This song is one our small group performed recently at a first responder celebration.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Life in a Sardine Can and Other Observations
I live in a large metropolitan area as many seem to these days. A recent check of a North Texas demographic report stated that there are an unconfirmed 5.4 million people currently calling themselves my neighbor. If I chose to unleash my influence on the platform of Facebook, all these people could be my friend. I choose, however, to remain an anonymous neighbor to these brethren. The kind of neighbor who power slides his car into his garage sideways as the door barely opens and just as quickly hits the “CLOSE” button to avert any and all contact with the lives of others. While I usually am not this violent at avoiding contact with others, it is a reoccurring fantasy.
All of these feelings, and many more I haven’t mentioned, affect your life and your ability to power slide effectively into your garage with great fervor. It would be wonderful to find the root cause of these feelings. It would be even more wonderful to determine how to disable the messaging autocorrect feature to allow more belligerent texts and fluent cussing as the situation demands. So what causes you to feel this way? I’m almost convinced that your “nuts” but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt or this “chat” gets real short, real quick and that’s not how I roll.
A couple of things are probably beating you down. Living in a population where you have everything at your fingertips and where you are provided the luxury of fighting over it at any point in time may take its toll. On the one hand, coming up with a great idea to go out and do something really cool is almost always met with 3,586 people in front of you who had the same idea. On the other hand, you have a most unfortunate tattoo you wish you would have sobered up long enough to have at least a thought of internal debate whether or not to proceed. You live in a sardine can – pure and simple. What are the byproducts of such a fate? You are confined by the ebb and flow of your surroundings whether you like it or not. While it is possible to bend over to tie your shoelace in a mosh pit during a death metal concert, it would present serious challenges to your mortality. So goes the life in large areas.
I believe this dynamic stems from continuous exposure to a lack of control in one’s life. I’m sure that is what you are feeling – I’m a professional after all. Here’s what’s going inside your head instead of mine for once.
· You are inundated with constant information.
· You feel that you get no break from the stress or constant demands of the world and others (primarily family).
· You feel that you’re barely hanging on.
· You hate that your text messages are constantly corrected by some ominous element of the Internet or Apple and that saddens you.
· You find that when you return home from the grocery store, you only purchased enough food to get you through the next 3.7 days when you intended to buy food for the week. In addition, you pretty much forgot to buy anything of substance you had intended to return home with. However, you now have some serious new kick-ass salty snacks to eat in bed as you cry yourself to sleep.
· You wake in the morning to meet your reflection in the mirror with smeared lipstick and runny mascara and find that it’s very difficult to shave without being distracted.
All of these feelings, and many more I haven’t mentioned, affect your life and your ability to power slide effectively into your garage with great fervor. It would be wonderful to find the root cause of these feelings. It would be even more wonderful to determine how to disable the messaging autocorrect feature to allow more belligerent texts and fluent cussing as the situation demands. So what causes you to feel this way? I’m almost convinced that your “nuts” but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt or this “chat” gets real short, real quick and that’s not how I roll.
A couple of things are probably beating you down. Living in a population where you have everything at your fingertips and where you are provided the luxury of fighting over it at any point in time may take its toll. On the one hand, coming up with a great idea to go out and do something really cool is almost always met with 3,586 people in front of you who had the same idea. On the other hand, you have a most unfortunate tattoo you wish you would have sobered up long enough to have at least a thought of internal debate whether or not to proceed. You live in a sardine can – pure and simple. What are the byproducts of such a fate? You are confined by the ebb and flow of your surroundings whether you like it or not. While it is possible to bend over to tie your shoelace in a mosh pit during a death metal concert, it would present serious challenges to your mortality. So goes the life in large areas.
Road rage does not fascinate me at all. In fact it makes me feel alive knowing that others are in just as much of a hurry to donate life-giving organs as I am. I guess it is sort of a brotherhood, in the loosest form of interpretations. The demonstration of road rage always causes me to wonder why someone behaves this way. What does it take in the background to elevate aggressive action, especially actions against others? The anonymity of the sardine can, of course. We all look the same on the road. We all have some casing of glass, steel, a ton of plastic and the State minimum in rubber depth surrounding our bodies. While our bodies (chasises) are different our shells are generic, not unlike the covering of the innocent and lowly sardine.
Moving closer to the vehicle on your bumper, we transcend into the mind of the driver: Your inability to read my mind, my emotional state, my paycheck stub and my level of over-caffenation tells me you are an inconsiderate sardine – the worst kind of sardine ever plucked out of rural America and placed smack dab in front of me in the passing lane as you talk on your cell phone about how much you hate your boss and how much you think “Lost” was the biggest example of big budget television series “shark jumping” to end an aimless theme that drug on for years. I must free you from yourself. I will swerve into the inside lane/shoulder to try and cause you to regain consciousness and I will add a little light flashing for good measure. This little added bonus involves some foreshadowing in that when I pass you, and I will, I will leave just enough space to allow a piece of onion skin to separate our vehicles. As I pass, I will be confident that you now appreciate my allowing you to live another day on this earth and that every moment of your life going forward will be spent looking in your rearview mirror searching for my future presence. Go in peace. [Insert 5 minute highway interval here]
“HEY!! Don’t try and pass in front of me Mr. Semi!!!”
What about the other sardine? The one that was given new life and life abundantly by the “4x4 from hell” mentioned above. What does it look like inside that shell of oblivion? Perhaps the scene can best be set by establishing possible life cycle-defining characteristics of the driver. How about a middle-aged young lady percolating with excessive demands on her non-existent spare time? Her commitments, voluntary and otherwise, her job (hopefully), her family requirements, her guilt from having a gym membership card that is clearly a wallet accessory, her acceptance of the perception that the world thinks she is ugly, overweight, unattractive, unable to effectively comprehend the immense value of mastering the “Shake Weight”, her lack of all interest in the things that we are told make life worth living add up to a disenfranchised life at best. Driving around this world with those saddlebags (purely a metaphor) is likely to harbor oblivion, on a good day! Why would someone who is entrusted with all those nuggets care about who’s in their rear mirror? Why can’t she appreciate the angst so tightly wound up for her in the monster truck a mere three inches from her trunk keyhole? To quote a great co-worker I had in the ‘90’s: “Dude, if that was all I had to worry about, I’d be in tall cotton!!”
So what do we have here at play? Perhaps it’s the idea that, as sardines, we have so much contact with others that we take them for granted. We don’t need to worry about the quality of the contact because we have so much quantity to exploit. Maybe the root cause stems from a lack of empathy that disappears in crowds and the bazillion agendas all competing, oftentimes, for the same set of resources (space, activity, roads). In the midst of mob violence, people become quickly disconnected from their actions in pursuit of “letting off steam” because “my home town team won/lost the national championship.” The universal sign of the sardine can is the picture of an overturned police car ablaze.
Are the two characters above really so different when you think about it? Their most common motive and epicenter for their behavior arises from an affixation on themselves. To be quite honest, we all tend to have selfish motives and subsequent actions about 148% of the time. So how does one attempt to keep from looking like the sardine next to you? Great question!! Well your 50 minutes are up. I’d like to thank you for sharing your thoughts and I’d like to pick it up here next time. You did bring your credit card this time? The one that works?
The only thing you CAN do is show those you come into contact with each day that you’re not your garden-variety sardine (huh?). This comes from a desire to thrive on the weird looks of others due to your outrageous actions toward complete strangers. Examples include: holding doors for others, asking people to cut in front of you in line, mowing your neighbor’s yard for them at 2:33AM, mailing anonymous letters to people you have “friended” on-line telling them they don’t know you but you are praying for them. Basically, the quickest way to lose your little, tiny sardine scales and start looking different is to stop keeping score. The heavenly portal has amazing technology and makes the TSA look like, well the TSA, so you ain’t bringin’ anything from down here up there!! Leave the garbage in the garbage can where it belongs and focus on the cleanup part of this assignment down here. We’re never going to have enough money, have all our wrinkles magically vanish away for just six easy payments of $49.95 (call now though) or raise perfect children. We all have a ton of internal cleaning to do and the very act of cleaning is humbling, enlightening and cathartic. By doing this, we do something that we are comfortable with and something that we are very talented in, focusing on ourselves. The trap to avoid is doing so in an effort to distinguish ourselves from others – that puts you right back where you started on a self-aggrandizing agenda rollercoaster. Rather, keep the focus on keeping secrets about what you do. God already knows. The gift of giving anonymously is a wonderful talent and perhaps one we should all work to improve. However, giving covers a multitude of areas, not just monetary giving. Your time especially, as we have referenced earlier, is one that is invaluable given our world today. Finally, the giving of your prayers for others speaks volumes about where your heart is. God’s providence is truly a blessing but to pray for others to receive His blessings as well shows spiritual maturity. It says that you recognize that we’re all in the same sardine can and if I can shift my pectoral fin slightly and you are now able to rest, then it is all worth it because the “can” got better by my efforts, small as they may be.
