People come up to me all the time and say, "So David, how are you doing?" An anecdote from this past week serves as the ideal explanation to that question.
This week's issue of TV Guide is a commemorative issue celebrating the thirtieth year of Star Trek. As a collector's item, the magazine has issued four different cover photos featuring the four different captains of the four different Star Trek series. As my luck would have it, I got the Captain Kirk version of the magazine.
This says all that needs to be said about 1996 version of David. I'm a thirty one year old male who lives with his cat and is a faithful reader/subscriber of TV Guide. I like the "Cheers and Jeers" section. I am a Trekkie at heart. Just a short time ago I would have been disappointed to have received the William Shatner cover, but now I'm very glad I got the swashbuckling, macho, shoot first ask questions later, melodramatic Kirk over any of those other weenies.
This is not to say that my life lacks some interesting moments. Last weekend my best friend, my other best friend, Moms and Pops Mader, Mother Meek and many others came together on one softball field to witness a credible ending to another softball season for Joan's Jets. For the first time ever, our team won a tournament game, capping my first season (and most probably last) as Cap'n Dave. I hit my first home run of the season, we survived some really bad umpiring (isn't that the American way?), we all had some fun, and no one was hurt (well not too seriously anyway). To have many of the more significant players of my life in one spot at one time was a rare treat, one that almost seemed surrealistic in nature. It was one of those weekends you know you'll look back upon and relish. Phalen fields, the place where the past meets the future, where a crease in time saves nine. One of the most beautiful aspects of the game of softball is its timeless quality. There is no clock on the softball field, you play until the last out is made.
As always the softball season provided many lessons. My own game has always depended on my ability to place where I hit the ball and utilize my speed which is better than most players out there. I may have lost a step or so over the years, but my running ability is still the key part of my game. Unfortunately what this means is that my softball career will be over sooner than most people. In a game dominated by many who have ever growing beer bellies, those who can hit the softball a long, long way, who grunt before, during and after an at bat, youth is secondary to just being able to stand upright. Therefore, when my legs give out, I am finished.
Currently, I am back at my high school playing weight after expanding over the past few years to something nearly Clintonesque (you are not the only one M.N.). What has changed however are those rather important things like depth perception (nearing zero) and throwing ability (I have had to adopt the Mike Cubbage philosophy to playing third base. Cubbage was the Twins' third baseman during the mid-seventies. He had a quick release to make up for his inability to throw anything but a lob to first base). My arm definitely needs some work. On a key grounder to me at third, I made a throw that bounced about three feet in front of me on a throw meant to be a force out at second base.
Some would say running the bases and galloping around the galaxy are activities better left to the youth. But youth starts and ends in your heart. You are only as old as you feel. What you can no longer do physically can often times be compensated by the wisdom gained over the years. And just when it seems it is all over, along comes the next generation. Yes in 1996 Cap'n Dave might indeed be becoming more and more of a dork, but at least he is getting ever more comfortable in that role, and actually growing quite comfortably into the fit.
Monday, August 26, 1996
Monday, August 19, 1996
Cranberry Sauce
I think every man, woman, and child enjoys a good bowl of soup. And nothing adds to the pleasure of a bowl of soup better than a fistful of crackers. Soup is good, soup is popular and in the hands of the right chef, a bowl of soup can be an exquisite masterpiece.
The Cranberries gave a performance last Sunday night that was remindful of a good bowl of soup (supported by a solid opening set from Cracker). The group has received a certain amount of critical and popular acclaim, and now with three solid CDs out, they are staking their claim towards that ever so elusive goal of longevity.
At their best the Cranberries create the type of music that Paul McCartney might be creating if he was still into creating very good Beatlesque music. The melodies are lyrical and the lyrics are consistently inspiring. The difference being when McCartney sings the most annoying line ever written in rock music ("Wo wo wo, my love does it good") one wants to scream, "think up something other than the woes, Paul." When Delores O'Riordan does her rather remarkable vocal gymnastics in songs like Dreams and Hollywood, one can't help but be inspired by the ethereal flexibility and the remarkable ability to express heartfelt emotions through the sheer sound of one human's voice.
O'Riordan was a treat to watch. She has a funky way of moving, pacing the stage, alternating between an awkward walk (she was wearing a knee brace) and dancing up a storm. One of the local paper's reviews criticized her performance as being too showy, as she artfully played the audience (most of whom sang along to many of the songs). Of course being a performer and putting on a SHOW does not necessarily mean that the quality of the art has to suffer. Many of the songs came off much better live than they do recorded. Ode to My Family a song that used to get on my nerves a bit was genuinely moving. And Joe which O'Riordan described as a song she wrote remembering what it was like sitting on her grandfather's lap as a little girl, was heart stopping. An early highlight was the second song, Free to Decide, which I knew was being greatly enjoyed by my ticket purchaser (she told me it's her song). My favorite moment from the show was a lilting light version of Patsy Cline's Crazy sung with such feeling that it wasn't hard to imagine a young girl in Ireland listening to that far away voice that matched her own.
