every anniversary, I took a few moments to reflect on the previous year and evaluate my performance as a husband. My goal is to, at a minimum, meet expectations. This gets more difficult every year as Mrs. Mandango continues to raise the bar. More on that in future posts.

You see, I think being married is not just something you are; rather it is something that you do. And, you either do it well or you don’t. That may not sound very romantic, but the good news is that being married is a skill and you can get better at it the more you practice.

What struck me most in my annual spousal performance review was this concept of “practice”. Being married is sort of like having a practice not unlike a doctor, lawyer or consultant. The more time and effort you invest in your practice the more successful you are likely to be. This, of course, means then that your spouse becomes your main client. Again, not romantic, but suffice to say that the principles of good client service apply beautifully to being married.

Without getting too Dr. Phil here I’ll just list ten client service concepts I have learned that apply directly to marriage. Just replace the word “client” or “customer” with your significant other. If you have no business clients and these concepts are new to you, there are thousands of client service books written on the subject, some perhaps even written by Dr. Phil himself.

1. Listen to the voice of the customer.
2. Understand your client’s needs and what you bring to the table. Understand that you can’t satisfy their every need but you can help them find other solutions to these needs.
3. Help your client to grow and to reach their own goals.
4. Entertain your client from time to time so they know they are still important to you.
5. Follow through on your promises and commitments every time.
6. Be honest about the situation and take responsibilities for your own screw-ups.
7. Hold your client accountable for their commitments and screw-ups too.
8. Manage expectations for each other at all times.
9. Don’t ever, under any circumstances, speak badly about your client in front of other people. You never know how people are connected.
10. Think long-term partnership rather than convenience store customer.

I'm sure these points will come back to bite me from time to time in future blogs since I can't seem to master them all at the same time.

There are of course some principles that don’t translate well to marriage, like spreading out your risk by diversifying your portfolio. I strongly encourage you to place all of your eggs in one basket. Every business client I’ve ever had wanted to be the only one I ever spent time with. Marriage is the same.

So, I finally concluded that over the past year my performance fully met expectations, but didn't blow the roof off. In the business world this will guarantee you a cost of living pay raise. In the world of marriage it will buy you another year of marital bliss. Now, if you exceed expectations from time to time you may not get the green light to diversify, but you’ll develop a reputation as someone who can really deliver. Who knows, maybe after fifteen years you’ll be ready to consult others in effective client service. Just make sure they're business clients.

The Unemployment Dating Game

2007-05-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

Looking for a job these days is a lot like Internet dating. You expose yourself to the masses, screaming “I am available”, and then spend most of your time fending off the weirdoes sniffing around for their next piece of meat. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against recruiters as a class of people. There are a few good ones out there with nice manners, who are well connected and will treat you nicely. But many of them are either knuckle-draggers looking to club you over the head and drag you to their cave, or sweaty gigolos with fancy titles and bad pick-up lines. If you get caught up with these guys you’ll find out they are all compliments and promises in the beginning, but if they can’t “place” you by the end of the day, they’ll dump you. But, you are still desperate for a job so you chase after them and the cycle continues with more compliments, promises and disappointments. They’re the people my parents warned me about.

The worst of the losers are easy enough to spot. They come on to you like a slobbering hound, no finesse. You know they operate in volume, like working a singles bar one girl at a time. “Hey you, I’m a headhunter. Are you willing to relocate to Ohio or Arizona? If not, uh, do you have a sister?”

Not all of the recruiters are that barbaric. Many have flashy titles that imply stature and success that would make any mother proud. I have been approached by Partners, Principals, Directors, Consultants, Seniors, Presidents, Vice Presidents, Managers, Coordinators, Technical Recruiters, Executive Recruiters, Account Managers, Search Partners and Employment Counselors. At least half of these dandies wouldn’t pull a chair out for you, let alone spring for the check.

Then we come to the pros. The experienced, sophisticated, “You look Maahvelous” suitors who know how to get to you. They call on the phone, make witty repartee, offer subtle, ego-stroking compliments, practice mild self-deprecating humor, until you are putty in their hands. You say to yourself, “He’s the one. He’s the one who will save me from the unemployment line and will help me get back on my feet.” They have the connections and pull. They have databases and search tools. They get you in the door too. And, who knows, maybe it is the beginning of something beautiful. Like any relationship, only time and performance will tell.

There were a few I did end up working with who were just like me. They were laid back, casual, sincere in wanting to help but not too pushy. They returned phone calls and kept me informed of their progress. They treated me like a colleague, not a conquest. They got me in a couple of doors too. I kept their contact information if I find myself in this situation again or if I would like to just have company over lunch. I will also refer them to others I know who need somebody - like setting up a blind date.

By the end of this whole exercise, I got very close with a couple of companies, and I did get a good offer that I accepted. The funny thing was, I didn’t use a recruiter with any of these companies. I did business with these companies in the past and was impressed by them. I asked mutual friends what they thought about them and if they could introduce us. My friends were all to happy to make the introduction. It turned out that I didn’t need an internet match-maker after all. I just needed a little help from my friends to introduce me to the people right for me. They would know since they know me.

So, I guess looking for a job is like old fashioned dating too. At the end of the day it’s all about finding that special someone. You can hire a professional to do the awkward “Hello, my name is …” or you can be brave and ask a friend do it for you.