I think if the late George W. Bush could have said it best if he would have remarked: “We all need to act more empatharily towards one another, showing more compassionary attention for those who don’t know they need it. Heh, heh.”
Be Kind, Rewind,
The Distracted Guy - Squirrel!!!
The Distracted Guy - Squirrel!!!
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Goodbye Ashley
I lost a good friend who lived in Alaska late last week. Ashley was a few years older than I and also wrestler. He was one of the wrestlers who could be meaner than a bag of snakes if he had to, but he also had a heart of gold. He was like one of those country neighbors who would walk five miles to your house to hand deliver some errantly delivered mail he received knowing that it was only another credit card request. The contents of the delivery didn't matter, the reason for the action did. It wasn't his and he wanted someone else’s life to be complete.
Ashley was 47 years old, hardly seems that old now. He always seemed at least about two years smarter than me for as long as I knew him. When we were younger, he was a guy who could talk to adults and even they seemed to accept him as wiser than his years. I had Drivers Ed. with Ashley when I was a sophomore. You can imagine how little we learned when they showed the black and white, cheesy car wreck movies. It was like Mystery Science Theater 1981. He accepted me as a runt 10th grader and it felt really cool to be able to hang with a Senior without the uncomfortable feeling of having your underwear strap pulled over your head from the back. He always seemed to let go of the age difference and truly lent his ear and listened.
I wouldn’t see Ashley for another 12 years. My wife and I had finally made it to the post office on a Saturday to get in line to mail our Christmas gifts to family in the Lower 48. It was the very last of possible moments to make the Christmas cutoff. As we went inside the small Post Office, it was then that we finally chose to look at our watches. We missed the Saturday counter hours by a slight 3 hours. Pissed off and embarrassed at the same time, we started the circle of shame back to our car in 10 degree weather. While we were inside, a truck pulled in and parked immediately next to our car. Kay and I tried to stall, thinking they'd wake up and realize what we did AFTER hauling all our packages inside. We waited and, unfortunately, so did they – FOR FREAKING EVER!!! I couldn’t take it anymore and told my wife I was going to make a run for it!! I had the rear door almost open and I could see the driver’s window lowering – HURRY – they’re going to try and communicate and I’ll have to admit it was 3:00pm at the Post Office on a Saturday and I was an idiot.
“Excuse me, is your name Ken Murray?” What the hell? I had moved away from Alaska for over 10 years and anyone still in Alaska from that era still had at least 5 years to serve, even with good behavior. I looked up to find a man with a beard that would offer a person the opportunity to “walk-on” as a starting pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. Even with the Berber Carpet beard, I could tell it was Ashley. His covered smile couldn’t hide his squinting eyes and honest approach to complete strangers. We never should have met in a million years since high school, but everything in the universe lined up that day and I put my packages down and responded “Ashley Udelhoven?!” My wife, a native Texan and Alaskan resident for only a few months, went into “STRANGER = DANGER” mode (I think the beard was a large contributor to that reaction). We shook hands and reunited a friendship for both myself and with his wife Gayle. Gayle was from Oklahoma, so Kay felt like she had a new friend to cry with for hours on end as she plotted her eventual escape from the North (a five-year plan perfectly executed!!).
Ashley had an addiction for the outdoors and for Alaska in general. He had every possible piece of outdoor wear that a woodsman could want then bought two sets of backup gear, just so he had it. He was fearless with the outdoors but also knew that if it came down to going toe-to-toe with Nature, your best bet was to lessen your odds. Nature could always win so you had to have numerous backup plans. This was what wrestling was all about: observation, recognition, assessment, calculation, adaptation and, most importantly, execution.
Ashley also had a fantastic ability to tell a story. He was a master of sharing folklore while craftily interspersing digression as a means to make the retelling of a short story more like a complete chapter of interrelated events. I think he appreciated knowing all of the events that led up to a smaller story but wanted to share his awareness with all those who were patient enough to “get it” when he shared the final sentence of the story. He should have been an engineer. No wait……… scratch that last comment. I loved his characterizations and facial expressions. His laugh was contagious and worth the price you paid for admission!! Sometimes he would lose me minutes into the story. But before the punch line, I would already be laughing and ramping up for the finish line!! I, too, love to laugh and should do more of it. I even laughed at his stories he told about Nicola Tesla. I had a very vague idea who this cat was (I’m a bean-counter) but he was able to build an appreciation for the individual and I was able learn about Tesla from my friend the Electrical Engineer. He told many stories about electricity that should have put anyone else into an irreversible coma. But because it was told by the P.T. Barnum of cooperative electricity, I was fascinated. I usually asked if I could have another beer, deferring yet another bathroom break that was going to cost me dearly in the near-term.
One part of Ashley’s personality that I will always remember and try to incorporate to this day is his use of other people’s names throughout their conversation and his willingness to invest in the lives of others. Ashley was selfless when it came to offering help or sharing his knowledge with others. The guy was only 47 years old. If we all had 47 more years left to add on to our own lives, we might not be able reach the number of lives that Ashley touched in a positive way, whether it was in Oregon, Oklahoma or in his own backyard, Alaska.
Finally, on a very personal note, I wanted to share something Ashley was responsible for when I was on a weekend wrestling road trip as a sophomore. We traveled to Anchorage for a tri-meet and I got to wrestle varsity on part of the trip. I wrestled that night against East HS and won (I believe) when I wasn’t supposed to. Of course we beat the crap out of everyone as a team, but I felt like I contributed that night. Somehow I wound up in the hotel room of the three-headed monster: Kiser, Sliman and Udelhoven. We goofed around talking about various crude topics until the conversation eventually made its way to faith. At some point, I was singled-out and Ashley asked me directly if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior. I had no idea what he was talking about – I had a free pass, I was a Catholic. We ended up praying together and that night I accepted Christ into my heart in a very surreal and most unlikely setting. The next day was the most beautiful day ever in the history of Alaska as we drove to Seward! I ended up winning against one of the few Seward “golden-boys” and the universe couldn’t have been more at peace. I owe Ashley my life because of his willingness to reach out and help someone who had no spiritual tools to survive this life on Earth. He took the time to fix my life jacket because his was already working and secured.
We love you Ashley. I can’t wait to hear your stories in eternity!!
Your friend and Brother,
For more on how Ashley lived up until the end:
Ashley was 47 years old, hardly seems that old now. He always seemed at least about two years smarter than me for as long as I knew him. When we were younger, he was a guy who could talk to adults and even they seemed to accept him as wiser than his years. I had Drivers Ed. with Ashley when I was a sophomore. You can imagine how little we learned when they showed the black and white, cheesy car wreck movies. It was like Mystery Science Theater 1981. He accepted me as a runt 10th grader and it felt really cool to be able to hang with a Senior without the uncomfortable feeling of having your underwear strap pulled over your head from the back. He always seemed to let go of the age difference and truly lent his ear and listened.
I wouldn’t see Ashley for another 12 years. My wife and I had finally made it to the post office on a Saturday to get in line to mail our Christmas gifts to family in the Lower 48. It was the very last of possible moments to make the Christmas cutoff. As we went inside the small Post Office, it was then that we finally chose to look at our watches. We missed the Saturday counter hours by a slight 3 hours. Pissed off and embarrassed at the same time, we started the circle of shame back to our car in 10 degree weather. While we were inside, a truck pulled in and parked immediately next to our car. Kay and I tried to stall, thinking they'd wake up and realize what we did AFTER hauling all our packages inside. We waited and, unfortunately, so did they – FOR FREAKING EVER!!! I couldn’t take it anymore and told my wife I was going to make a run for it!! I had the rear door almost open and I could see the driver’s window lowering – HURRY – they’re going to try and communicate and I’ll have to admit it was 3:00pm at the Post Office on a Saturday and I was an idiot.