The group tends to misstep when they try to make big statements. Thus songs like I Shot John Lennon and Zombie (which O'Riordan introduced by saying that her country, Ireland, has suffered so long at the hands of terrorists, and now America is headed down the same path, and we must stop the madness) tend to show a lack of insight or depth. Writing a song from the perspective of Lennon's killer is a promising premise for a good song, but if you are going to take on such a topic you better at least give it a little more purpose than "what a sad and sorry sickening sight."
O'Riordan is already being constantly compared to Sinead O'Connor because both are female vocalists from Ireland with versatile voices. The pitfalls the Cranberries occasionally fall into is to take themselves too seriously (just like that other Irish group, U2). What separates them from other groups is their ability to write some terrific melodies and express universally felt emotions on a personal level.
Sitting there watching the show I couldn't help but think back to one of my early days at Cheapo when my favorite ex-Cheapo employee asked me, if I could be anyone one in the world who would I be? Off the top of my head I said Smokey Robinson because he seemed like such a happy gentleman. It took many years to change my mind, but I now have a new candidate. As I watched guitarist Noel Hogan spinning his head, totally immersed in the mood of the moment and the music, I thought, that's the guy I wanna be. To be able to create something, whether it is words, sounds, pictures, movements, that can get a crowd full of people sharing the same thoughts and feelings and having the time of their lives at the same time, why hey, that's no small feat. Nothing to sneeze at.
The Cranberries gave a performance last Sunday night that was remindful of a good bowl of soup (supported by a solid opening set from Cracker). The group has received a certain amount of critical and popular acclaim, and now with three solid CDs out, they are staking their claim towards that ever so elusive goal of longevity.
At their best the Cranberries create the type of music that Paul McCartney might be creating if he was still into creating very good Beatlesque music. The melodies are lyrical and the lyrics are consistently inspiring. The difference being when McCartney sings the most annoying line ever written in rock music ("Wo wo wo, my love does it good") one wants to scream, "think up something other than the woes, Paul." When Delores O'Riordan does her rather remarkable vocal gymnastics in songs like Dreams and Hollywood, one can't help but be inspired by the ethereal flexibility and the remarkable ability to express heartfelt emotions through the sheer sound of one human's voice.
O'Riordan was a treat to watch. She has a funky way of moving, pacing the stage, alternating between an awkward walk (she was wearing a knee brace) and dancing up a storm. One of the local paper's reviews criticized her performance as being too showy, as she artfully played the audience (most of whom sang along to many of the songs). Of course being a performer and putting on a SHOW does not necessarily mean that the quality of the art has to suffer. Many of the songs came off much better live than they do recorded. Ode to My Family a song that used to get on my nerves a bit was genuinely moving. And Joe which O'Riordan described as a song she wrote remembering what it was like sitting on her grandfather's lap as a little girl, was heart stopping. An early highlight was the second song, Free to Decide, which I knew was being greatly enjoyed by my ticket purchaser (she told me it's her song). My favorite moment from the show was a lilting light version of Patsy Cline's Crazy sung with such feeling that it wasn't hard to imagine a young girl in Ireland listening to that far away voice that matched her own.
The group tends to misstep when they try to make big statements. Thus songs like I Shot John Lennon and Zombie (which O'Riordan introduced by saying that her country, Ireland, has suffered so long at the hands of terrorists, and now America is headed down the same path, and we must stop the madness) tend to show a lack of insight or depth. Writing a song from the perspective of Lennon's killer is a promising premise for a good song, but if you are going to take on such a topic you better at least give it a little more purpose than "what a sad and sorry sickening sight."
O'Riordan is already being constantly compared to Sinead O'Connor because both are female vocalists from Ireland with versatile voices. The pitfalls the Cranberries occasionally fall into is to take themselves too seriously (just like that other Irish group, U2). What separates them from other groups is their ability to write some terrific melodies and express universally felt emotions on a personal level.
Sitting there watching the show I couldn't help but think back to one of my early days at Cheapo when my favorite ex-Cheapo employee asked me, if I could be anyone one in the world who would I be? Off the top of my head I said Smokey Robinson because he seemed like such a happy gentleman. It took many years to change my mind, but I now have a new candidate. As I watched guitarist Noel Hogan spinning his head, totally immersed in the mood of the moment and the music, I thought, that's the guy I wanna be. To be able to create something, whether it is words, sounds, pictures, movements, that can get a crowd full of people sharing the same thoughts and feelings and having the time of their lives at the same time, why hey, that's no small feat. Nothing to sneeze at.
