Life vs. Jeff on Pay-per-view

I am on a seven-year losing streak. Most people think I am being facetious when I say that. I am not. Our lives, at least my life-- because I shouldn't be presumptuous enough to speak for everybody-- is divided into small victories and small defeats, and large triumphs and catastrophes. We live for the large triumphs and hope to avoid the catastrophes. The micro versions get us through day to day. If we had no small victories, there would be little reason to get out of bed.

So we survive on little things that make us smile, but we live for the major triumphs. We live for the champagne-popping, let's celebrate, shouting and jumping-up-and-down moments. I haven't had one in seven years. Meanwhile, I have had a series of catastrophes that amounts to an incredible losing streak. Saturday, I opened an email from my colleagues, explaining that their committee has decided not to fund a project I have been sweating over for the past year. It's apropos that my hometown has the dubious distinction of being the losing-est major sports city in the country. I can relate.

Now, do not mistake me. I am not setting you up to feel sorry for me, nor am I feeling sorry for myself. I am telling you this because I have become a mental and emotional Hercules. There is a scene in Cool Hand Luke where George Kennedy is beating the snot out of Paul Newman in an informal prison boxing match, and "Luke" refuses to stay down. That scene is an allegory for my life right now. Life is beating the snot out of me, and I am laughing at it. All because I am lying in wait for the next major triumph, and I believe it is going to be huge.

How do I know this? I don't. I only know the facts, and the facts are that I have three goals for 2012, and I have never worked harder to achieve them. Never! I am only sorry that I cannot share these goals. It is not because I am superstitious, but because I want to pop the champagne, celebrate and jump up and down screaming and shouting if I achieve any one of these, and I will share it with everyone.

I am not a religious man, so I don't quite understand those who say, "God has a plan for me, so I will put my life in his hands." If there is a god, I would hope it would be the type of god that lets me take the wheel and determine my own destiny. And empirically you simply must believe in free will, because we see examples every day of how people are not rewarded for their hard work, and others far less deserving are handed the prize. The religious answer to that is that the reward comes in the next life, but I am living like there is no tomorrow and no next life. By the way, if the alternative method works for you, fantastic. Who am I to stop you from putting your faith in something bigger than yourself?

The inequity of life does not deter me. I am fighting back with a Paul Newman-like vengeance. I just finished watching a movie called How Do You Know? for about the fifth time. I also love the fact that virtually nobody cares about some of the movies I like. In this movie, George gives Maddy, who is seeing a rich ballplayer, a can of Play-Doh for her birthday. He is being indicted for something he didn't do, his father is the reason, he has no money and his girlfriend broke up with him. He doesn't care. He shares the Play-Doh with Maddy and tells her it was invented by Joe McVicker of central Ohio. He invented it to remove soot from wallpaper, but when central heat replaces coal furnaces he is about to be destitute. His sister-in-law tells him how much her kids enjoy playing with the stuff and he should color it and sell it as Play-Doh. George delivers the denouement, which is "I have kept this as proof, that we are all just one small adjustment away from making our lives work."

That's good writing and it identifies my struggle. I am just one small adjustment from making my life work. Those words, which I have adopted as a mantra, give me a wry smile. I know something that Life doesn't know. I may lose the struggle and fail on all three of my goals. I will be devastated. There's no avoiding that. But I will come back for another round and Life will look at me perplexed, as if to say, "I have beaten you to a pulp. Stay down."

Up yours, Life. I'm here for the duration.

Tribute to Jarry

I met my father-in-law almost 25 years ago. We had little in common. I loved sports. He wanted little to do with sports. He would tell you his father force-fed him sports because he was big and tall, but Jarry was interested in the cerebral side of life. He taught English and literature most of his adult life. If there were a Readers Anonymous for those with an addiction, he would have been a charter member.

So what would I talk to him about? This new father-in-law of mine. I was nervous. It didn't take long to figure out he was one of the most brilliant men I had ever met. If I did broach a topic, he had a comment, a reference, an insight or even a citation. It was all from memory. I never saw him look up anything. What's more, he would even ask me about sports. He was genuinely interested and knew it was one of my areas of expertise--that, and mass communication.

Surprisingly enough, it didn't take that long to find common ground. Even though I didn't read much fiction, I picked his brain about the civil war, politics, religion and sometimes just the "good old days." I went from that awkward stage of, "Oh, god, don't leave me alone in the same room with him," to "Where's Jarry? I have something I want to share with him."

Of course, I really didn't have to ask "Where's Jarry?" aloud. He was always in the same spot--his recliner, which later became his raised recliner, which later became his fully-automated, turbo-charged, jet-fueled recliner. This all happened as he became less and less mobile. His rebuilt legs couldn't take the strain of his large frame as he got older. It was hard for him to stand without help.

Yet he was still a giant to me. Through all the trauma and pounding his body took, his mind remained unaffected. There was never any chance of Alzheimer's here. I would marvel as I brought up a historical name I was sure he wouldn't recognize, and he would respond with a quote about the person, where he read it and probably what page it was on.

He always spoke slowly and deliberately, but not because he couldn't remember. He was crafting his thought, and although you were tempted to urge him on because sometimes there were long pauses, you knew whatever he said was going to be worth the wait, and you were likely to learn from him. He would have made an amazing Jeopardy contestant, except for the fact that Alex would have lost patience with the time he took to answer, and he probably would have given him too much information.

Now I realize I'm no mental slouch, but I always felt dwarfed by his intellect. As I left the world of my tunnel-visioned knowledge of sports and branched out into other milieus, we were able to share a wealth of information, but I could always count on him to enrich me further than I enriched him.

I know it's cliche to say he has given so much to those around him and those who loved him, but it's nonetheless apropos in this case. You can measure the things he taught. Had I been one of his students in the early days, he might have inspired me to change my major and open myself to new worlds and a new appreciation of epistemology.

And he gave me one thing more. He and his lovely bride produced the love of my life. For that alone, I will be forever in his debt.

A special blog for a high school classmate

Everybody sends flowers, and while they are nice, all you get is a little card to wrap up everything you feel. It's never enough, and neither is this, but it's personal, and it's all I know. This is the old-fashioned kind of verse that rhymes. Forgive me. I'm writing this at four in the morning. I sure hope it makes sense tomorrow.