“Excuse me, is your name Ken Murray?” What the hell? I had moved away from Alaska for over 10 years and anyone still in Alaska from that era still had at least 5 years to serve, even with good behavior. I looked up to find a man with a beard that would offer a person the opportunity to “walk-on” as a starting pitcher for the San Francisco Giants. Even with the Berber Carpet beard, I could tell it was Ashley. His covered smile couldn’t hide his squinting eyes and honest approach to complete strangers. We never should have met in a million years since high school, but everything in the universe lined up that day and I put my packages down and responded “Ashley Udelhoven?!” My wife, a native Texan and Alaskan resident for only a few months, went into “STRANGER = DANGER” mode (I think the beard was a large contributor to that reaction). We shook hands and reunited a friendship for both myself and with his wife Gayle. Gayle was from Oklahoma, so Kay felt like she had a new friend to cry with for hours on end as she plotted her eventual escape from the North (a five-year plan perfectly executed!!).
Ashley had an addiction for the outdoors and for Alaska in general. He had every possible piece of outdoor wear that a woodsman could want then bought two sets of backup gear, just so he had it. He was fearless with the outdoors but also knew that if it came down to going toe-to-toe with Nature, your best bet was to lessen your odds. Nature could always win so you had to have numerous backup plans. This was what wrestling was all about: observation, recognition, assessment, calculation, adaptation and, most importantly, execution.
Ashley also had a fantastic ability to tell a story. He was a master of sharing folklore while craftily interspersing digression as a means to make the retelling of a short story more like a complete chapter of interrelated events. I think he appreciated knowing all of the events that led up to a smaller story but wanted to share his awareness with all those who were patient enough to “get it” when he shared the final sentence of the story. He should have been an engineer. No wait……… scratch that last comment. I loved his characterizations and facial expressions. His laugh was contagious and worth the price you paid for admission!! Sometimes he would lose me minutes into the story. But before the punch line, I would already be laughing and ramping up for the finish line!! I, too, love to laugh and should do more of it. I even laughed at his stories he told about Nicola Tesla. I had a very vague idea who this cat was (I’m a bean-counter) but he was able to build an appreciation for the individual and I was able learn about Tesla from my friend the Electrical Engineer. He told many stories about electricity that should have put anyone else into an irreversible coma. But because it was told by the P.T. Barnum of cooperative electricity, I was fascinated. I usually asked if I could have another beer, deferring yet another bathroom break that was going to cost me dearly in the near-term.
One part of Ashley’s personality that I will always remember and try to incorporate to this day is his use of other people’s names throughout their conversation and his willingness to invest in the lives of others. Ashley was selfless when it came to offering help or sharing his knowledge with others. The guy was only 47 years old. If we all had 47 more years left to add on to our own lives, we might not be able reach the number of lives that Ashley touched in a positive way, whether it was in Oregon, Oklahoma or in his own backyard, Alaska.
Finally, on a very personal note, I wanted to share something Ashley was responsible for when I was on a weekend wrestling road trip as a sophomore. We traveled to Anchorage for a tri-meet and I got to wrestle varsity on part of the trip. I wrestled that night against East HS and won (I believe) when I wasn’t supposed to. Of course we beat the crap out of everyone as a team, but I felt like I contributed that night. Somehow I wound up in the hotel room of the three-headed monster: Kiser, Sliman and Udelhoven. We goofed around talking about various crude topics until the conversation eventually made its way to faith. At some point, I was singled-out and Ashley asked me directly if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior. I had no idea what he was talking about – I had a free pass, I was a Catholic. We ended up praying together and that night I accepted Christ into my heart in a very surreal and most unlikely setting. The next day was the most beautiful day ever in the history of Alaska as we drove to Seward! I ended up winning against one of the few Seward “golden-boys” and the universe couldn’t have been more at peace. I owe Ashley my life because of his willingness to reach out and help someone who had no spiritual tools to survive this life on Earth. He took the time to fix my life jacket because his was already working and secured.
We love you Ashley. I can’t wait to hear your stories in eternity!!
Your friend and Brother,
Ken
For more on how Ashley lived up until the end:
Video from Anchorage News Station: http://www.ktuu.com/videobeta/d2440ca0-296b-49be-89ad-3a705a5a7b11/News/Survivors-of-Fatal-Boating-Accident-Grateful-to-be-Alive
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Future Blogs Coming to a PC Near You - Stay Tuned While I Cue Them Up!!
- The Modern Day Aging Process
- Road Rage vs. Premenopausal Hormone Deficit
- Mediocrity: A Way of Life?
- Facebook Generation Employees
- Music You'd Love to Forget but Still Know the Words: 1980-1989
-
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Many Faces of Fear
Depending upon your lifestyle and willingness to relocate, coming home can be an awkward event for many. I’ve moved no less than 18 times in my life. Before I started counting, I thought the number would have been less. My wife wonders why I’ll never move again. Moving sucks. Everything about it brings such chaos and punishing assimilation. I love routine. I also love to make lists as a hobby. While change should excite me because it requires a large list of follow-up items, I hate it.
Starting a new routine after a move, or at a new job, is a little like dating I’ve come to realize. The similarity with dating after a move is that everything is a struggle – where is this place located, what’s the shortest trip path, will she pick up the check if I pull the “I forgot my wallet” bit. With a new job, it’s the “how much do I reveal about myself” dilemma. I have always made it a personal rule never to divulge my criminal past, especially the duration of the incarceration, until after the first month. You don’t want to scare everyone off before they eventually find you on the Internet for chronic mattress tag removal crimes against humanity. That day of discovery is always awkward as well as a “slippery slope” for the Human Resources folks, sort of a ”Who was in charge of the background check on this guy?” kind of moment.
I’ve had my share of homecoming awkwardness. High school reunions are universally awkward. The “I wonder if that person remembers me” question always presents itself as well as the “I hope that person doesn’t remember what I did or said to them way back when” thought. My first two reunions actually went rather well. I think the real awkwardness came from the faces of my fellow classmates at the second reunion when they saw me with the same girl on my arm as I had with me when we celebrated surviving our first 10 years out of high school. I could almost hear the prayers of their collective minds for my poor wife!! Fortunately she, too, hates change to a great degree and keeps me around.
The high school reunion also brings with it another homecoming stress – returning to the town where you were forced out by the locals under the cover of darkness. Their ogling was kept to a minimum as much as I can remember. However, while I was there I took a trip to one of the grocery stores. My anxiety was at a personal high as I entered the automatic doors of the state-of-the-art grocery store. I guess my fear stems from being recognized and not being able to reciprocate with the identification of that person.
Stranger: “Well lookie here!! What are you doing hanging around the laxative aisle?”
Ken: “Oh hey….Dude!!! How’s it going? You doin’ alright? How’s your hernia?
Stranger: “My what? My diabetes?”
Ken: “Yeah!! I mean your diabetes!! Are you keeping your blood sugar in check like a good boy?? (I quickly notice a missing limb and wished I could retract my latest health accountability inquiry).
Stranger: “I never had diabetes. What are you talking about?!”
Ken: “Well…I……er…..your…” (I half-heartedly pointed at his missing ankle and, again, wished I hadn’t done so)
Stranger: “That was from the wood chipper!! You don’t remember pulling me out of that thing after I went in after YOUR baseball?”
Ken: “Of course!!! Who do you think I am, some kind of callous ogre from your past??!!!”
Stranger: “All right then, catch ya later Mike.”
Ken: “Take care…er..Hommes!!”
My wife’s primary concern at the reunion was running into my old girlfriend(s). To be quite honest, I was a little anxious about that possibility as well. What if I couldn’t remember their names too and the stories behind their various missing limbs?
I think my tendency toward being a “pleaser” makes these encounters almost invariably disastrous. No one has the bullet proof memory that they wish they could have. In addition, I think I truly want people to remember me (for the goods things I did, not for the things I was acquitted). Because of this, I truly want to remember others so they won’t feel like they didn’t touch the lives of others. This fear of a potential memory gap on both sides makes me very anxious.
I recently took some contract work, ironically at my previous place of employment. The potential for awkward encounters abounded with each new day. After some initial shock, I struck up several conversations with former co-workers. I discovered that I may have done a better job than I remember with respect to the treatment of others. Many had kind words for me about the days when I used to roam the halls aimlessly looking for the way back to my office. I have to admit it was actually kind of entertaining watching the faces of others as I saw them innocently walking down the hallway from a distance. Like a safari hunter waiting for the prey to fall into the tiger trap, I smirked and waited. Bingo!! Eye contact!! Now it was time to track their reaction:
The conversations that followed these initial sightings went something like “I thought that was you I saw this morning climbing out of the dumpster with your briefcase in tow. How’s the economy treatin’ ya!” Or even “I just think it’s great that our penal system actually has success stories and living proof that the recidivism rate of repeat offenders can actually level off!! Can I have my purse back?” Some conversations took longer before they took place. Maybe the sheer awkwardness of starting the dialogue was a big player. Some of the folks approached me days later with stories I had long forgotten about others who are no longer inhabitants of the Mother Ship. It reminded me that there are a bazillion stories simultaneously taking place and unfolding in people’s lives. Many times we tend to think about our story as the Main Attraction while the stories of others are more like the “Movie Tone News Reels” between shows. Sure the news is interesting, but we came here for the big show.