Monday, August 12, 1996
Farmer Dave
"They used to grow food in Kansas. Now they want to grow it on the moon and eat it raw. I can see the day coming when even a home garden is gonna be against the law."
-Bob Dylan
One of the arguments I used to talk myself into buying a house last spring was the picture of myself on a hot summer's day, peacefully sitting in my garden and producing a healthy crop. I could see myself in my mind's eye, winding down after a hard day at the office, tilling the soil, carefully weeding, conscientiously watering and enjoying the fruits (or vegetables) of my own hard labor.
When my friend heard this she burst out laughing. She just couldn't picture it.
In retrospect I would be the first to admit that some of the thinking that went into my house buying decision making was me being my typical sort of flaky, sort of think things through and hope for the best, things will somehow turn out self. But deciding to have a garden doesn't fall into that category. Sure it has been a burden on certain long days when I'll come home and the last thing I want to do is sit outside fighting the bugs, battling the onslaught of my newest mortal enemy, Creeping Charlie (he's everywhere, keeps popping up and sticks around forever). But there is something soothing about being in the world of my garden, the subculture, that is most certainly therapeutic.
Plus you can't beat the end result.
The last few weeks I have greatly enjoyed a bushel of fresh vegetables. First it was the peas and beans. This past weekend I got some jumbo cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. Not that I'm biased or anything, but they are the best damn tasting vegetables I've ever had! Man, are those boys tasty! And I ain't no veggie virgin either. I have reached the stage in my Yuppiedum where a big old salad sounds much more appealing to me than a hunk of T-bone steak.
I've even learned some things in the process. When I started planting last spring I was skeptical that anything would grow so I went with the theory the more stuff I planted the more of a chance that I would end up with something. So I just sort of scattered as many seeds as I could the best I could. To my surprise nearly everything grew. I've had more peas this summer than the rest of my life combined. Lesson #1: have faith that things will grow. Plant things conservatively and you won't end up with a jungle.
Upon further reflection, I must have been sipping on the old whiskey when I planted things last spring. The rows aren't exactly straight, they are more like smiley faces. Thus the cucumbers are intertwining with the tomatoes and it is hard to tell where exactly the peas end. Lesson #2: be meticulous in planting things in rows, giving yourself room to maneuver in the garden.
The hardest part however has been the mixture I have with the perennials growing next to my vegetables. Since I wasn't exactly sure what perennials to expect, I had an even harder time than I normally would in determining what was a weed and what was a plant. After all in the overall grand scheme of things is there really a difference? Isn't my little garden just a microcosm of the bigger world where some of us are weeds just trying to survive against our more established and recognized and respected peers? Lesson #3: gardening is great for getting philosophical.
And with the newsletter growing in new, bigger and better directions every week, I would be amiss in reporting that the very first newsletter I edited was for the Minnesota Horticultural Society. I applied for the job solely on my journalism background and that I had access to a computer. I knew even less about that subject than I do the subjects covered in these pages, but looking back the seeds of what has sprung here were most certainly planted way back then. With the right fertilizer most anything will grow.
-Bob Dylan
One of the arguments I used to talk myself into buying a house last spring was the picture of myself on a hot summer's day, peacefully sitting in my garden and producing a healthy crop. I could see myself in my mind's eye, winding down after a hard day at the office, tilling the soil, carefully weeding, conscientiously watering and enjoying the fruits (or vegetables) of my own hard labor.
When my friend heard this she burst out laughing. She just couldn't picture it.
In retrospect I would be the first to admit that some of the thinking that went into my house buying decision making was me being my typical sort of flaky, sort of think things through and hope for the best, things will somehow turn out self. But deciding to have a garden doesn't fall into that category. Sure it has been a burden on certain long days when I'll come home and the last thing I want to do is sit outside fighting the bugs, battling the onslaught of my newest mortal enemy, Creeping Charlie (he's everywhere, keeps popping up and sticks around forever). But there is something soothing about being in the world of my garden, the subculture, that is most certainly therapeutic.
Plus you can't beat the end result.
The last few weeks I have greatly enjoyed a bushel of fresh vegetables. First it was the peas and beans. This past weekend I got some jumbo cucumbers and cherry tomatoes. Not that I'm biased or anything, but they are the best damn tasting vegetables I've ever had! Man, are those boys tasty! And I ain't no veggie virgin either. I have reached the stage in my Yuppiedum where a big old salad sounds much more appealing to me than a hunk of T-bone steak.