My Friend Len

It was a long time ago in '72.
You hardly knew me and I barely knew you.
We were two different people from a different walk,
So we would pass in the halls but we'd never talk.
And I never got to know your darling Mary.
In fact all I knew of you was that you were quite hairy. (You may laugh here)
But I remember as I watched you walk off that stage
That somehow inside I knew of your rage.
'Twas injustice you must have felt on that day
The same injustice that takes our loved ones away.
We don't understand why life is so cruel
How we could be robbed of a precious jewel.
We're hurt and confused and feeling quite lost
For we have just paid the ultimate cost.
I've shared the pain that I'm sure you must feel,
A time ago I was handed the same deal.
Like yours my love lived too short a life
My lover, my friend, my soulmate, my wife.
And when I thought I had experienced pain like no other,
Three tiny months later, I said goodbye to my brother.
I don't tell you this to make you more sad
But to offer a hand for the sorrows we've had.
And to tell you that one day your life starts anew
And once again, you must learn what it means to be you.
The dawn will break through to reveal a new day
And you'll think that the sun will not give you a ray.
Just search through the clouds that you see up above,
And remind yourself that you know what it's like to be loved.
I didn't know what kind of love Mary had to give
But I do know that she would want you to live.
Live life as though you had never a care
Knowing your true love will always be there.
The story of Len, Part Two will be told
By meeting new friends or perhaps friends of old.
It may be the best way to honor her wishes
And make up for the times you didn't do dishes. (Feel free to laugh again)
Walk a new pathway, knowing time and again
That I will walk with you, with my old-new friend Len.

My Aha Moment

I realize now that I took the wrong approach when I began the endeavor of blogging. I wanted to discipline myself to blog every day at first, and then every other day when I became aware that the well of material would soon run dry. Discipline is fine, but that was outside the goal I wanted to achieve. The goal was to share my thoughts, experiences and, at the risk of conceit, my wisdom on occasion.

The epiphany struck me this evening. One should blog when one has something about which to blog. Inspiration is the lifeblood of every writer. Writer's block is nothing more than the mind telling the flesh that now is not the time. The inspiration will guide you.

Tonight, I watched The Miracle Worker with my daughter. I have never been more content in my life. If you wonder how Barbie dolls, Play-Doh, Legos and Monopoly have stood the test of time, it's because we want so desperately to share those experiences with our offspring. We recapture those childhood feelings symbiotically and empathetically through our children.

At the respective ages of 17 and 56, my daughter and I hardly have much in common. We don't watch the same shows, read the same books or even entertain ourselves in the same ways. She has no more interest in playing Bookworm than I do in watching Pretty Little Liars.

However, tonight we shared, and it opened my eyes. We have more in common than I think, and it's because we share the same values--the important things in life. We both love the movie Remember the Titans, and we watch it whenever we get the chance, because it promotes our values of equality and acceptance, regardless of race, creed or color. We shared the experience of The Miracle Worker tonight because of our desire to see that those who are afflicted with mental or physical disorders be given the same opportunities we have had.

These aren't values based on a religious, philosophical or political ideology. These are basic human values that we should all share if we expect to survive together. I sat on the easy chair while she lay on the couch, comforted by the fact that for whatever reason she has inherited those values. That supercedes all the physical attributes, good or bad, that she may have inherited. I have peace knowing that I am sending into the adult world a human being who will make the planet better, even if in a small way.

Long after I'm gone, no one will remember me like they remember William Shakespeare, Susan B. Anthony, Albert Einstein or Marie Curie. My legacy will not contain fame or fortune, but to me something more valuable. My legacy will be that I have carried the best of my values that my parents instilled in me, and their parents before them, and will assure that they pass to at least one more generation.

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."  --Margaret Mead

I'm Just too Good to be True

When you first read what I am about to share with you, you are going to think it is sad and pathetic. But after you let it sink in, you will know it is sad and pathetic. Not really. That was like a joke only smaller.

I like being alone. I cherish being alone. I look forward to being alone. Don't go, "aww." I'm not lonely. Some of my best and certainly my most creative times occur when I am alone. I get me. I crack myself up. I never come up with a bit that I don't get. And I come up with a lot of bits. Face it. I've shared all the same experiences with myself, so there's never a reference I don't understand. If I had an audience of mes (wow, what's the plural of me?), we'd leave the theater in tears after giving me a standing ovation.

That's not the only benefit, however. There is never a silver lining to losing your life partner, but it made me appreciate my time alone. I had to. Through no fault of our own, Melissa and I didn't have many close friends. We did the couples hang-out thing from time to time, but not on a regular basis. Add to that that I have no close friends of my own, and you see where I'm headed.

Let's look at the downside. Everyone has those awful experiences or even whole days that they need to share with someone. It's nice to come home and unburden yourself to a spouse, parent, friend or even a dog. I do that on occasion, but think about it. Does it make you feel better? Maybe. But now you may have spread your contagious depression to your loved one. That person/animal probably feels worse now, especially if he or she can't help.

So who knows how to help? Who knows best what you need? Yes, both rhetorical questions. I can't tell you how many times I've cheered myself up. I've become good at it. I have a karaoke system in my basement that cost about $700 bucks, but it has saved me thousands in therapy. Fifteen minutes could save you....I feel like I've heard that before.

I've developed this insatiable ambition lately, because without friends or a partner it's too easy to become a davenport spud. Or futon tuber if you prefer. In the last month I've re-read Treasure Island, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (in original French...yeah, right), Moby Dick, Fahrenheit 451, White Fang and Ivahoe. Right now I am on chapter four of Vingt mille lieues sous les mers. Ok, it's Twenty-thousand Leagues Under the Sea, but doesn't the French title make me sound much smarter?

The best part about this solitary experience is that I feel better about myself. Surprisingly, for those of you who know me, you know that I am anything but anti-social. You may have heard my motto: Two's company, three's an audience. I interact with people on a daily basis. My daughter and I have a great relationship. But at the end of the day, I'm always there to greet me with a smile.

So don't cry for me, Argentina. The truth is I really like me. You should like you too. I encourage you to become your best friend. Be alone, but don't be lonely. Cherish these times you have with yourself. You won't be around forever, and neither will you.

Oh, and I started a blog, too.

Screw this

I wrote a beautiful poem and when I went to publish it, it dissappeared without saving. Technology sucks.

Living in a Material World

I do not understand greed. I have never been able to relate to it. I know it's the foundation of capitalism for so many, but I could never befriend Gordon Gecko. I guess my needs are too simple. I have no need for a power car, a power tie or power lunches. Not that there's anything wrong with those things. I just have no interest. That's not meant to sound condescending either. I'm not really sure why I'm like that.

Do you know what the happiest country on Earth is? Trust me, there is relevance. It's Denmark. In fact, Denmark has been named the happiest country on Earth for most of the last quarter century. Most of this is based on a study of 80,000 people conducted by a researcher at the University of Leicester in England.

Beyond the statistical data, researchers attempted to answer the why. ABC News also interviewed several Danes to get their take. It turns out that one of the factors is that they have no equivalent of the American Dream. They do not measure success by money or status. They are not lazy. Just content. Oh, there are other factors such as the homogeniety of their society, but contentment with what they have seems to be a driving force.

Keep in mind, Denmark has one of the highest tax rates in the world. Danes pay anywhere from 50 to 70 percent of their income in taxes. But they don't complain. Why? Because they pay zero for healthcare and zero  for higher education. The government also takes care of children and the elderly better than most. And because the tax rate is so high, a banker is likely to be paid about the same as an artist, so careers are driven by a true interest in the occupation. What a weird concept, huh?

