543 Magazine

Category: Family and Social

  • The Ghosts of Writing

    The Ghosts of Writing

    It was time to take Riley for his morning walk. I knew it and Riley knew it, which was why he was staring at me through the office doorway with those big dog eyes.

    “Okay,” I told him. “Let’s go.” And that’s when the text came in.

    “Be careful” was printed on the screen.

    I texted back, “I will.”

    I started to get up, heard a buzz, and read: “And be alert to your surroundings, and if anything happens, call me right away.”
    I texted the thumbs-up sign, stuck the phone in my pocket, and we headed out.

    Now, when a former crime boss tells you to be alert to your surroundings, you listen. After all, this particular crime boss has survived multiple assassination attempts and knows how to react and how to survive when someone means you harm. And today, yeah, someone meant me harm.

    Was Peter, the former crime boss, overreacting? Sure. I mean, I knew that Esekiel —not his real name, but the one I’ll use—wasn’t hiding in my neighborhood with a sniper rifle. No way. After all, Ezekiel lived several states away, and his threats were more . . . What? Personal? Vindictive? Vengeful? Chicken shit? Sure. But I did stay alert to my surroundings as Peter told me to. And so did Riley.

    It’s funny that in my business life—my sales funnel, working lunch, PO-gathering, proposal-delivering life—I’ve never, ever had a single issue where any specific person wanted to do me harm. Not one. Sure, I’ve had people upset with me; I’ve blown deals, burned bridges, all that normal stuff. Bad things happened and we moved on because that’s how most of the world works.

    But in my writing world, in my creative life, over 30 years, I have had 4 people who have wanted me . . . well, maybe not dead, but hurt. Wounded. Broken. Damaged. And these people went to extreme means to pursue that goal.

    That means that 4 times my average—yes, in my world, 0 x 4 = 4—from normal world to writing world, there have been issues where former clients wanted bad, sometimes very bad, things to happen to me.

    Ezekiel is the most recent. And the most bizarre.

    I met Ezekiel a year and a half ago. He was working for a wealthy businessman in a different country who had a book that was successful there. Ezekiel’s client wanted to bring this book to the United States, so Ezekiel was hired as the translator for a Zoom call between this gentleman and myself.

    The meeting went well, I agreed to help, and Ezekiel set up another call for a different project. That one looked promising as well, and so did the next one. Then Ezekiel told me about his own project. His book. I listened.

    “Since I bring you so much business,” he said, “you market my book for free, yes?”

    It was phrased as a question, but it really wasn’t.

    “I guess,” I said. “Sure. If all these other projects come in.”

    Some did. Some didn’t. And the few that did were smaller in fees than the client promised . And it was also at this time that I realized that Ezekiel was not only extremely high maintenance—he was calling, emailing, and texting multiple times a day—but there was also something . . . else. Ezekiel was—what’s the right word? Oh yeah. Nuts.

    Ezekiel is way, way out there. Besides the serious personality defects of being arrogant, hostile, manipulative, controlling, and rigid, Ezekiel is also never, ever wrong. Even though I could see there were times that he knew he was wrong, it was obvious even he knew he was, but he could never admit it. I’ve never seen anything like it. If he messed up and said that the sky was pink, from that point on, even after he realized the truth, the sky would be pink.

    I knew pretty quickly that I couldn’t work with Ezekiel on his project. No way. So, before it officially began, I reached out and nicely told him that my workload had increased and I couldn’t take him on. Then I offered to pay him a commission on the writing jobs that he recommended me for instead of taking on his job for free.

    This was the first snap.

    Ezekiel demanded—and that’s the perfect word here: demanded—that I take on his book project. I declined.

    Before I go any further, let me give an analogy here to prepare you for what’s coming next.

    Let’s say that I have a car I want to you to buy. And I really, really want you to buy this car, but you don’t want to. So I call you every day. I start following you to work to talk about the car. I’m at your favorite lunch place to ask if you want to buy the car. I’m outside your house. I text you continuously, asking you to buy the car.

    Sure, okay, I can do all of those things. It’s obnoxious, but not crazy.

    What I probably wouldn’t do—and what most other humans beings would probably never do—is contact your boss and tell them that you are untrustworthy because of this car transaction you backed out on, and that you should be fired. I most likely would not reach out to the principal of your kids’ school and tell them that you have some legal issues involving a car that they should know about. And I definitely wouldn’t meet with the pastor of your church talking about your car fraud, all the while telling you that this can all stop, all of this will go away, if you just—just—buy this car.

    No. I wouldn’t do that. Few people would. . . .

    Now let’s go back to Ezekiel a year and a half ago, when first I told him I couldn’t work with him. Ezekiel knew enough about me to launch a bizarre attack. He contacted my literary agent—a person he had no connection to or dealings with in any way—to complain about my ethics and to suggest that I be dropped as a client. He reached out to several of the parties involved in a big book announcement that had just been made, letting them know about my flawed character. He sent emails, made calls, and contacted anyone he could to bring pressure on me. All the while, he kept telling me that all of this would stop if I just worked on his book.

    Strangely, if there was one emotion that rose up for me during that time, it was shame. Isn’t that weird? You’d think it would be anger or fear, but nope. It was just truckloads of shame that were delivered, to mix with the piles of embarrassment and imposter syndrome that were already inside me. I felt terrible that these key people in my creative life were being made to suffer because of me. I was ashamed.

    But I had no time to wallow in this shame; I had to fix it. I reached out to get help from an incredible gentleman who does conflict resolution. He met with Ezekiel. He met with me. He prepared me for what I needed to do and we all got on a Zoom call together.