I've even learned some things in the process. When I started planting last spring I was skeptical that anything would grow so I went with the theory the more stuff I planted the more of a chance that I would end up with something. So I just sort of scattered as many seeds as I could the best I could. To my surprise nearly everything grew. I've had more peas this summer than the rest of my life combined. Lesson #1: have faith that things will grow. Plant things conservatively and you won't end up with a jungle.
Upon further reflection, I must have been sipping on the old whiskey when I planted things last spring. The rows aren't exactly straight, they are more like smiley faces. Thus the cucumbers are intertwining with the tomatoes and it is hard to tell where exactly the peas end. Lesson #2: be meticulous in planting things in rows, giving yourself room to maneuver in the garden.
The hardest part however has been the mixture I have with the perennials growing next to my vegetables. Since I wasn't exactly sure what perennials to expect, I had an even harder time than I normally would in determining what was a weed and what was a plant. After all in the overall grand scheme of things is there really a difference? Isn't my little garden just a microcosm of the bigger world where some of us are weeds just trying to survive against our more established and recognized and respected peers? Lesson #3: gardening is great for getting philosophical.
And with the newsletter growing in new, bigger and better directions every week, I would be amiss in reporting that the very first newsletter I edited was for the Minnesota Horticultural Society. I applied for the job solely on my journalism background and that I had access to a computer. I knew even less about that subject than I do the subjects covered in these pages, but looking back the seeds of what has sprung here were most certainly planted way back then. With the right fertilizer most anything will grow.
Monday, August 5, 1996
Killing Time
In today's society nothing is more valuable than time. Our technological advances like fax machines, P.C.'s, V.C.R.'s, beepers, cell phones are designed to help cut down on the amount of time it takes to do a common task. Personal planners and calendars are as important as food, water and shelter for many people these days. Anything that takes longer than deemed necessary, like having to stand in line, being put on hold, and mail that doesn't arrive overnight not only inconveniences people, but genuinely pisses them off.
With all this emphasis on convenience, it is almost a crime to waste someone else's time. People are willing to pay a little bit more for a product or a service if it will save them a little time. Any short cut, anything that is seen as a time saving measure is treasured more than gold. Therefore enduring two hours of a complete waste of time is difficult to justify. You can't turn back the clock, you can't get back lost time. Not too many of us have time to spare, time to kill.
There will come a time when time comes to an end. And just a little bit before then, Hollywood will stop making movies because there will be no more stories to be told (plus all TV shows will have already been made into motion pictures). Judging from the movie, A Time to Kill, we may be closer to that time than any of us wants to believe. We've already seen this movie before, only better in other movies such as To Kill a Mockingbird, and Mississippi Burning.
A Time to Kill is a story about time. It was John Grisham's first novel and it probably took a long time for him to write. There are a lot of words. It took a long time for the book to become a movie. It wants to tell a story with a message. Our justice system does not work and is corrupt. Everyone from the judge to the jury, from the lawyers to the witnesses are cynically out of control. Just when is a murder justified?
Should have been, would have been, could have been, wanna be. A Time To Kill is all that and more. With a cast of Samuel L. Jackson, Kevin Spacey, Sandra Bullock and Matthew McConaughey this movie should have been decent. And it would have been had the story not been yet another brainless courtroom formula picture with a blurred message. The movie wants to say something but contradicts itself at every turn.
It argues that the Samuel L. Jackson is ultimately just in taking the law into his own hands because the crime committed against his daughter is atrocious enough that the system can't possibly work and justice will not be served. What it fails to demonstrate however is why Jackson is any more justified in his actions than the clueless Klansmen are in theirs. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Of course some of us don't go to movies to be educated, enlightened over even entertained. Some of us go because of the appeal of the star. As long as your favorite star is up there on the screen, you will watch just about anything. Thus it must be said that Sandra Bullock once again is a delight the few times she is on the screen. Her role as a talented young law student is an attempt to return to the art of serious acting in serious filmmaking attempts. Unfortunately, even her instant likeability can't rescue the dreck of A Time To Kill. Her finest role remains in 1993's Wrestling Ernest Hemingway and she obviously is trying to get away from that which made her ultra-popular if not lightweight in While You Were Sleeping and The Net. By the time her character is essentially disposed of in A Time to Kill in one of the movie's many brutal scenes, one is sitting uncomfortably in one's seat waiting for the inevitable conclusion, the big court room speech, to take place.
It is time however for Sandra to find a film that can both utilize her charismatic talents along with deliver a message worth paying attention to. This one isn't it.