I know what you're thinking. Denmark?? Weather?? Shouldn't someplace like Fiji or Jamaica be the happiest place on Earth? I guess feeling safe, content and taken care of trumps sunshine. The Danish word for it is tryghed, which roughly translates as "tucked in." It is also not a multi-religious or multi-ethnic country for the most part, so they don't have race or religion to fight over. They don't have much to fight over at all.

And what about the United States? Shouldn't the wealthiest, most powerful, most ubiquitous place be the happiest place on Earth? Not even close. The United States finished 23rd in 2007, and that was before the Great Recession hit. We're never going to change. Immigrants continue to arrive on a daily basis seeking that American Dream. Maybe to make room, I'll move to Denmark. First, I'll buy a parka.

Proverbial Neck on Proverbial Chopping Block

Too many of my friends are lamenting lately that there isn't enough controversy in my blogging. They say I'm too vanilla, that I try to get along with everyone, and I don't like stirring the pot. Actually, none of my friends said any of that. Actually, I don't have any friends. These are the voices in my head. Now those guys I can't get to shut up.

But let's just suppose for a moment that I wanted to be controversial. Let's suppose I have some very strong opinions that might shock, anger, outrage, and dare I say, repulse you. After all, no one pays attention to middle-of-the-road, moderate, mainstream people. Just look at the news. Headlines are incessantly grabbed by the squeaky wheels and the lunatic fringe. So without further ado, I am about to propel myself into the media and perhaps even the ubiquitous YouTube viralmania, by taking a stand. Feel free to disagree, but I will be virtually sticking my tongue out at you and waving my hands with my thumbs in my ears. I never really understood the meaning of that latter gesture, but it will most assuredly cut you to the quick.

1. I detest the security tabs and shrink wrap on DVDs. The inventor of that needs to be found and bound in same shrink wrap. Maybe if that person tried to get out of it, he/she would understand the frustration.
2. I don't like Star Wars. Any Star Wars, including sequels, prequels, Nyquils. I realize I may be the only male on the planet who was in the Star Wars demographic when the first one came out (males 12-24) who does not like this movie. I am more of a dialogue kind of guy, and without the constant barrage of photons and strange-costumed creatures, there isn't much of that. I hear the gasps.
3. Citizen Kane is not a good movie either (more gasping). I am well aware that it is No. 1 on many people's lists, but it's No. 2 on mine, and that's not a ranking. His sled being named Rosebud did not evoke a startling reaction from me. There are a lot of things going on in that movie that don't advance the story.
4. I hate onions, but love onion rings. You should hear the deafening silence at the BK drive through when I order a Whopper with no onions and onion rings. It's a texture thing. Put all the onion powder you want in my casserole; it will taste delicious. However, biting into that transparent skin is a lot like biting into a beetle wing for me.
5. I have never nor will never watch an episode of Law and Order (insert extension here). I may be a little jaded on this one because I covered law enforcement and the courts for many years as a reporter, so I can't suspend my disbelief when they badger and beat up a suspect and then let him go because he wasn't the one. I watched each one for about five minutes just to make sure I was correct in not liking them. I swear to you in each one there was a line about finding blood and semen in the victim's underwear. I'm fairly certain I was eating something each time I watched. I won't make that mistake again.

That's probably enough for you to consume in one sitting. I'm sure you have a migraine from all the head shaking and screaming, "What?"

Doppleganger

I was watching a trailer for the movie Bicentennial Man, in which Robin Williams plays a robot manservant. This is an underrated movie, by the way. It's one of those that's just fun and entertaining, which is all I ask for in a movie. In one particular scene, Williams' character Andrew is being aided to look more human by a robotic scientist. After the scientist removes the current shell that is Andrew's head, Andrew screams. When asked what's wrong by the scientist, Andrew exclaims, "I just saw the inner me."

True, it was meant for a laugh, but it makes a good topic for discussion. We all have an "inner me." Contained within that inner me are thoughts that we would never share with another human being. At least I hope that's the case, because I have many of those and it's terrifying to think that I'm alone in this. I'm not talking about those casual thoughts you have like "what a bitch" when someone cuts in front of you in line or is screaming at her kids. I know we all have those thoughts. I'm talking about the ones that, if shared, or worse acted upon, would help get you committed or incarcerated.

Unfortunately, I can't give you an example, because that would involve telling those deepest, darkest of secrets that I don't want anyone to know. What I want to know is, do you have those too? What I'm trying to ascertain is whether I have some inherent evil within me and I was just raised to develop an ethical conscience, or whether I am just normal. In other words, are there some of you out there that never have an evil thought and it is easy for you to be good, or do we all wrestle with the demons?  The Bible would have you believe the latter, because it mentions in several places that we are all sinners.

And if we all have these sinful thoughts, is that what leads to criminal and/or perverse activity? Are those people incapable of filtering those thoughts because of either bad upbringing or faulty synapses? I realize this has been the study of criminologists for years, but it fascinates me. Thanks to the advent of technology, George Orwell's big brother concept is a very real possibility. England already has cameras that patrol public activity.

I can't tell you how many times I've stopped myself and said, wow, if someone saw or heard me now or could read my mind I'd be in big trouble. Yes, sometimes I act out insane things or say things to myself I would never say in public. Occasionally, I have been caught talking to myself in a public restroom or even a grocery store when you think you're alone in an aisle. I usually try to cover by pretending I was singing, but it leads to some of the worst lyrics ever. But that happens to all of us, doesn't it?

I'm not looking for an answer today, or even a way to fix it. It just makes you wonder though, which is the real you? Let's face it. You attempt to hide all your neuroses from your friends, your dates, your kids and even your spouse. Eventually, your family is going to discover most of these and love you anyway. I'm just thankful I have the filter or the synapses firing properly. I don't think I would fare well in prison.

May the Bluebird of Happiness not Poop on You Today

I've taken a couple of days off to rejuvenate. Never fear. I am not getting lazy or throwing in the towel. I love the word rejuvenate. Roughly translated, it means to be young again. Would that we could all do that. I remember when I was in my twenties that someone asked my boss, who was in his fifties, what was the best time of his life. "Right now," he responded quickly. I believe he meant it.

Well into my fifties, I am not sure I can echo that sentiment. There are certainly things about me that are very different from a quarter century ago. I am infinitely wiser and much more appreciative of knowledge than I was in my twenties and thirties, and my work ethic has vastly improved. Sadly, my life situation doesn't allow for the possibilities I had back then. I was single until I was 32, and while I didn't piddle away those years, I could have done so much more with today's wisdom. I fully understand the sentiment of the talented and quotable George Bernard Shaw when he penned, "Youth is wasted on the young."