The fact is we are part of a complex, interrelated web of encounters and relationships. Dudes hate thinking about relationships because: they take time; they require us to listen; they require us to care; and, they flourish when we ingest them. I think my reluctance to invest in relationships has subsided since I entered my 40’s (not my real age). Having lost a couple of “runnin’ buddies” over the past few years, I’ve become keenly aware that this thing called life can change in an instant. Perhaps the reality of knowing that unsaid words can have a haunting effect on us when we look back helps me speak up and literally touch those around me now.
Fear can have a long-lasting and damaging impact with respect to touching the lives of others. The fear of being rejected or misunderstood has limited much of what I have said to others in the past. This past Lenten season I was struggling with what I should give up in honor of my Savior. Coffee seemed almost an insult and physically impossible. The giving up of bad language had been attempted two years in a row while working for a construction company – definitely impossible. As I sat in the pew on Ash Wednesday, my procrastination had reached an epic level. I had less than 2 minutes before I was to write it down, put it in the offering plate to be burned and the ashes returned to be pasted on my forehead. No problem (QUICK – PRAY!!!!!). As I closed my eyes, I noticed an odd sense of relief for no reason whatsoever. It was like I already had the answer but couldn’t get it off the tip of my tongue. The offering plate was nearing with every tick of the grandfather clock that was so inappropriately positioned next to me in the sanctuary. I calmly took the pen out of the pocket protector and wrote the word “Fear” on my paper to be burned and later etched on my forehead in the shap of a cross for others to point at.
It seemed initially like a give up attempt to avoid any and all suffering. However, what was to follow in my life was nothing short of an immediate challenge on numerous fronts. Within days I encountered situations where my first instinct was to flee in sheer panic, but my heart was told me to wait – very strange and calming at the same time. It was truly an opportunity to rest and to trust that where I was at that exact moment and who I was in the company of was precisely where I needed to be. It was very Zen like, if only I knew what that meant. No. I’m positive it was Zen like.
Throughout the Lenten season, I had encounter after encounter where I could feel that something else was at work. Fighting the urge to leave potentially uncomfortable situations became easier. Doing so gave me a perspective that I’ve never had before - where I realized that everything matters. Everything does matter. Every person you meet matters because every person has a story. Finding someone to listen to that story these days is much harder it seems.
I learned a lot from my 4’10”, Irish immigrant mother. She knew the name of every janitor wherever she worked. She was fearless and would talk to anyone. She was interested in the stories of others and loved to share hers with anyone who would sit still long enough to listen. The Irish have superhuman jaws and vocal chords. They also have a culture known for their stories and stories told through music.
Stories work best when there’s an audience. Try being someone’s audience this week and see if you’re able to fight the urge to flee. Years from now you might find out what that meant for others. In an eternity from now, you will know what it meant to others, especially strangers.
Fear not,
Starting a new routine after a move, or at a new job, is a little like dating I’ve come to realize. The similarity with dating after a move is that everything is a struggle – where is this place located, what’s the shortest trip path, will she pick up the check if I pull the “I forgot my wallet” bit. With a new job, it’s the “how much do I reveal about myself” dilemma. I have always made it a personal rule never to divulge my criminal past, especially the duration of the incarceration, until after the first month. You don’t want to scare everyone off before they eventually find you on the Internet for chronic mattress tag removal crimes against humanity. That day of discovery is always awkward as well as a “slippery slope” for the Human Resources folks, sort of a ”Who was in charge of the background check on this guy?” kind of moment.
I’ve had my share of homecoming awkwardness. High school reunions are universally awkward. The “I wonder if that person remembers me” question always presents itself as well as the “I hope that person doesn’t remember what I did or said to them way back when” thought. My first two reunions actually went rather well. I think the real awkwardness came from the faces of my fellow classmates at the second reunion when they saw me with the same girl on my arm as I had with me when we celebrated surviving our first 10 years out of high school. I could almost hear the prayers of their collective minds for my poor wife!! Fortunately she, too, hates change to a great degree and keeps me around.
The high school reunion also brings with it another homecoming stress – returning to the town where you were forced out by the locals under the cover of darkness. Their ogling was kept to a minimum as much as I can remember. However, while I was there I took a trip to one of the grocery stores. My anxiety was at a personal high as I entered the automatic doors of the state-of-the-art grocery store. I guess my fear stems from being recognized and not being able to reciprocate with the identification of that person.
Stranger: “Well lookie here!! What are you doing hanging around the laxative aisle?”
Ken: “Oh hey….Dude!!! How’s it going? You doin’ alright? How’s your hernia?
Stranger: “My what? My diabetes?”
Ken: “Yeah!! I mean your diabetes!! Are you keeping your blood sugar in check like a good boy?? (I quickly notice a missing limb and wished I could retract my latest health accountability inquiry).
Stranger: “I never had diabetes. What are you talking about?!”
Ken: “Well…I……er…..your…” (I half-heartedly pointed at his missing ankle and, again, wished I hadn’t done so)
Stranger: “That was from the wood chipper!! You don’t remember pulling me out of that thing after I went in after YOUR baseball?”
Ken: “Of course!!! Who do you think I am, some kind of callous ogre from your past??!!!”
Stranger: “All right then, catch ya later Mike.”
Ken: “Take care…er..Hommes!!”
My wife’s primary concern at the reunion was running into my old girlfriend(s). To be quite honest, I was a little anxious about that possibility as well. What if I couldn’t remember their names too and the stories behind their various missing limbs?
I think my tendency toward being a “pleaser” makes these encounters almost invariably disastrous. No one has the bullet proof memory that they wish they could have. In addition, I think I truly want people to remember me (for the goods things I did, not for the things I was acquitted). Because of this, I truly want to remember others so they won’t feel like they didn’t touch the lives of others. This fear of a potential memory gap on both sides makes me very anxious.
I recently took some contract work, ironically at my previous place of employment. The potential for awkward encounters abounded with each new day. After some initial shock, I struck up several conversations with former co-workers. I discovered that I may have done a better job than I remember with respect to the treatment of others. Many had kind words for me about the days when I used to roam the halls aimlessly looking for the way back to my office. I have to admit it was actually kind of entertaining watching the faces of others as I saw them innocently walking down the hallway from a distance. Like a safari hunter waiting for the prey to fall into the tiger trap, I smirked and waited. Bingo!! Eye contact!! Now it was time to track their reaction:
(1) Instant darting of the eyes back to, and forever fixed on, the contemporary carpet pattern that hypnotizes you as you walk; or,
(2) Repeated glancing between me and the carpet as you can almost see the gray matter overheating in panic as their memory database is searched frantically; or,
(3) The occasional “Hey Ken!”; or,
(4) Oblivion followed by a discreet whisper into the lapel notifying Security of the obvious breach in the 11th floor door panel ID devices.
The fact is we are part of a complex, interrelated web of encounters and relationships. Dudes hate thinking about relationships because: they take time; they require us to listen; they require us to care; and, they flourish when we ingest them. I think my reluctance to invest in relationships has subsided since I entered my 40’s (not my real age). Having lost a couple of “runnin’ buddies” over the past few years, I’ve become keenly aware that this thing called life can change in an instant. Perhaps the reality of knowing that unsaid words can have a haunting effect on us when we look back helps me speak up and literally touch those around me now.
Fear can have a long-lasting and damaging impact with respect to touching the lives of others. The fear of being rejected or misunderstood has limited much of what I have said to others in the past. This past Lenten season I was struggling with what I should give up in honor of my Savior. Coffee seemed almost an insult and physically impossible. The giving up of bad language had been attempted two years in a row while working for a construction company – definitely impossible. As I sat in the pew on Ash Wednesday, my procrastination had reached an epic level. I had less than 2 minutes before I was to write it down, put it in the offering plate to be burned and the ashes returned to be pasted on my forehead. No problem (QUICK – PRAY!!!!!). As I closed my eyes, I noticed an odd sense of relief for no reason whatsoever. It was like I already had the answer but couldn’t get it off the tip of my tongue. The offering plate was nearing with every tick of the grandfather clock that was so inappropriately positioned next to me in the sanctuary. I calmly took the pen out of the pocket protector and wrote the word “Fear” on my paper to be burned and later etched on my forehead in the shap of a cross for others to point at.