With all this emphasis on convenience, it is almost a crime to waste someone else's time. People are willing to pay a little bit more for a product or a service if it will save them a little time. Any short cut, anything that is seen as a time saving measure is treasured more than gold. Therefore enduring two hours of a complete waste of time is difficult to justify. You can't turn back the clock, you can't get back lost time. Not too many of us have time to spare, time to kill.
There will come a time when time comes to an end. And just a little bit before then, Hollywood will stop making movies because there will be no more stories to be told (plus all TV shows will have already been made into motion pictures). Judging from the movie, A Time to Kill, we may be closer to that time than any of us wants to believe. We've already seen this movie before, only better in other movies such as To Kill a Mockingbird, and Mississippi Burning.
A Time to Kill is a story about time. It was John Grisham's first novel and it probably took a long time for him to write. There are a lot of words. It took a long time for the book to become a movie. It wants to tell a story with a message. Our justice system does not work and is corrupt. Everyone from the judge to the jury, from the lawyers to the witnesses are cynically out of control. Just when is a murder justified?
Should have been, would have been, could have been, wanna be. A Time To Kill is all that and more. With a cast of Samuel L. Jackson, Kevin Spacey, Sandra Bullock and Matthew McConaughey this movie should have been decent. And it would have been had the story not been yet another brainless courtroom formula picture with a blurred message. The movie wants to say something but contradicts itself at every turn.
It argues that the Samuel L. Jackson is ultimately just in taking the law into his own hands because the crime committed against his daughter is atrocious enough that the system can't possibly work and justice will not be served. What it fails to demonstrate however is why Jackson is any more justified in his actions than the clueless Klansmen are in theirs. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Of course some of us don't go to movies to be educated, enlightened over even entertained. Some of us go because of the appeal of the star. As long as your favorite star is up there on the screen, you will watch just about anything. Thus it must be said that Sandra Bullock once again is a delight the few times she is on the screen. Her role as a talented young law student is an attempt to return to the art of serious acting in serious filmmaking attempts. Unfortunately, even her instant likeability can't rescue the dreck of A Time To Kill. Her finest role remains in 1993's Wrestling Ernest Hemingway and she obviously is trying to get away from that which made her ultra-popular if not lightweight in While You Were Sleeping and The Net. By the time her character is essentially disposed of in A Time to Kill in one of the movie's many brutal scenes, one is sitting uncomfortably in one's seat waiting for the inevitable conclusion, the big court room speech, to take place.
It is time however for Sandra to find a film that can both utilize her charismatic talents along with deliver a message worth paying attention to. This one isn't it.
Monday, July 29, 1996
Alphabet Street
One thing I've noticed on my drive to Stillwater every morning is that there are an awful lot of people out there, and they all seem to be going the opposite direction that I am. This probably is not a good sign- do they know something I don't?
My best friend gave me some career advice a job change ago that has helped me deal with some of the stress of my newest job. She told me, "You have to fake it 'til you make it." Her point was that if I showed the people around me that I was confident I knew what I was doing, eventually their confidence in me would increase and I would be on my way. This is an invaluable lesson to hold on to when working in the area of politics. Successful politicians learned long ago that it isn't so much what you are saying, it is how you say it.
All this comes to mind because it is becoming more and more a daunting challenge to write this column every week. I had a business lunch with a colleague this week who asked me if it was tough to share my writing with others, that for her that would be a frightening experience. I tried to explain that at this point, sharing is really not a problem because the feelings expressed in my writing these days are more or less just a tiny portion of my personality.
Although I have reached a stage in my life where more and more people are coming to me for my opinion or advice, as it is surely clear to most of you by now, I don't know nothing that none of you already don't know. It has been my routine over the past five years to save this page until the very end of the newsletter's production, and by then the relief that another week's issue is nearly done often knocks down the defenses long enough for me to be able to fill up one last page. I try to think of a topic throughout the preceding week, but often it comes down to whatever is on my mind at the moment.
I feel lucky when I can string together a bunch of words that make some type of coherent sense. In other words, it doesn't matter so much what those words convey, it's that they are able to convey anything at all. The goal of the newsletter after all has always been to provide information to you all in an entertaining way. Thus if we can somehow manage to walk the fine line between providing useful information to you in a way that makes you read it with a smile, we have done our job. Just like one long infomercial.