Remember those dreams you had when you were ten or so of how your life would turn out? How few of us realized those dreams. I doubt you dreamed being an accountant, an office manager, a real estate agent, or a car sales person. I can't tell you the countless times I've heard an interview with a celebrity or pro athlete who said, "I always knew I was going to be a star." What they don't understand is that for every one of them there are thousands who also thought they were going to be stars, but for one reason or another wound up on a different path.

If you think about it, those dreams set us up for an unhappy life. When you're a kid and you don't get what you want--candy, cookies, a new football, Malibu Barbie--you're naturally dissappointed. How much more magnified is that dissappointment when the desire is stretched over years and the failure is stretched over an even longer period.

So what is the point then? How can we expect to lead a happy life when our hopes are dashed so early and so permanently? Well, let's consider the obvious flaw in my logic that presumes career is the only thing that leads to a happy life. The things we didn't envision in our childhood were the little triumphs that would add to sometimes only fleeting moments of happiness, but happiness nonetheless. If I counted the major triumphs in my life, they are far outweighed by flops, failures and outright disasters.

That's why I've learned to savor the small triumphs. There are so many more of them and your imagination affords you the luxury of turning them into major triumphs. Happily ever after is the line we are fed by virtually every fairy tale we are read in our youth. A more appropriate and realistic ending might be: And they both lived extremely normal, mundane lives while experiencing brief moments of happiness from time to time. Now there's an expectation I can live up to.

Incidentally, my checkbook went AWOL yesterday for about 16 hours. My daughter found it underneath one of the couch cushions, after an exhaustive search by both of us. It's going to be a good day.

The Daughter Also Rises

I'm a little late today but I got it in under the wire. Glad I don't have an editor. Right now my daughter is downstairs baking a cake. We just finished a wonderful, healthy casserole that she made for dinner. She amazes me every single day of my life. I have two older ones who are amazing, too, but she is my baby. I have one more year left before she takes off for college so I want to devour every moment.

The sad thing is I don't see her that often now. That's normal. She's a teenager with a plethora of friends and she's always off hanging out somewhere. I wouldn't want it any other way. Frankly I'd be a little worried if she still wanted to go everywhere with daddy. It doesn't help when I miss her though. She's grown wise beyond her years in a few short months. She's cooking, cleaning her room, making her bed, watching what she eats, driving responsibly, reading constantly, sending in college applications, and managing her money. That's why I don't play the lottery. I already won.

There's no doubt that we grew closer after her mom died. We had to. How she handled that so well is still a mystery to me. It was because of her that I was able to keep it together. Now we have a new life--a second life. She put everything in perspective for me. Fate has been kicking sand in my face consistently for about seven or eight years now. I've had some awful things happen. Through all of it, she's the one thing that always makes me smile. I couldn't have built a better kid from a kit.

We talk about everything--yes, I said everything. There's no one else. Why wouldn't we? And still, every once in awhile, she doesn't mind having lunch or dinner with old dad, or even taking in a movie. I don't remember doing much of anything with my parents after I hit the teens. I left the house after school, returned for dinner (maybe) and went back out until dark. I never shared anything of importance with my parents. Sometimes I wish I could have.

If you have a child, if you are a child, if you know a child, if you plan on having a child, grab the gusto now. Sure, I know carpe diem and you only get one chance and live life now are all hackneyed phrases. So why don't we listen? Say something to your parent/child tonight that you have never said before. Break down the wall. If you're a parent, share your experiences and let them experience everything. I don't know much, but this I know with certainty. Sheltering doesn't work. Helicoptering doesn't work. Spying doesn't work Snooping doesn't work.

Trust works. Trust is rewarded. Trust is returned. When you trust your child, you're trusting in yourself. You're saying I've given you all the right tools to make the right decisions. That doesn't mean they always will. Did you make all the right decisions? None of us did. But we were less likely to keep making the same wrong decisions.

I'm going to hug my daughter tonight. I'm going to tell her I love her. She's going to look at me funny, because she won't know why and I don't do it often enough. I don't care. I don't want her on some therapist's couch years from now saying I'm here because my daddy never showed he cared for me. I'm taking a leap. Who knows? This might be the hug she remembers the next time she's in a jam and I'm not there to help her make the right decision. Parenting lasts forever.

My Blog, My Prerogative

I'm going to begin today with a quote, which flies in the face of everything I've written so far. Ok, that's a tad hyperbolic, but I am stepping out of character. I don't often quote the masters, simply because I am so fond of original thought. But I have taken to re-reading some of the classics lately. I'm sorry, but I just don't relate to the latest John Grisham thriller and I am also not a fan of the detective novels that are in alphabetical or numerical order. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Instead, I downloaded Fahrenheit 451, a classic dystopian novel written in the early 1950s. I underline that last part for good reason. Ray Bradbury and so many others in the sci-fi genre were frighteningly ahead of their time. In my mind, Gene Roddenberry invented both the flip cell phone and the touch screen. Bradbury spoke to one of my earlier blogs about making oneself smarter. The salient point here is that memorizing facts is not enough. Moreover, it can be counterproductive if one does nothing with those facts.

In order to set this up, Guy Montag is a firefighter who lives in a 24th century world where his job is to set fires in order to burn books. People are punished if they keep books without the government's knowledge. Society is entirely hedonistic and has no place for deeper thought. Montag's boss, Beatty, explains:

If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him

two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give

him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the

Government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all

those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the

people contests they win by remembering the words to more

popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn

Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of non-combustible data,

chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely

'brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking,

they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy,

because facts of that sort don't change. Don't give them any

slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with.

Read it again, because upon first glance it seems the ideal solution to society's problems. Upon second and third glance, it reminds you that regressionist thinking can only produce happiness to the extent that ignorance is bliss. Unfortunately, in an ignorant world, unhappiness is all around you. You just choose to ignore it, which of course, not coincidentally, is the root word of ignorance.

A horse runs a race with blinders on, so as not to be distracted by horses to the side or the rear, allowing the animal to focus on the finish line. Analogically, many people go through life that way. And you know what? They may finish ahead of you. They may have more money, more cars and even more "friends" than you, but at the expense of not caring what happens around them. I'm not meaning to judge that lifestyle. It makes you know better nor worse than I.

I just can't live that lifestyle. I have this pesky sympathetic gene that gets in the way--or worse, the empathetic gene. Yuk, I hate that one. It causes me to care about other people. It doesn't make me saintly by any means. I think most of us carry those genes, or else we wouldn't have invented the word society. We do need to live together, work together and play together. It's the one thing Darwin, Jesus, Muhammed and Buddha all agree on.

If you get a chance, download Fahrenheit 451. Ironic that I'm reading it on Kindle, isn't it? I think you'll enjoy it and you won't have to keep reminding yourself that it was written in the early fifties, because some of it doesn't hold up. Give Ray a break. He couldn't have predicted that in the 21st century more people would know the five characters on The Simpsons than the five freedoms in the First Amendment (2006 study by the McCormick Tribune Freedom Museum). Americans have their priorities after all.