It seemed initially like a give up attempt to avoid any and all suffering. However, what was to follow in my life was nothing short of an immediate challenge on numerous fronts. Within days I encountered situations where my first instinct was to flee in sheer panic, but my heart was told me to wait – very strange and calming at the same time. It was truly an opportunity to rest and to trust that where I was at that exact moment and who I was in the company of was precisely where I needed to be. It was very Zen like, if only I knew what that meant. No. I’m positive it was Zen like.
Throughout the Lenten season, I had encounter after encounter where I could feel that something else was at work. Fighting the urge to leave potentially uncomfortable situations became easier. Doing so gave me a perspective that I’ve never had before - where I realized that everything matters. Everything does matter. Every person you meet matters because every person has a story. Finding someone to listen to that story these days is much harder it seems.
I learned a lot from my 4’10”, Irish immigrant mother. She knew the name of every janitor wherever she worked. She was fearless and would talk to anyone. She was interested in the stories of others and loved to share hers with anyone who would sit still long enough to listen. The Irish have superhuman jaws and vocal chords. They also have a culture known for their stories and stories told through music.
Stories work best when there’s an audience. Try being someone’s audience this week and see if you’re able to fight the urge to flee. Years from now you might find out what that meant for others. In an eternity from now, you will know what it meant to others, especially strangers.
Fear not,
-- The Guy with the Distracted Mind
Saturday, March 26, 2011
My Other Son, Buddy
In October of 2006, my wife was trying to politic for a dog for her birthday. This was an obvious “NO SOUP FOR YOU!!” request and she knew it. Our previous animal weakness occurred on 9/11/2002. She worked in downtown Fort Worth and made the mistake of taking her lunch hour outside at the very sorry “SPCA - 9/11” rally. They felt it was already very appropriate to piggyback the tragically lost lives of our loved ones from the cowardly terrorist attacks with the needs of our mistreated animals in shelters. The hair on the back of my neck was like a shark fin when I heard of this event. The problem? I learned of the event after she had made eye contact with a shelter survivor – a horrible optical placement error on her part. Within nanoseconds she had signed ownership papers and somehow was now the proud owner of a new transport kennel for an abused Miniature Doberman Pinscher. If the love of this animal was shown to us through the act of submissive wetting, then this animal loved us more than anything has ever loved our family. Within a few short weeks, Noel (an obviously under-thought Christmas gift name for a soon-to-be abusive family) was able to change the shade of our white carpet in our house to a dull amber hue.
Noel slowly sucked the life out of the entire family. She did have one redeeming quality now that I think about it. She loved to dig her way out of our backyard. Maybe I did have a little admiration for her in a Steve McQueen kind of way. I especially loved the part where she cleared our backyard fence by jumping down a ramp of Legos on a scooter. I could have made a fortune with that one but every time I’d try to get her to do the trick in front of someone else, she did her impression of the Warner Brothers frog and would just sit there, wetting the pavement around her.
One day, she gave me a great early birthday present. She dug out of our backyard and apparently caught a Greyhound bus back to Dobermanville. This was absolutely a “Get Out of Jail” card of the highest order!! Now I could honestly look both boys in the face when I explained to them that she had ran away (insert fist pump and self-inflicted high five here)!!! The peace that existed in our urine-stained dwelling was beyond nirvana. It was more like paradise. We quickly found a donee for the remnant dog food and dog accessories. We opened the windows and began digging through our junk drawer for our favorite carpet cleaner’s business card. I felt like I had been given new life.
For those of you taking notes at home – new life usually lasts no more than two years. Enter my wife’s approaching birthday. She, of course, already had everything she could ever want and really needed nothing for her birthday except for ……….. “well, it’s silly.”
Ken: “What?”
Spouse: “Oh nothing.”
Ken: “Come on. Tell Me”
Spouse: “Okay. I really want a….. a dog (sheepishly spoken as she was hastily putting on her bullet-proof jacket the wrong way)”
Ken: “Can you believe the Rangers have failed to make the post-season again?”
I stopped what I was doing, helped her put the jacket on the right way and slowly began to reason with her.
I explained that I only had a few more months to live and that maybe we should go to one of those free, high-pressure sales getaways and buy a time share condo instead. They’re much more pleasant. She straightened up and reestablished her position of wanting another pet. I thought for a moment and tried to direct the discussion toward a compromise – fish. She acted like I had been speaking to her while communicating through a bad cell tower. All I could hear was her blinking. I said “No” and ran out the front door to see if I could catch the Greyhound bus that was driving by that said “Paradise” on the front. I did this so that she could honestly explain later to the boys that “Daddy just ran away” without having to lie to them again.
Several days went by and my cell phone rang at work. My youngest son was excited to talk to me – the first clue of impending danger. He had apparently found a stray dog that wasn’t foaming at the mouth (yet) and he wanted to keep him. Apparently, he and a few of the neighborhood kids in his Jr. Cript gang had been harboring a fugitive in our garage for the last several hours as the dog catcher was circling the neighborhoods repeatedly looking for the perpetrator. I’m not sure where my tax dollars for City employee training is going but I’m pretty sure if you see six or more kids standing around with their hands behind their backs, whistling and avoiding eye contact – you might want to get out of your vehicle and INVESTIGATE!!!!
The helicopter thumping subsided, the sirens and searchlights stopped. All that was left was a brown and black dog in an orange jumpsuit in my garage furiously working a hacksaw on his cuffs when I drove home from work that evening. I intentionally avoided eye contact with the creature (a life skill attainted in my former line of work as a part-time Green Beret). When I did address him, I made the Jedi hand gesture to use the Force on him to inform him that “these are not the Masters you are searching for.” He abruptly licked himself in an area I care not to mention at this point in the retelling. When he resurfaced several minutes later, he began to follow us into the house in an eerily calm fashion, as if he had been inside a home before. My youngest son swore on my grave as I held him up against the wall forcing his eyes into the glare of the spotlight that he had not let him into the house before to tarnish the “driven snow” appearance of our carpet.
I removed the handcuffs from my son and put the Taser back in its holster, slowly entering the back door to our house. For some unknown reason, probably related to job stress, I allowed the animal to enter our house without a diaper draping his furry carcass. He walked with a casual gait and a sense of purpose. I just knew that he was taking in the layout and gathering information for a future ransacking of our home when we were away on a long-term mission trip!! He slowly lay down and placed his head gently between his paws. This was an obvious strategy – to lull us into close proximity from his lazy posture then leap up, maul us and rip out our jugulars. From here he would logon to our family lap top, hack our accounts and steal all of our unsecured debt as our lifeless bodies bled out the last of our hemoglobin. Suddenly his head rose up and I covered my neck and lower legs instinctively in preparation of the impending attack. He yawned and laid his head back down.
He kept up this act for hours until he eventually got up and slowly walked to the back door. He used his nose on our blinds to make a foreign metallic clanking, something Noel had never heard nor produced ever. He acted as if he wanted to use the restroom outdoors. I had never seen such a performance. My youngest son took the initiative of opening the door and the furry foreigner sauntered out the backdoor to casually pee on my fence. I turned my head and cried. He had passed the pee test - the one test that no other animal had ever dared attempt in this home.
As the sun began to set, my youngest offspring mustered up the courage to request that we let this monster stay the night inside and sleep with them on the floor. Friday nights usually meant the boys would sleep on the front room floor and fall asleep watching “Frontline” reruns. A calm feeling came over me again, probably from the medication, and I allowed the interspecies sleepover to take place on my carpet.
I awoke the next morning to find the animal sitting at our breakfast table drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee and reading the Dallas Morning News. We had brief small talk as I waited for the coffee to kick in. We spent the rest of the morning discussing what George Bush should be able to accomplish in his second term even though most critics thought that “Lame Duck” presidents were less motivated to push social agendas.
The beast had morphed into our family – a family with rules. The beast had become our family pet. The pet became known as Buddy. My youngest had generically named him this because he answered to it as they were protecting him from local authorities. My son could have called him “Oozing Neck Wound” and he would have answered given the circumstances, but we kept the “Buddy” alias just the same. A former co-worker and good friend commented that our family has a history of naming their pets after co-workers. Acting offended, I succinctly responded “Nut – uh!!” She had no response. The name of my boss at the time was Buddy. I couldn’t figure out where she was going with her line of questioning, so I left it alone.
She quickly called Noelle at my old job and filled her in on what was happening at our house.