This wasn't always the case of course. Back in the days when I was falling in love with the craft of writing, when the dreams were to become the next big thing in journalism, every single word, every single article was meticulously thought out. If a word didn't immediately flow out of my mind, I would thumb through the dictionary or thesaurus hoping to discover the right sound to convey what I wanted to impress my readers with. But just like most things in life, as one grows older, one doesn't have the time for such passionate idealism. Get it down on paper and hope that the type sticks to the paper is about all one can ask for. This is not to say that the words don't mean anything anymore. An occasional odd combination will appear that amazes me that it was somewhere inside of me and found its way into the cold print that appears before your eyes to digest. I may have stopped searching for the truth and the desire to become the next F. Scott Fitzgerald, but writing something worthwhile is still the most satisfying experience I can think of. There are a limited amount of words out there and a limited number of combinations you can use those words. The successful communicators are not the ones who use words to make sense, they are the ones who make the words sound good together. So the story this week is: Anita believes canaries develop enlarged feathers going high inside jagged, knotted, local meadows. Nomadic ornery people quit regarding simple theories unless verified with x-rayed, young zeal.
My best friend gave me some career advice a job change ago that has helped me deal with some of the stress of my newest job. She told me, "You have to fake it 'til you make it." Her point was that if I showed the people around me that I was confident I knew what I was doing, eventually their confidence in me would increase and I would be on my way. This is an invaluable lesson to hold on to when working in the area of politics. Successful politicians learned long ago that it isn't so much what you are saying, it is how you say it.
All this comes to mind because it is becoming more and more a daunting challenge to write this column every week. I had a business lunch with a colleague this week who asked me if it was tough to share my writing with others, that for her that would be a frightening experience. I tried to explain that at this point, sharing is really not a problem because the feelings expressed in my writing these days are more or less just a tiny portion of my personality.
Although I have reached a stage in my life where more and more people are coming to me for my opinion or advice, as it is surely clear to most of you by now, I don't know nothing that none of you already don't know. It has been my routine over the past five years to save this page until the very end of the newsletter's production, and by then the relief that another week's issue is nearly done often knocks down the defenses long enough for me to be able to fill up one last page. I try to think of a topic throughout the preceding week, but often it comes down to whatever is on my mind at the moment.
I feel lucky when I can string together a bunch of words that make some type of coherent sense. In other words, it doesn't matter so much what those words convey, it's that they are able to convey anything at all. The goal of the newsletter after all has always been to provide information to you all in an entertaining way. Thus if we can somehow manage to walk the fine line between providing useful information to you in a way that makes you read it with a smile, we have done our job. Just like one long infomercial.
This wasn't always the case of course. Back in the days when I was falling in love with the craft of writing, when the dreams were to become the next big thing in journalism, every single word, every single article was meticulously thought out. If a word didn't immediately flow out of my mind, I would thumb through the dictionary or thesaurus hoping to discover the right sound to convey what I wanted to impress my readers with. But just like most things in life, as one grows older, one doesn't have the time for such passionate idealism. Get it down on paper and hope that the type sticks to the paper is about all one can ask for. This is not to say that the words don't mean anything anymore. An occasional odd combination will appear that amazes me that it was somewhere inside of me and found its way into the cold print that appears before your eyes to digest. I may have stopped searching for the truth and the desire to become the next F. Scott Fitzgerald, but writing something worthwhile is still the most satisfying experience I can think of. There are a limited amount of words out there and a limited number of combinations you can use those words. The successful communicators are not the ones who use words to make sense, they are the ones who make the words sound good together. So the story this week is: Anita believes canaries develop enlarged feathers going high inside jagged, knotted, local meadows. Nomadic ornery people quit regarding simple theories unless verified with x-rayed, young zeal.
Monday, July 22, 1996
Kitty in the Mirror
Max the Cat loves to scamper from window to window in the house and watch for any cats who wander into his yard. Whenever he spots one he prances from window to window, his tail starts flapping and he lets out a sound that is more like a gargle than a growl. So during a lull in his day, sometimes I will bring him into the bathroom and show him the kitty in the mirror. This is an attempt to teach him to love his fellow feline, that the cute kitty in the mirror is as lovable and harmless as those wildcats lurking outside his windows. However for whatever reason he refuses to look at the kitty in the mirror. He look all around, at the lights, at me, at the floor, at the soap supply, but he will not look at his own handsome reflection.
I suppose somewhere in this tale there is a moral about looking at one's self before casting negative thoughts on the rest of the world. I think Michael Jackson even wrote a song about that once. "I'm starting with the man in the mirror. I'm asking him to change his ways. And no message could have been any clearer. If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change."
As a kid I shared Max's view of the world. I remember I would scowl at my neighbor friends who dared to come into our yard and play on our swing set and jungle jim without first seeking permission. Was it my own insecurity, my own selfishness that was the root of the dispute or was it their actual trespassing that was the problem? How dare they have fun without me. It's always harder to accept the responsibility to correct your own ways rather than blame everyone else for the things that don't go right in your day.