The Real Social Network

One of my favorite movie quotes is from a 1980s movie starring John Cusack (I know, narrow it down please) called Say Anything. In one scene, he inquires of his sister, who is actually played by his sister Joan, "How hard is it to just be in a good mood?"

It seems his sister (in the movie) has been dumped and left to raise a child, leaving her bitter and perpetually grumpy. This quote has become my mantra from time to time. When the bad news starts snowballing from the time I arise and my fuse is ignited, I ask myself, "How hard is it to just be in a good mood?" If you read one of my earlier blogs, you will know that I have found it increasingly difficult as I've gotten older. My fuse gets ignited by the smallest of sparks sometimes. I have even caught myself creating scenarios in my head in anticipation of something bad that might happen, based on an incorrect bill I have received or a discussion I have to have with someone about something not good. That's sad. I'm getting worked up pre factum.

This leads me to an observation that has sparked my interest in recent years. I am in a good mood most of the time, and I am a gregarious person. I am not afraid at all to speak in public or to approach strangers. Based on empiricism alone, it appears that most people like me when they first meet me. Yet, I almost never speak to a stranger if I don't have to. I realized one day that I presume that I am not going to like anyone whom I have not met. That's not based on any prejudice; I presume that with everyone. I think I run through the possibilities that that person is my political opposite, really stupid, won't stop talking, a religious zealot, spits when talking, an insurance salesman or an escaped convict. The odds of my meeting a kindred spirit are, in my mind, astronomical.

What's bizarre is that when I do engage in conversation with a stranger, it is more often pleasant than not. We usually find something in common and converse on that topic until our natural parting. I remember being embarrassed by my dearly-departed mother on more than one occasion while waiting in line at a grocery store or seated at a restaurant, because she talked to everyone. I remember thinking that the waitress doesn't care if your son just got tenured or you have trouble finding a good coffee maker. Sometimes they would virtually roll their eyes at my mom, but on other occasions they would engage. And more often than not, people liked my mom upon first impression.

My question is, is it common to assume the worst about strangers, or is this just a quirk in my personality? I would love to know what others think. I almost never speak first while waiting in line with strangers at the bank or the grocery store. Part of that is my disdain for small talk. If the weather is hot, I don't need to be reminded of it by every person I encounter that day. I can say without fear of contradiction that I have never in my life uttered the phrases "hot enough for ya?" or "working hard or hardly workin'?". I generally respond with a non sequitur that invariably goes over the inquisitor's head just to deter such inane banter.

My solution to the above is that I will avoid small talk at all costs, but if I believe I have something truly profound or better yet funny to say, I will engage. My belief is that despite Facebook, email, Twitter, Google Plus and any other electronic method we can devise to tell our 634 friends and followers that we are "going to the bathroom," the true social networking still takes place in the grocery store, at the bank, or in the waiting room. Therefore, next time you are in one of the latter three locations, take the time to turn to the person next to you and inquire, "Is it hot enough to be hardly workin'?"

Diameters

We're going to begin today with a geometry lesson. Whoa, get back here you mathaphobe. It's just an illustration. Each circle has a diameter, you will remember. It starts at any point on the circle and passes through the exact center to a point on the other side. By definition, then, the two points must be 180 degrees apart. In order to travel the circumference from one point to the other, you would have to go as far around to the other side as possible without returning. That is where we are politically. We can travel the circumference as much as we want, but we can never leave to meet in the middle. Thus endeth the analogy.

The system has been broken for a long time. I think we all know that. But it's arguably worse than it has ever been, due largely to the lovely media people who are part of my discipline. Yelling and screaming has become a form of entertainment, not just among the people who pass themselves off as pundits, but in most of reality TV. The irony is that pundit comes from the sanskrit word pandita, meaning learned man. Hardly.

I don't have this gene. I hate confrontation. Ask anyone who has every known me if I've ever yelled at him or her. You'll find few if any. It's not so much that I am afraid of confrontation; it's more that yelling and screaming in the heat of the moment don't tend to solve anything.

There are several issues in this country that will never be resolved--NEVER. That is because the two points of view are diametrically opposed and there is no chance of even locating the center, let alone meeting there. And yet, I doubt extremism has ever been the answer to anything. We are no longer Democrats and Republicans; we are Liberals and Conservatives. We may as well just change the names. And 535 people will never agree on anything. Every time a president screws up or we think screws up, we elect the other party in congress as punishment. Geniuses that we are, that adds to the gridlock.

Ah, but I am not just a complainer. I propose solutions as well, cockamamie as they may be. First of all, do away with parties. Belonging to a party destroys any chance at you had for original thought. Each state elects one representative by popular vote from among the candidates who have taken a combination law and business exam and passed. There is no house or senate anymore. Most people don't understand the difference anyway. The fifty representatives replace the 535 heads of cabbage we have now. They act as a board of directors for the country. The fifty hire a CEO to run the country. I know what you're thinking. Corporate greed will take over. The catch is all of their salaries are determined every four years by a popular vote, when we may fire the current representative and choose a new one. They have no control over their own profitability, only the country's. Therefore, it runs more like a non-profit, but the people have been hired for their business savvy instead of their politics. In other words, the head of the country would interview for a job and actually be chosen by qualifications rather than political rhetoric. Oh, wait, I forgot about decisions regarding things like war. Oh, well, I guess we just won't have any.

Now, you and I both know this will never happen. But I urge you not to gainsay it. In fact, please don't even post any comments telling me why this won't work. I'm not interested. Let me dream my dream. Let me have my Rodney King moment where we all come together and sing kumbaya. No, wait, kumbaya has religious connotations and I don't want to get into that debate either. Aw, dang it. Let's just sing Barry Manilow's Can't Smile Without You then.

My Other Universe

I was supposed to be famous. Of that, I have no doubt. Someone or something screwed up. I am not saying this because I am the world's most talented person (although I could be among the top 300,000); rather, I say this because of things I know to be true about myself. I hate gardening, cleaning of any kind, dusting, puttering (not to be confused with putting, which I love), and anything that has to do with home improvement. I am, in fact, the anti-Vila. I want other people to do all those things for me. I also hate to drive. I should have a chaffeur.

Now you're saying, but Jeff, you don't need to be famous; you need to be rich. And everyone hates doing those things. Let me address the latter. Some people love to putter, to garden and yes, even to clean. It gives them peace and satisfaction. I loathe all those chores, but because I don't have the budget, I am forced to do them, and not well. I could just be rich without being famous, but I am not ruthless, business savvy or in touch with any sizeable capital, nor am I a world-class athlete, so my best shot was entertainment.