Buddy (not my boss) is now part of our family. He sheds at a remarkable level and I don’t notice any change in my blood pressure. His stellar impression of a dog on lithium is amazing. He does it almost continuously. He sleeps a lot and has to spend a lot of time by himself. We are a busy family and many times he becomes an afterthought with respect to the activity calendar. We are convinced that he has chronic depression what with the obvious symptoms: can’t get motivated, can’t do more than sleep all day, can’t hold down a job, watches an inordinate amount of daytime television, dry mouth, cramping, nosebleeds, headaches, dizziness, muscle aches, itchy eyes, dry skin, etc.
We love Buddy and he loves us for some strange reason. He is a kept dog. He could have run away but I think he tried that before and maybe regrets the results of being on the lamb. In fact, we are sure he was someone’s dog because he is trained in several areas. He rarely barks. He knows how to ride in a car without throwing up. He has successfully killed and mounted the following game: corn snake, grackle (2X), large rat, an opossum (almost), the elusive and annoying squirrel and some other bird that was unrecognizable to the next of kin. Buddy is a gentle killer, yet a protector of his family.
The change of heart towards Buddy was pretty amazing to me. I grew up with dogs and never wanted another one, to be quite honest. They take time, they bark, they make messes and they bark. They tie you down and complicate your schedule. I was the last guy I thought would ever own a dog, much less love the thing. I’m also the guy who was probably never going to get married or have kids or maintain gainful employment or blog. Life and time changes you – whether you want it to or not. I look at a lot of things with much less zeal these days. Maybe it’s like the joke about life resembling a roll of toilet paper – the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes. Or maybe it’s where you are in your ability to let things go. Or maybe it’s God’s timing.
The evolution of our spiritual walk is a magical thing – much better than Buddy’s dog impression talents. God is very subtle in His formation of our lives. Even His rebukes are difficult to hear or see sometimes if we’re not paying attention. Quick word of advice: start paying attention. When He has to raise His voice, you’ll never forget it!! What’s even better? Asking Him what we need to change, let go of, apologize for or ask forgiveness for. God loves proactive believers!! God loves to see us evolve into Christ like children. He loves to hear us when we are still enough to ask. He loves us to gently lay our heads against him and relax. He loves us to be obedient, to rub our noses against the backdoor instead of being lazy and making messes around ourselves and others. He loves to watch us play and protect those around us. He loves to take walks with us. And many times He likes to challenge us with silence so that we can think and consider our circumstances instead of Him giving us every answer on demand.
God’s timing is perfect, especially with Buddy. I later found out that my wife was secretly praying for a dog for her birthday. She wanted a puppy, a chocolate lab to be more precise. God gave us a wire terrier mix. He gave us a dog that was 2-3 years old already. He gave us a dog that was ready for us. I never chided my wife for praying behind my back, and I never will. He brought us a gift and a family member and I am so grateful. The life that was sucked out of the family from our hasty decisions was replaced with real “life” when we involved God in our tiniest of decisions. Give it a shot!!
Woof,
Noel slowly sucked the life out of the entire family. She did have one redeeming quality now that I think about it. She loved to dig her way out of our backyard. Maybe I did have a little admiration for her in a Steve McQueen kind of way. I especially loved the part where she cleared our backyard fence by jumping down a ramp of Legos on a scooter. I could have made a fortune with that one but every time I’d try to get her to do the trick in front of someone else, she did her impression of the Warner Brothers frog and would just sit there, wetting the pavement around her.
One day, she gave me a great early birthday present. She dug out of our backyard and apparently caught a Greyhound bus back to Dobermanville. This was absolutely a “Get Out of Jail” card of the highest order!! Now I could honestly look both boys in the face when I explained to them that she had ran away (insert fist pump and self-inflicted high five here)!!! The peace that existed in our urine-stained dwelling was beyond nirvana. It was more like paradise. We quickly found a donee for the remnant dog food and dog accessories. We opened the windows and began digging through our junk drawer for our favorite carpet cleaner’s business card. I felt like I had been given new life.
For those of you taking notes at home – new life usually lasts no more than two years. Enter my wife’s approaching birthday. She, of course, already had everything she could ever want and really needed nothing for her birthday except for ……….. “well, it’s silly.”
Ken: “What?”
Spouse: “Oh nothing.”
Ken: “Come on. Tell Me”
Spouse: “Okay. I really want a….. a dog (sheepishly spoken as she was hastily putting on her bullet-proof jacket the wrong way)”
Ken: “Can you believe the Rangers have failed to make the post-season again?”
I stopped what I was doing, helped her put the jacket on the right way and slowly began to reason with her.
I explained that I only had a few more months to live and that maybe we should go to one of those free, high-pressure sales getaways and buy a time share condo instead. They’re much more pleasant. She straightened up and reestablished her position of wanting another pet. I thought for a moment and tried to direct the discussion toward a compromise – fish. She acted like I had been speaking to her while communicating through a bad cell tower. All I could hear was her blinking. I said “No” and ran out the front door to see if I could catch the Greyhound bus that was driving by that said “Paradise” on the front. I did this so that she could honestly explain later to the boys that “Daddy just ran away” without having to lie to them again.
Several days went by and my cell phone rang at work. My youngest son was excited to talk to me – the first clue of impending danger. He had apparently found a stray dog that wasn’t foaming at the mouth (yet) and he wanted to keep him. Apparently, he and a few of the neighborhood kids in his Jr. Cript gang had been harboring a fugitive in our garage for the last several hours as the dog catcher was circling the neighborhoods repeatedly looking for the perpetrator. I’m not sure where my tax dollars for City employee training is going but I’m pretty sure if you see six or more kids standing around with their hands behind their backs, whistling and avoiding eye contact – you might want to get out of your vehicle and INVESTIGATE!!!!
The helicopter thumping subsided, the sirens and searchlights stopped. All that was left was a brown and black dog in an orange jumpsuit in my garage furiously working a hacksaw on his cuffs when I drove home from work that evening. I intentionally avoided eye contact with the creature (a life skill attainted in my former line of work as a part-time Green Beret). When I did address him, I made the Jedi hand gesture to use the Force on him to inform him that “these are not the Masters you are searching for.” He abruptly licked himself in an area I care not to mention at this point in the retelling. When he resurfaced several minutes later, he began to follow us into the house in an eerily calm fashion, as if he had been inside a home before. My youngest son swore on my grave as I held him up against the wall forcing his eyes into the glare of the spotlight that he had not let him into the house before to tarnish the “driven snow” appearance of our carpet.
He kept up this act for hours until he eventually got up and slowly walked to the back door. He used his nose on our blinds to make a foreign metallic clanking, something Noel had never heard nor produced ever. He acted as if he wanted to use the restroom outdoors. I had never seen such a performance. My youngest son took the initiative of opening the door and the furry foreigner sauntered out the backdoor to casually pee on my fence. I turned my head and cried. He had passed the pee test - the one test that no other animal had ever dared attempt in this home.
As the sun began to set, my youngest offspring mustered up the courage to request that we let this monster stay the night inside and sleep with them on the floor. Friday nights usually meant the boys would sleep on the front room floor and fall asleep watching “Frontline” reruns. A calm feeling came over me again, probably from the medication, and I allowed the interspecies sleepover to take place on my carpet.
I awoke the next morning to find the animal sitting at our breakfast table drinking a cup of freshly brewed coffee and reading the Dallas Morning News. We had brief small talk as I waited for the coffee to kick in. We spent the rest of the morning discussing what George Bush should be able to accomplish in his second term even though most critics thought that “Lame Duck” presidents were less motivated to push social agendas.
The beast had morphed into our family – a family with rules. The beast had become our family pet. The pet became known as Buddy. My youngest had generically named him this because he answered to it as they were protecting him from local authorities. My son could have called him “Oozing Neck Wound” and he would have answered given the circumstances, but we kept the “Buddy” alias just the same. A former co-worker and good friend commented that our family has a history of naming their pets after co-workers. Acting offended, I succinctly responded “Nut – uh!!” She had no response. The name of my boss at the time was Buddy. I couldn’t figure out where she was going with her line of questioning, so I left it alone.
She quickly called Noelle at my old job and filled her in on what was happening at our house.
We love Buddy and he loves us for some strange reason. He is a kept dog. He could have run away but I think he tried that before and maybe regrets the results of being on the lamb. In fact, we are sure he was someone’s dog because he is trained in several areas. He rarely barks. He knows how to ride in a car without throwing up. He has successfully killed and mounted the following game: corn snake, grackle (2X), large rat, an opossum (almost), the elusive and annoying squirrel and some other bird that was unrecognizable to the next of kin. Buddy is a gentle killer, yet a protector of his family.