One of the learning experiences of the past couple of weeks from starting at a new job has been watching how different offices work and do not work. This has come both from my experiences at my own new "home" office along with the training I have received at other off-site locations. In the past I have been accused of being something of a cynic. Yet as I travel around and meet people who have become settled in their jobs I have more and more become a person who may be a bit cranky, but I do keep an open mind, and the belief that things can work with a little enthusiasm and positive thinking. I don't have much interest in office gossip and personality clashes when they interfere with the work that needs to get done. We each have our ways of working and trying to get things set up so that we can succeed. Sometimes these routines and beliefs can conflict with others in the organization. At some point it is useful to be able to acknowledge your own reflection, your own faults and weaknesses and work on the things within that you can change rather than try to change those around you- always a tenuous task.
Being the "new" person is a stressful situation especially if you are not starting at the bottom rungs of the organization. People can be leery of you simply because they think you are going to change the ways they have gotten used to doing things. Some people do walk into a job and with little input from the people who have done the work, change things to be setup the way they want things setup. This may be the very reason they were hired, but often it can be a big mistake- alienating the other employees, causing mistrust and inefficiency where none existed before.
People adapt to change on their own terms. Some can't let go of the way things once were. Some people want change at all costs. For the most part accepting change and adapting is what makes us learn. It is what helps us grow. Even Max will someday have to learn there are an awful lot of other kitties out there and despite his protests, he has to coexist with his competition no matter how frustrating that may be.
I suppose somewhere in this tale there is a moral about looking at one's self before casting negative thoughts on the rest of the world. I think Michael Jackson even wrote a song about that once. "I'm starting with the man in the mirror. I'm asking him to change his ways. And no message could have been any clearer. If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change."
As a kid I shared Max's view of the world. I remember I would scowl at my neighbor friends who dared to come into our yard and play on our swing set and jungle jim without first seeking permission. Was it my own insecurity, my own selfishness that was the root of the dispute or was it their actual trespassing that was the problem? How dare they have fun without me. It's always harder to accept the responsibility to correct your own ways rather than blame everyone else for the things that don't go right in your day.
One of the learning experiences of the past couple of weeks from starting at a new job has been watching how different offices work and do not work. This has come both from my experiences at my own new "home" office along with the training I have received at other off-site locations. In the past I have been accused of being something of a cynic. Yet as I travel around and meet people who have become settled in their jobs I have more and more become a person who may be a bit cranky, but I do keep an open mind, and the belief that things can work with a little enthusiasm and positive thinking. I don't have much interest in office gossip and personality clashes when they interfere with the work that needs to get done. We each have our ways of working and trying to get things set up so that we can succeed. Sometimes these routines and beliefs can conflict with others in the organization. At some point it is useful to be able to acknowledge your own reflection, your own faults and weaknesses and work on the things within that you can change rather than try to change those around you- always a tenuous task.
Being the "new" person is a stressful situation especially if you are not starting at the bottom rungs of the organization. People can be leery of you simply because they think you are going to change the ways they have gotten used to doing things. Some people do walk into a job and with little input from the people who have done the work, change things to be setup the way they want things setup. This may be the very reason they were hired, but often it can be a big mistake- alienating the other employees, causing mistrust and inefficiency where none existed before.
People adapt to change on their own terms. Some can't let go of the way things once were. Some people want change at all costs. For the most part accepting change and adapting is what makes us learn. It is what helps us grow. Even Max will someday have to learn there are an awful lot of other kitties out there and despite his protests, he has to coexist with his competition no matter how frustrating that may be.
Monday, July 15, 1996
New Kids on the Block
ONCE upon a short while ago, there was a little boy lost who knew a girl formerly known as meek who was now free to decide. Murphy meet Max. Max meet Murphy.
The awesome swinging bunt.
Every morning the little boy lost would walk a great distance to spend his day amongst chaos and confusion. He never quite figured out how he ever got from there to here, but he wasn't going to question it any more. He wasn't sure of his purpose but over time he realized most of the people around him were not sure of theirs either. He remained relatively calm throughout, but he was certainly glad every time he saw the girl formerly known as meek who was now free to decide. Meanwhile the little girl who had one leg that was longer than the other, had a short term vision impairment that no pair of glasses could ever repair. She just needed a little direction.
Chasing down the fly ball swirling in the wind.
One day Max showed Murphy his house. She was properly impressed. Together they went out for a burger and a malt. The conversation was short and sweet, the names changed but the faces remained the same. Murphy ate not one but two burgers. Who knew what she was capable of? She knew that there was no such thing as destiny. Max now understood the complexity of the importance of having a little dignity. He spilt his milkshake. "That's too bad," he said. No use crying over a spilt milkshake.