I took my shot in 1982. Almost nearly to the letter of Billy Joel's penning, "closed the shop, sold the house, bought a ticket to the west coast. Now he gives them a stand-up routine in L.A." I did that for five and a half years, and I wasn't awful at it. I had an agent, made many people laugh, and eventually earned a living at it. But I never got the big break. There was no Tonight Show for me, nor any offers of a sitcom. I was granted an audition for the original Star Search, based on a video tape I submitted, but I tanked the audition, which leads my to my point.

I HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT MYSELF. I was lazy, and what's worse is I didn't know it. From the very first time I appeared on stage, I was successful. The audience laughed, I won an amateur night contest, and an agent handed me his card. The rest, I thought, was only a matter of time. I assumed I would "make it" simply by continuing to do what I was doing, while waiting to be discovered. I had no idea one had to work at it. I watched all my idols--Steve Martin, George Carlin, Bill Cosby--and assumed they were just naturally funny and someone spotted them. How ignorant I was. It wasn't until years later, long after I had left California, that I discovered the truth about myself and my career.

Going back to the Star Search audition for a moment, I was thrilled to receive a letter from the producers saying they enjoyed my tape and inviting me to a live audition. I thoroughly anticipated meeting Ed McMahon and perhaps several other celebrities, and charming my way on to the show. In preparation, I did nothing. I figured I was good enough to get my shot, so why fix something that wasn't broken. I didn't even invite friends to see me at the audition. The audition, it turns out, was on a Tuesday night at the Improv in front of a video camera. Not even a real, live person! There were about 20 to 25 people scattered about the many tables. I even opened with what I thought was a decent line. "Wow, I'm so excited. It's not that often I get a chance to perform before so many...empty seats." It got a sporadic laugh, but it set the tone for a mediocre performance. I feed off of laughter, so my mojo was pierced instantly. My "shot" was over. Sinbad, Jenny Jones and Rick Ducommun, among others, had gone on to successful careers after winning Star Search. I went back to open-mic nights.

In 1987, I returned to Ohio to be with my sick father and my bride-to-be, without a single regret. I had the time of my life, and got to make people laugh, while sometimes getting paid for it. Years later I read a book by Steve Martin called Born Standing Up. In it, Martin relates the story of his nearly ten-year struggle, battles with drugs, frustration and depression, before his career began to take off. I had also read an autobiography of Rich Little, in which he describes the hours he spent alone listening to tapes of celebrities and perfecting his voices. I never once taped an episode of Rocky and Bullwinkle. I just woke up one day and starting imitating Bullwinkle, and fairly well I might add. I also did it long before Dave Coulier, who went on to star in Full House (but I'm not bitter).

Sadly, at 56, I now possess the work ethic I wish I had in my late twenties. I despise the wisdom that comes with age, because it's too late to do much about it. I have a secure job, a home and a teenaged daughter in high school to take care of. I can't chuck it all now and start over. What I can do is share my wisdom with the young. If that is you, it won't just happen. You have to eat it, sleep it, drink it, bleed it and want it above all else to make it happen. Whatever your goal is, even if you are talented and you love what you are doing, it is not going to be achieved without sweat and desire. The next time you are faced with a choice of playing another computer game or watching another episode of Pretty Little Liars instead of knuckling down, think of me pulling weeds and pushing my lawnmower up the hill in my backyard in 90-degree heat. Sweat now, and pay someone to do it for you later.

I'll Fill in the Title Later

Wow, it's only day five, and the well of ideas is already beginning to look like 30 straight days of 90+ weather in July in Ohio. Of course, that would never happen. Plus I'm really in a ticked off mood today, what with the government collapsing and all, but I promised myself this site would remain upbeat regardless. We have enough virtual cesspool in our lives with which to deal.

I like that. Let's make VCP the new syndrome for everything in our lives that feels like a virtual cesspool. "Lunch today, Tom?"

"Nah, I've got a touch of VCP."

Luckily for you, I have some experience at turning crap into creme brulee. When I was performing stand-up in the mid-eighties in Los Angeles, I had to be able to turn it on at the drop of a hat. You don't want to step in hat droppings, trust me.

One night I was to perform in the 10:30 slot at the Comedy Store. Just hours before I had experienced a miserable break-up with my girlfriend of 18 months. We were both in tears and I felt like I had just slipped under a steamroller, before being pounded by twenty angry chefs with meat tenderizers. My eyes were puffy and red and I kept stepping on my bottom lip. As a desperate maneuver, I scrapped my A material and ad libbed about five minutes worth of my break-up on stage. I had one of the best sets of my career. To this day, I am convinced that every person in that audience believed I was making up the break up story, right down to making my eyes puffy. I used the material for months afterward.

After all, where do you think most comedians get their material? They are largely neurotic. In fact, I am fairly confident that my normalcy prohibited me from being a more successful comedian. Gabriel Iglesias has based an entire career on being 400 pounds. He's set for life. If he ever pulls a Jared, his career will be finished. Anybody remember Joe Piscopo? He became serious about bodybuilding and instantly was dubbed unfunny.

From 1987 to 1991 I hosted a morning radio show--two years in Marion and two years in Parkersburg, WV. As my daughter will attest, I am not a morning person. To paraphrase a popular Folger's jingle, "The best part of waking up, is going back to sleep." Did you sing it? It helps if you sing it. Meanwhile, back at the story. For four years, I had to wake up before the sun did. It started enthusiastically at 4 a.m. for my first gig, and not-so-gradually waned into 5:30 by the time I got to Parkersburg. I did my show prep for the next day after my show, and winged the rest of it.

The point is, regardless of how miserable I felt on the way there (which was every morning) I was able to adopt the demeanor of Barney the freakin' purple dinosaur by 6 a. m. None of my faithful listeners had a clue that I essentially felt sleepy for four years. Case in point. A young lady called one morning and asked, "How are you able to be so cheerful every morning?"

"Multiple overdoses of Xanax," I replied. She laughed.

To this day, I can't tell you how I developed a penchant for turning it on and off. Oh, yes, I could downshift just as easily when my radio day was over. I attribute it to the survival instinct. Think how funny Darwin could have been if he had discovered humor was nature's catalyst for survival. What did the monkey say to the man fixing his bike chain? Excuse me, sir, is this your link? Would have killed at the Dayton Courthouse Laff Stop (site of the Scopes monkey trial).

You know what? I feel better. Try it sometime. Take your worst day and realize how absurd life is and that you can't do anything about it. Share your misery with friends. If they are having a bad day too, I guarantee they will laugh at your misery, and they will feel better. It's the Robin Williams version of paying it forward. And if you should develop an act out of your misery and you become famous, I expect ten percent.

Down with Brown

I propose to eliminate the color brown. That's right. It should be outlawed. I know it seems like a drastic measure, but I have my reasons, and everyone must take a stand. Nathan Hale took a stand. John Hancock took a stand. Rosa Parks took a stand. O.K., she took a seat, but you get my meaning.