The change of heart towards Buddy was pretty amazing to me. I grew up with dogs and never wanted another one, to be quite honest. They take time, they bark, they make messes and they bark. They tie you down and complicate your schedule. I was the last guy I thought would ever own a dog, much less love the thing. I’m also the guy who was probably never going to get married or have kids or maintain gainful employment or blog. Life and time changes you – whether you want it to or not. I look at a lot of things with much less zeal these days. Maybe it’s like the joke about life resembling a roll of toilet paper – the closer you get to the end, the faster it goes. Or maybe it’s where you are in your ability to let things go. Or maybe it’s God’s timing.
The evolution of our spiritual walk is a magical thing – much better than Buddy’s dog impression talents. God is very subtle in His formation of our lives. Even His rebukes are difficult to hear or see sometimes if we’re not paying attention. Quick word of advice: start paying attention. When He has to raise His voice, you’ll never forget it!! What’s even better? Asking Him what we need to change, let go of, apologize for or ask forgiveness for. God loves proactive believers!! God loves to see us evolve into Christ like children. He loves to hear us when we are still enough to ask. He loves us to gently lay our heads against him and relax. He loves us to be obedient, to rub our noses against the backdoor instead of being lazy and making messes around ourselves and others. He loves to watch us play and protect those around us. He loves to take walks with us. And many times He likes to challenge us with silence so that we can think and consider our circumstances instead of Him giving us every answer on demand.
God’s timing is perfect, especially with Buddy. I later found out that my wife was secretly praying for a dog for her birthday. She wanted a puppy, a chocolate lab to be more precise. God gave us a wire terrier mix. He gave us a dog that was 2-3 years old already. He gave us a dog that was ready for us. I never chided my wife for praying behind my back, and I never will. He brought us a gift and a family member and I am so grateful. The life that was sucked out of the family from our hasty decisions was replaced with real “life” when we involved God in our tiniest of decisions. Give it a shot!!
Woof,
-- The Guy with the Distracted Mind
Saturday, March 5, 2011
A Caveman’s Assessment of Social Media
I have been a slow entrant to pop culture movements my entire life. Social networking is an area where I have chosen to remain on the sidelines, mostly because by doing so makes me look cool. In reality, I’m torn between launching my own site and easily taking over the world (which sounds like a ton of administrative follow-up) and remaining on the outskirts where I can eventually predict that this “fad” is just about run its course, never having to create a profile of inaccurate personal information.
In my early 20’s I hid from the world long enough to earn a Master’s Degree in Marketing because I thought it was interesting and a great bargain at only $13,000 (especially in today’s market). While I was learning clever new ways to trick the world into believing that things you had for sale added value to your life, I was introduced to the Internet, or at least to Prodigy. This happened one night during my Marketing Strategy class. Prodigy at the time was awesome!! You could download a static weather map IN COLOR in less than 10 minutes!! News articles took slightly less time so that was even more convenient. I was hooked on the idea and my diabolical mind began to consider other unimaginable uses like library catalog card searches, encyclopedia searches and YouTube. The last item was obviously a stupid idea so I focused my imagination on things like on-line phone listings. Some day you could look up a phone book on-line – that would be useful.
As I pondered the possibilities of Prodigy, I was a little overwhelmed by the whole idea of broad based information available on demand. What if this technology fell into the wrong hands, like Disney? The potential for exploitation and career abuse of our “tweenagers” would seem to be a likely evolution. While this exploitation might help fuel our economy in the healthcare segment through an increase in referrals for in-patient, juvenile drug dependency, it seemed to me that the boundaries of such power might get ahead of our ability to control it.
At some point in my graduate education, I was introduced to the lifecycle for technology adoption. Lifecycles exist for almost every product or service. Restaurants (another area in my professional background) are as notorious as fashion movements for having steep curves and violent retreats in their adoption by prospective users/customers. At the time of my post-graduate studies, the lifecycle for technology was rather new but was believed to contain the same basic categories as other lifecycle models. The categories are:
The Innovators are basically the ones who get hosed repeatedly. They usually have a ton of money though and are historically addicted to risk. They accept technology before it had been ironed out. These are the Betamax video crowd who actually understood why it was a better video format than VHS but couldn’t wait long enough for the market to determine if the technology was going to be around. You may have a video disk player in your attic and all the shame that goes with it, but you were probably right to embrace it, technologically speaking.
The next level of risk takers are the Early Adopters. These folks are typically the ones who did some level of research and may actually be in the business or have careers that lend themselves to having more information on the technology itself. These are probably the folks who jump on-board after the second release of some type of technology, which often includes the inclusion of patches and debugging that fixes the initial complaints by the Innovators.
I won’t beat you down with descriptions for the remaining categories because you are all wise people whom I hope to marry someday and don’t want to run you off.
Now that we’ve established some structure for the ways in which technology is embraced, which category do you find yourself falling into with respect to our topic, social media? I’m pretty sure that I am a Laggard, primarily because I have not established a profile on Facebook yet and it has been around since around 2002. To be honest, I think MySpace will rebound with a vengeance much the same way Betamax did. Maybe that’s why I am refraining from getting into the game. Currently, Facebook only has approximately 500 million users, hardly a number large enough to declare it a technological success.
The social media movement has established itself in the mainstream pop culture to the extent that movies about the creator of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, are being made and nominated for Oscars. The movie, which I have not yet seen, depicts Zuckerberg, a Harvard drop out, in a less than glorifying light. I’ll probably see the movie when it cycles through the $1 theatre circuit, just in case it’s not any good. Zuckerberg’s meteoric rise to financial success is quite frightening. His net worth is estimated to be somewhere around $6.9 billion and allegedly greater than that of Apple Founder, Steve Jobs.
My wife is a Facebooker and probably logs in several times a week. I have pretended to work on projects in her vicinity as she’s Facebooking so I can stalk her moves and track her interests. She rarely notices me doing this since she seems enthralled with what she’s reading. I occasionally ask her what she’s reading and she typically remarks “oh this guy I used to go to school with is commenting about this one thing.” My interest couldn’t be higher.
Just between you and me – I have actually stepped inside the octagon known as Social Media. I have secretly pretended to be my wife. You may have noticed this when reading some of her comments which seemed to contain violent twists of sarcasm. What have I found? Basically, I wasn’t very impressed. I say this with a certain level of reluctance as I know several friends who are heavy users and whom I hope will leave kind comments on this blog. The comments in Facebook are often innocuous but may lack a level of relevance. I think where my difficulty in adopting the Facebook hobby is with the resulting confluence from lumping every single personal contact into the same dialogue. Add to this potential awkwardness the fact that all your friends are doing the same thing and you have second and third level semi-acquaintances commenting on each other’s comments. Here’s a real world analogy – the Christmas party you host at your home every year. Let’s say that this year instead of strategically selecting and inviting your guests, you had unlimited resources and space. You would be able to invite every single friend from around the globe and from every corner of your life. The uncomfortable silence from those invitees who weren’t privy to the inside jokes and stories being told by other folks I share my life with would make me want to run out of the house and into the cover of darkness.
At the risk of sounding like I’m living a life of multiple personalities, I live a life of multiple personalities. By my very nature, I am a private person, with the exception of my newly found hobby of blogging. Blogging violates my preference for a private life but has also opened a door for my writing. I initially sent my Blog link to certain friends and family who might “get” the style of the way I write. The forwarding of my Blog link beyond this group might cause a Facebook type amalgamation of readers. This is where I begin to feel like a hypocrite. Essentially, my blogging is a form of sharing. Facebook is also a form of sharing. In some cases, Facebook sharing can be rather insignificant such as “Hey Everyone!!! I just breathed!!! Ooo!! There, I just did it again!! This is sooooooo cool!!” These comments should automatically be deleted from walls and the writer banished to Eek, Alaska. In other cases, I have seen where individuals request prayers for life situations and health issues. Who in their right mind doesn’t stop and pray for someone who reveals that they have been battling cancer for the past several months and have barely been able to eat let alone perform the most minor life skills? This type of sharing seems to be one of the most remarkable elements of Facebook.
The combination of every soul in our lives sharing our secrets and joys is how I imagine eternity will look. This eternal Christmas party will have unlimited resources, space and time to share laugh and commune. Many of us affix and maintain boundaries to keep the sharing of secrets to a minimum. Secrets oftentimes have scars associated with them. Many of us choose to hide our scars so the potential of having to share the story behind them is limited. After some considerable thought, I may be a “Laggard” because I have scars that I choose to cover up. Perhaps some of the folks that reveal trivial things about their lives on Facebook do so to feel connected, as opposed to feeling disconnected. For many, I think that the allure of Facebook is the ability to reconnect with others from the past. I must confess I find this element attractive. For those of you who are aware of my ability to retain stupid details from my childhood that all others had long since forgotten, you understand my point. In a nutshell, I appreciate a “community” and Facebook resembles that concept in many ways, albeit in a very mosaic format. The retreat from community is something our modern culture has mastered to perfection. The re-creation of community is something that Facebook seems to do rather well and in an amazingly short period of time.