Filing the proper documents in properly tabbed folders.
Murphy wanted to see Max play. She didn't like him just sitting and watching instead of participating. She knew he could turn on an inside pitch and drive it further than his size would indicate. Upon his arrival in his first game he had four hits and never looked back. Max appreciated her sweetness. She inspired him. He in return wanted Murphy to realize and believe in her own special skills. He appreciated her enthusiasm and the way she always had a kind word to say. Another leaping catch over the wall. Did she understand the joy she could bring? There was a mutual understanding that had not yet been spoken, of things past and present and once broken. "Where do you come from?" Max asked Murphy. He eagerly awaited her answer.
Just another hard luck story.
He once thought her voice didn't match her physical presence. He now was pleasantly surprised to see the connection. She saw in him a sense of organization of having himself together. "What is your story?" she asked him.
A sparkling defensive play.
He was sheepish to admit that in the beginning it was probably her name that pulled him to her. Little kids came in from miles away just to watch her play and scream her name. It was all fairy-tale like and he was a sucker for simplicity if nothing else. Now she wanted to change her name. Anata no o-namae wa? She wasn't quite willing to put herself in a new situation but she knew she needed a change of some kind. Changing hairstyles wasn't enough. He remained intrigued.
A passport to another time.
The fall season was fast approaching. Max wondered if he would still see Murphy. Their time together was scheduled apart. They both had places to be even if neither one of them quite knew where those places lay. Murphy didn't know if Max would still stop by. She didn't know quite how to read him. Their relationship had grown slowly over time, having been carefully nurtured if not sometimes forgotten. They had now shared the music of their lives, and it was an important step, one that gave their friendship a deeper understanding. A shared vision. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book but they both came to realize that one never quite knew what one had until it was gone.
The puck stops here.
The awesome swinging bunt.
Every morning the little boy lost would walk a great distance to spend his day amongst chaos and confusion. He never quite figured out how he ever got from there to here, but he wasn't going to question it any more. He wasn't sure of his purpose but over time he realized most of the people around him were not sure of theirs either. He remained relatively calm throughout, but he was certainly glad every time he saw the girl formerly known as meek who was now free to decide. Meanwhile the little girl who had one leg that was longer than the other, had a short term vision impairment that no pair of glasses could ever repair. She just needed a little direction.
Chasing down the fly ball swirling in the wind.
One day Max showed Murphy his house. She was properly impressed. Together they went out for a burger and a malt. The conversation was short and sweet, the names changed but the faces remained the same. Murphy ate not one but two burgers. Who knew what she was capable of? She knew that there was no such thing as destiny. Max now understood the complexity of the importance of having a little dignity. He spilt his milkshake. "That's too bad," he said. No use crying over a spilt milkshake.
Filing the proper documents in properly tabbed folders.
Murphy wanted to see Max play. She didn't like him just sitting and watching instead of participating. She knew he could turn on an inside pitch and drive it further than his size would indicate. Upon his arrival in his first game he had four hits and never looked back. Max appreciated her sweetness. She inspired him. He in return wanted Murphy to realize and believe in her own special skills. He appreciated her enthusiasm and the way she always had a kind word to say. Another leaping catch over the wall. Did she understand the joy she could bring? There was a mutual understanding that had not yet been spoken, of things past and present and once broken. "Where do you come from?" Max asked Murphy. He eagerly awaited her answer.
Just another hard luck story.
He once thought her voice didn't match her physical presence. He now was pleasantly surprised to see the connection. She saw in him a sense of organization of having himself together. "What is your story?" she asked him.
A sparkling defensive play.
He was sheepish to admit that in the beginning it was probably her name that pulled him to her. Little kids came in from miles away just to watch her play and scream her name. It was all fairy-tale like and he was a sucker for simplicity if nothing else. Now she wanted to change her name. Anata no o-namae wa? She wasn't quite willing to put herself in a new situation but she knew she needed a change of some kind. Changing hairstyles wasn't enough. He remained intrigued.
A passport to another time.
The fall season was fast approaching. Max wondered if he would still see Murphy. Their time together was scheduled apart. They both had places to be even if neither one of them quite knew where those places lay. Murphy didn't know if Max would still stop by. She didn't know quite how to read him. Their relationship had grown slowly over time, having been carefully nurtured if not sometimes forgotten. They had now shared the music of their lives, and it was an important step, one that gave their friendship a deeper understanding. A shared vision. It was one of the oldest clichés in the book but they both came to realize that one never quite knew what one had until it was gone.
The puck stops here.
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