Let's consider the two organic elements in nature's vast array with which the color brown is most associated--dirt and defecation. See? It's not a pretty color. You hear people speak of pastel blue or pastel yellow, but there's no pastel brown. There's bright green, bright red and bright pink, but bright brown? I think not. That's because you can't improve on something that isn't a color to begin with. Oh, sure, people try to couch brown among various shades like tan or taupe or ecru, but it's all brown. Remember, as fancy as it sounds, ecru begins with ecchh!

It has other derogatory connotations as well. What do you call someone who sucks up to the teacher? That's right, a brownie. When the electricity isn't functioning properly, we experience a brown out. That can't be good. No person wants to be associated with the color brown. When you go to the beach, are you trying to get a brown? No, it's a tan.

Then there's the whole issue with the Cleveland Browns. Don't get me started. Yeah, the media led you to believe the team left town because of Art Modell, or money, or stadiums, or some such nonsense. We all know the real reason was because they couldn't stand the color any more. Now we can't change the name of the team out of respect for its founder, Paul Brown, so they had to move completely out of town to change the uniforms. The Baltimore Ravens, clad in purple, quickly won a Super Bowl. And what of the current Cleveland Browns? 'Nuff said.

Even words that rhyme with brown conjure up negative images--down, frown, clown. When you can't afford an elegant lunch, you have to brown-bag it. And when you want to hide a dirty magazine, it comes in a plain, brown wrapper. That's because the disgusting color draws attention away from what's in the wrapper.

Brown's problem is it aspires to be black. The next step below the exalted black belt is, of course, a brown belt. A brown-out isn't nearly as dramatic as a black-out. Black is pure, but you have to mix orange with black to get brown.

Even the dictionary is unflattering to brown. Brown rice is defined as unpolished, brown sugar is unrefined, brown paper is described as coarse, and a brown study is a "reverie in which one is unaware of surrounding persons and things." In other words, brown is out of touch with reality. Webster wouldn't lie.

So, having stated my case so eloquently, I am certain you will agree that brown has no useful function in society, and should simply be removed from our consciousness. I am unwilling to compromise on this issue, because, let's face it, there is no gray area here.

Life is Like a Bag of Potato Chips

I have a philosophy. Well, it's not so much a philosophy as it is a credo. No, it's not really a credo; it's just a saying. Actually, it's more of a lame excuse. But it's mine, nonetheless. Ok, it's not even mine. I stole it.

My philosophy of life is: Some contents may have settled during shipping. Sound familiar? Of course it does. It's the potato chip company's excuse for selling you half a bag of potato chips. And it works. We buy them anyway.

We have all bought into the concept that some of the contents may have settled during shipping. How do we know this? I'm no physics professor, but it seems to me that a potato chip doesn't weigh very much. Why should it settle so much during shipping? If one was shipping a bag full of bowling balls, now I could see those contents settling immediately to the bottom of the bag. And if they filled the bag of potato chips to begin with, there wouldn't be any room for them to settle, would there?

All the potato chip companies do it (except Pringles), and I'm pretty sure some companies do it with other merchandise as well. I buy my MegaMan 50+ multi-vitamins every three or four months. It says 120 count, yet the bottle is little more than half full. I actually counted the vitamins to make sure there were 120. Yes, I'm that much of an idiot. The bottle was little more than half full! What's the point? Do I feel like I'm getting a bigger bottle? No, I feel cheated. So, if all these companies can get away with this, why can't I? My excuse for everything from now on will be: Some contents may have settled during shipping.

The next time my girlfriend asks me to pass the bag of chocolate chip cookies and the bag is empty, when she gives me that look I will simply reply, "Sorry, dear. Some contents may have settled during shipping."

When my daughter asks for money and I give her two dollars, she's going to say, "That's all?" I'm going to say, "Some contents may have settled during shipping."

When Anthony Weiner was caught literally with his pants down on those web posts, he could have avoided total humiliation. He could have said that he didn't actually drop his pants; some contents may have settled during shipping.

I think this mostly occurs with my brain. I'm 56 years old. I have shipped a lot of information into that tiny brain in my day, and when the inventory gets too high, I must export some things. Then again, there is information that is still in there, but I have trouble digging it out. Those are the contents that have settled during shipping.

Sometimes I'll catch myself in the mirror coming out of the shower. I look at my stomach. Boy, some of those contents have sure settled during shipping. I turn around to catch a glimpse of the other end. Whoa! More contents; more settling. A number of women my age seem to complain about settled contents in certain areas too, but decorum prevents me from mentioning those areas.

So, the next time the IRS decides to audit you and you just can't put your hands on those receipts, just tell them that some contents may have settled during shipping. Somewhere, there must be an IRS agent with a sense of humor.

Incidentally, my blog is a little short today. Oh, well, some contents...

I might be full of crap...but I might not.

Today's entry is inspired somewhat by my older brother (see yesterday's comments), and somewhat by my desire to continue my string from yesterday anyway. My younger brother once paid me one of the greatest compliments I have ever received. He said, paraphrasing, there are a lot of people who have acquired knowledge but no sense of what to do with it. There are some people with insight who have no knowledge base. There are very few who have both. You have both.

Needless to say, I was taken aback by his own perspicacity (chortle), for being able to recognize mine was his gift. Facetiousness aside, he makes a valid point. Without the analysis of all the facts I implored you to memorize yesterday. it's kind of like the difference between the Sphinx and a pile of rubble. In the latter, the materials are there, but there is no vision.

Many folks like to quote the profundities of great thinkers of centuries past. I refuse to do so to the point of being obstinate. It's not an arrogance in believing that they have nothing to tell me; they certainly do. It's more that I enjoy the ride of discovery for myself. I squeal with delight (yes, like a little girl) when I experience a revelation triggered by my introspection, or extrospection for that matter. It may have been something that Immanuel Kant discovered centuries ago, but I'm much more likely to treasure and remember the insight at my own hand.

This leads me to the area of my expertise--media communication. It is wonderful, awesome, exponentially progressive, and dangerous. Consider the following time-worn axioms. Which are true?

• You should drink eight 8-ounce glasses of water a day.
• You musn't swim for at least an hour after eating.
• Toilets in the southern hemisphere swirl in the opposite direction.
• If you eat Pop Rocks while drinking Coke it will explode in your stomach.

If you said none, good for you. Imagine how quickly this misinformation could spread today. Most nutritionists I've read say drink when you're thirsty. We get water from virtually all foods we ingest. The second one I tested anecdotally. I ate a full meal and immediately swam for nearly two hours. I was fine. I will never forgive mom for all those wasted time-outs in my youth. The third is a bastardization of the Coriolis effect, which indicates that objects moving longitudinally will deviate in opposite directions according to hemisphere. Toilets flow according to the direction the manufacturer pointed the jets. The fourth one is just silly. But don't take my word for it. Do the research yourself. I might be full of crap.