While I am reluctant to plunge into the Facebook frenzy, I do appreciate the upside and the potential for souls to be touched and for lives to be reached. As irrelevant as some of the content may be, I guess I am an optimist in the power of others to reach out, support and nourish those who may find themselves in a dark place. Maybe people someday will earn “Facebook Bucks” for every positive comment they post to lift up the lives of others or encourage friends to follow their dreams or to serve those who need assistance. In the meantime, maybe we should all pretend that this “Facebook Bucks” form of reward already exists and we can begin immediately to lift up those who need lifting and affirming those who need affirming. After all, aren’t we already supposed to be doing that to earn jewels for our crowns?
God likes this!
In my early 20’s I hid from the world long enough to earn a Master’s Degree in Marketing because I thought it was interesting and a great bargain at only $13,000 (especially in today’s market). While I was learning clever new ways to trick the world into believing that things you had for sale added value to your life, I was introduced to the Internet, or at least to Prodigy. This happened one night during my Marketing Strategy class. Prodigy at the time was awesome!! You could download a static weather map IN COLOR in less than 10 minutes!! News articles took slightly less time so that was even more convenient. I was hooked on the idea and my diabolical mind began to consider other unimaginable uses like library catalog card searches, encyclopedia searches and YouTube. The last item was obviously a stupid idea so I focused my imagination on things like on-line phone listings. Some day you could look up a phone book on-line – that would be useful.
As I pondered the possibilities of Prodigy, I was a little overwhelmed by the whole idea of broad based information available on demand. What if this technology fell into the wrong hands, like Disney? The potential for exploitation and career abuse of our “tweenagers” would seem to be a likely evolution. While this exploitation might help fuel our economy in the healthcare segment through an increase in referrals for in-patient, juvenile drug dependency, it seemed to me that the boundaries of such power might get ahead of our ability to control it.
At some point in my graduate education, I was introduced to the lifecycle for technology adoption. Lifecycles exist for almost every product or service. Restaurants (another area in my professional background) are as notorious as fashion movements for having steep curves and violent retreats in their adoption by prospective users/customers. At the time of my post-graduate studies, the lifecycle for technology was rather new but was believed to contain the same basic categories as other lifecycle models. The categories are:
· Innovators – 2.5% of potential market
· Early adopters – 13.5%
· Early majority – 34%
· Late majority – 34%
· Laggards – 16%
The Innovators are basically the ones who get hosed repeatedly. They usually have a ton of money though and are historically addicted to risk. They accept technology before it had been ironed out. These are the Betamax video crowd who actually understood why it was a better video format than VHS but couldn’t wait long enough for the market to determine if the technology was going to be around. You may have a video disk player in your attic and all the shame that goes with it, but you were probably right to embrace it, technologically speaking.
The next level of risk takers are the Early Adopters. These folks are typically the ones who did some level of research and may actually be in the business or have careers that lend themselves to having more information on the technology itself. These are probably the folks who jump on-board after the second release of some type of technology, which often includes the inclusion of patches and debugging that fixes the initial complaints by the Innovators.
I won’t beat you down with descriptions for the remaining categories because you are all wise people whom I hope to marry someday and don’t want to run you off.
Now that we’ve established some structure for the ways in which technology is embraced, which category do you find yourself falling into with respect to our topic, social media? I’m pretty sure that I am a Laggard, primarily because I have not established a profile on Facebook yet and it has been around since around 2002. To be honest, I think MySpace will rebound with a vengeance much the same way Betamax did. Maybe that’s why I am refraining from getting into the game. Currently, Facebook only has approximately 500 million users, hardly a number large enough to declare it a technological success.
The social media movement has established itself in the mainstream pop culture to the extent that movies about the creator of Facebook, Mark Zuckerberg, are being made and nominated for Oscars. The movie, which I have not yet seen, depicts Zuckerberg, a Harvard drop out, in a less than glorifying light. I’ll probably see the movie when it cycles through the $1 theatre circuit, just in case it’s not any good. Zuckerberg’s meteoric rise to financial success is quite frightening. His net worth is estimated to be somewhere around $6.9 billion and allegedly greater than that of Apple Founder, Steve Jobs.
My wife is a Facebooker and probably logs in several times a week. I have pretended to work on projects in her vicinity as she’s Facebooking so I can stalk her moves and track her interests. She rarely notices me doing this since she seems enthralled with what she’s reading. I occasionally ask her what she’s reading and she typically remarks “oh this guy I used to go to school with is commenting about this one thing.” My interest couldn’t be higher.
Just between you and me – I have actually stepped inside the octagon known as Social Media. I have secretly pretended to be my wife. You may have noticed this when reading some of her comments which seemed to contain violent twists of sarcasm. What have I found? Basically, I wasn’t very impressed. I say this with a certain level of reluctance as I know several friends who are heavy users and whom I hope will leave kind comments on this blog. The comments in Facebook are often innocuous but may lack a level of relevance. I think where my difficulty in adopting the Facebook hobby is with the resulting confluence from lumping every single personal contact into the same dialogue. Add to this potential awkwardness the fact that all your friends are doing the same thing and you have second and third level semi-acquaintances commenting on each other’s comments. Here’s a real world analogy – the Christmas party you host at your home every year. Let’s say that this year instead of strategically selecting and inviting your guests, you had unlimited resources and space. You would be able to invite every single friend from around the globe and from every corner of your life. The uncomfortable silence from those invitees who weren’t privy to the inside jokes and stories being told by other folks I share my life with would make me want to run out of the house and into the cover of darkness.
At the risk of sounding like I’m living a life of multiple personalities, I live a life of multiple personalities. By my very nature, I am a private person, with the exception of my newly found hobby of blogging. Blogging violates my preference for a private life but has also opened a door for my writing. I initially sent my Blog link to certain friends and family who might “get” the style of the way I write. The forwarding of my Blog link beyond this group might cause a Facebook type amalgamation of readers. This is where I begin to feel like a hypocrite. Essentially, my blogging is a form of sharing. Facebook is also a form of sharing. In some cases, Facebook sharing can be rather insignificant such as “Hey Everyone!!! I just breathed!!! Ooo!! There, I just did it again!! This is sooooooo cool!!” These comments should automatically be deleted from walls and the writer banished to Eek, Alaska. In other cases, I have seen where individuals request prayers for life situations and health issues. Who in their right mind doesn’t stop and pray for someone who reveals that they have been battling cancer for the past several months and have barely been able to eat let alone perform the most minor life skills? This type of sharing seems to be one of the most remarkable elements of Facebook.
The combination of every soul in our lives sharing our secrets and joys is how I imagine eternity will look. This eternal Christmas party will have unlimited resources, space and time to share laugh and commune. Many of us affix and maintain boundaries to keep the sharing of secrets to a minimum. Secrets oftentimes have scars associated with them. Many of us choose to hide our scars so the potential of having to share the story behind them is limited. After some considerable thought, I may be a “Laggard” because I have scars that I choose to cover up. Perhaps some of the folks that reveal trivial things about their lives on Facebook do so to feel connected, as opposed to feeling disconnected. For many, I think that the allure of Facebook is the ability to reconnect with others from the past. I must confess I find this element attractive. For those of you who are aware of my ability to retain stupid details from my childhood that all others had long since forgotten, you understand my point. In a nutshell, I appreciate a “community” and Facebook resembles that concept in many ways, albeit in a very mosaic format. The retreat from community is something our modern culture has mastered to perfection. The re-creation of community is something that Facebook seems to do rather well and in an amazingly short period of time.
While I am reluctant to plunge into the Facebook frenzy, I do appreciate the upside and the potential for souls to be touched and for lives to be reached. As irrelevant as some of the content may be, I guess I am an optimist in the power of others to reach out, support and nourish those who may find themselves in a dark place. Maybe people someday will earn “Facebook Bucks” for every positive comment they post to lift up the lives of others or encourage friends to follow their dreams or to serve those who need assistance. In the meantime, maybe we should all pretend that this “Facebook Bucks” form of reward already exists and we can begin immediately to lift up those who need lifting and affirming those who need affirming. After all, aren’t we already supposed to be doing that to earn jewels for our crowns?
-- The Guy with the Distracted Mind
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