If you decide to test my answers, let me point you to a starting place. It's called snopes.com. The site is specifically designed to debunk urban legends like the above. But don't take it at face value either. The feature I like best about the site is that they attribute sources, so you can continue the research yourself. Consulting multiple sources is the key to ascertaining the truth. Hey, my own axiom! Let me repeat. Consulting multiple sources is the key to ascertaining the truth.

Thanks to television, satellites and the Internet, we can acquire knowledge instantaneously. Consider what is happening in the Middle East and northern Africa right now. That is largely a result of social networking. That is the wonderful side of the media. The ugly side is that bogus information spreads just as rapidly. Did you believe Microsoft was going to send you a check if you forwarded an email to ten friends? Did you believe you had won the Nigerian lottery? Did you believe you could rescue a martyred diplomat and be given 14 million pounds for your Christian deed? And all you had to do was give them your account number?

These are extreme examples but unsuspecting dupes are falling for these and similar ploys every day. What's worse is the pundits (a misnomer if I ever heard one) are spewing forth garbage every minute under the guise of news. During a lecture to my media law class once, I told the students to consult multiple sources. A student regurgitated my message to me in an essay, proudly boasting that he consulted Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck and Bill O'Reilly every day. The sad truth is that he was being serious. Technically, he had me. Those were multiple sources. Politics aside, what is frightening to me is that he confused those sources with journalists. Believe it or not, true journalists aspire to accuracy, objectivity and truth every day. I know because I, along with a thousand ethical colleagues, train them every day.

The most dangerous words in the English language come from your friends on a regular basis. "I heard that..." Whatever follows is likely to be incorrect, yet you will relay it to a dozen or so friends because it came from your friend. In this respect, I am from Missouri, the Show Me State. I now find myself doubting virtually everything I hear second hand. Someone once told me that Food Network star Paula Deen was from Pennsylvania and her accent was made up. It took about two minutes of researching and corroborating to find that she is from Atlanta.

So far, these are innocuous examples, but consider how your sheepish decisions affect our nation and the world. In 2002, we believed there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, because our government told us so. We started a war based on that assumption. Whether you believe the war is just is not the point. The point is legitimate journalists spread the misinformation like wildfire.

Read. Watch. Listen. Learn. Don't just have an opinion. Have an informed opinion. Don't repeat what the so-called pundits say and certainly don't repeat what your friends say without doing the research. Perhaps most important of all, don't listen to me either. I might be full of crap.

Welcome to Me

As I begin my three-step, cookie-cutter set up of my blog, it occurs to me that this is among the most egomaniacal of adventures. What on Earth would possess me to entertain the notion that anyone on Earth would be remotely interested in my thoughts for the day? And the answer came to me like a bolt of lightning or the proverbial light bulb balloon above your head. It's my incredible ego! Now that that's cleared up, on to substance.

Let's start with the title--of my blog, not this entry. I apologize profusely if you looked up the word "contemploration" and found no entries. Mea culpa. It is a portmanteau (love that word) I created to inject a unique quality into my writing. The two sides of the suitcase (if you looked up portmanteau) are contemplative exploration. To explore without forethought is for the brave hearts of pioneers and teenaged boys. I do nothing without overanalyzing. It's my nature; it's my right; it's my bane.

OK, today's thoughts. For those who don't know me, I will provide a little backdrop. More than five years ago, I lost my wife of 18 years to a heart attack and my brother of 45 years to cancer--three months apart. Yes, "yikes" is the appropriate response. Since then, I have gone through the process of rehabilitating and reinventing myself. It is a work in progress. But through this tragedy, I have learned many lessons. I am a strong if not stubborn self-healer. As the old joke goes, when asked where the self-help books were located, the clerk replied, "If I told you, what would be the point?"

Maybe it's no Who Moved My Cheese?, but here are today's suggestions for making yourself better.

1. Get smarter. Learn something new everyday, and not serendipitously by sharing gossip at the water cooler or watching another Law and Order rerun (you're also acquiring misinformation through both efforts), but intentionally and purposefully. You don't have to be a bookworm or a nerd to do this. It doesn't even require much time. I recently found a website that was an aid for teaching middle school geography. It contained quizzes, and in about three or four weeks, I learned all the capitals of Europe, Asia, Africa, the Middle East, South America and the provinces of Canada. Go ahead; test me. I was surprised at how many I knew, but it took about a half hour a day and it was fun. Now this may be of no interest to you. That's my point. Find something that is. You'll feel smarter, and you didn't have to study organic chemistry to do it.

I also memorized the presidents in order. Maybe you'll like that one. You can find any of a number of LEGITMATE sites on the Internet to soak up. It is rote memorization. We are all capable of it. It doesn't require a Mensa IQ. Granted, it is just facts, but I think you'll find it encourages contemploration on your part. You may, as I did, begin exploring philosophy and astronomy as you learn the names of the great thinkers, or the moons and constellations in our galaxy. Imagine being able to converse with authority about the Big Bang Theory when the ubiquitous debates arise over evolutionism vs. creationism. You can do more than reply, "you're a stupid head."

I will admonish you that there is a downside to becoming smarter. You may become angrier. As you listen to others' uninformed opinions, this may disturb you. What a great segue to my second point today.

2. Release the anger. As I have grown older and many of my loved ones have died, I find my knee-jerk anger kicks in (pun intended) much more easily. I am watching episodes about the brain on Nova right now (PBS) and learning more about our synapses and grey matter, I may find an answer for this anger-with-age syndrome. I am 56, and I don't recall getting as angry about simple things in my twenties and thirties. If you have had the same result, please comment.

My sternest admonishment is not to spring into action based on these twinges of emotion. This includes: don't yell at the customer service person who is not responsible for the screw up; don't post something on Facebook that you will regret later; don't take it out on your kids, your spouse, or your friends, and please, please, curb the road rage. Even laying on the horn or the hackneyed digital gesture could land you in a world of hurt. We all make mistakes driving. Yes, ALL. Believe it or not, empirically I have come to the conclusion that the drivers who scream, gesture and honk the most are indeed some of the worst drivers. They are driving too fast and tailgating in an effort to get nowhere and inevitably will be pissed off when you "cut in front of them" (slows them down) or hit the brakes. Think hard about this. Is this you? Sorry, I digressed.

How do you release the anger? For me, yelling at myself seems to work. No one catches schrapnel in the process and I feel much better. I will sometimes sit in my car and reprimand myself for something stupid I did earlier that day. I can take the yelling and it often corrects the behavior. Getting physical also helps. If you have a partner handy, 'nuff said. If not, go for a run, ride, walk or better yet, punch something long and hard. I do know that anger is the result of bad chemicals released in your brain, and physical activities may release bursts of seratonin, the happy chemical in your brain. Punch something soft. Wood and concrete are not good choices. Pillows and couches are.

Join me here for what I hope is a daily entry, and help me to learn with your own comments. This is part of my daily therapy, largely because I don't have $150 an hour to give to a professional (psychiatrist, not streetwalker). Let's suck the marrow out of life together.