    It was done. I would walk away. Ezekiel would find someone else. The harassment would stop, and life would go back to normal.

    And it did.

    For one year.

    Until this Saturday.

    Now, knowing Ezekiel, something must have happened to him this past week that reminded him that I was still out there. Something brought back the realization that he was over there, and I was over here—me, the disobedient; me, the non-compliant. That realization must have created an itch.

    Because on Saturday, completely out of the blue, after I hadn’t heard from him in a year, Ezekiel resurfaced. He emailed me a multipage manifesto of his plans to contact the Writer’s Guild with a formal complaint about my moral conduct. He told me that I had two days to agree to work with him on his book or he would write and file a damaging report that would stop my career.

    Now, the one difference between this new Ezekiel battle and the first one was that Ezekiel can’t surprise me this time. I know his MO. I can’t stop him if he writes to the Writer’s Guild—an organization I have no connection to and that has no authority over me, by the way—but I knew what he was capable of outside of that. So I circled the wagons and got in front of the problem.

    I quickly contacted the list of people I thought he would reach out to: I started with my literary agent. Then I contacted Peter, the former crime boss, whose book is going to be pretty high-profile in a few months when it is released—something Ezekiel could easily see on Google. I sent a cease and desist to Ezekiel and told him that I had contacted my literary agent, I also contacted people I work with so they would let me know if he reached out to them. I informed him that I had done all this as a courtesy. The next step would be to pursue legal action.

    So, what’s the point of all of this? Well, I told you all of that to get to these three points:

    The first is that I Peter and I had become friends. He and I have been working on his book for over two years, and we’ve become incredibly close. But I was totally unprepared at how protective and angry he became when I told him about Ezekiel. Peter called and texted me multiple times a day, checking in, making sure I was all right. He was so upset that he wanted me to come stay at his house or for him to come and stay with me. I was incredibly touched by this.

    The second point is that my literary agent and I talked right after I told her about Ezekiel. “Look, kiddo,” she said. “I know who you are, and we know who you are, and no one is going to ever change that. We’ve all got this together.”

    Which brings me to the third and most important point.

    After writing for almost three decades, I’ve discovered that the joy, the pleasure, the impact that comes from writing doesn’t come just from the work, but from those connected to it. It’s born from the strength and love of the people who have joined you, because their success is now is tied to yours. They win if you win. They are your partners. They are your friends.

    And a hundred Ezekiel’s can never take that away.

  • The art of the picnic

    The art of the picnic

    Once spring hits and then all through summer, everywhere we go we see people having picnics.

    In movies.

    And on television.

    But in real life — not so much.

    Here, in the actual world, a true picnic sighting is pretty rare. In fact, it’s up there with finding a working payphone or a thriving drive in theatre. I mean, once in a while you will see one. But not all that often.

    Now, we see people eating outside, al fresco, all the time. The office worker driving to a park to eat their Burger King meal #4 on a picnic table with a paperback opened. Sure. And the road crew at a rest stop throwing back a few sandwiches and gallons of store bought ice tea. Yup. But these are what we call — not-picnics. They are just — eating outside. And they don’t count.

    Picnics have been around forever, but they didn’t have an actual word to describe them until the 17th-century. When the French word ‘piquenique’ was formed — which took the verb ‘piquer’, meaning to pick, along with a silly rhyming syllable, ‘nique’. So the alteration of the word followed the same rule and it became — pic-nic.

    Originally, the picnic was a large outside pot luck for the gentry, with each guest expected to bring a dish to share. These were elaborate, society events, which lead to those who were involved in them to be referred to as — the picnic-society.

    From there, the picnic took it’s true form.

    As travel became more common — first with the horse and carriage and later with car — the picnic became a large part of the trip. As you traveled, the need for food on the way would need to be planned in. A trip to visit uncle Earl’s in a neighboring town a few hours away, would require you would to prepare the food — the roads weren’t always paved with drive-through’s and bargain meal deals. So, the picnic became part of the excursion. A piece of the adventure. Halfway through the trip, you find a field or a pond, or a meadow, to spread your blanket out and bring out the basket. The kids would bring a ball, or maybe a kite, and the event, would now have another event in the middle of it. You would stretch your legs, relax and recharge before getting back in the car and continuing.

    And that’s what a picnic is. An event. Not just eating — because we do that all day long while we do something else. We eat while we drive. We eat while checking our phones. We eat while watching television. We eat and don’t even notice that we’re eating.

    So what makes a picnic, a picnic?

    Okay, that’s easy. A picnic has a few fundamental aspects of it.

    1. It has to be outside. An inside picnic is called — lunch. It doesn’t count. And a picnic should be in a unique outside area — a park, a lake, a field and even a picnic area at a rest stop counts.

    2. It is held on a blanket or a picnic table. Period. You can’t have a picnic on camp chairs while setting paper plates on your lap, while leaning against the car, inside a food court, or inside the car. This is called — eating. It’s not a picnic.

    3. It should not contain store-bought food. Picnic food can be extremely simple and easy to prepare, but it has to be yours. It has to have your fingerprint and design on it. The only exception to this rule, is if you bought a rotisserie chicken — not a fast food chicken — and then prepared sides for it. There is something about cold chicken on a picnic that just fits.

    4. It has to be cold food. Cooking a meal over charcoal is incredible, but that’s not a picnic. That’s a cookout. And if you are fussing with the fire and getting burgers to cook just right, then you are missing the very crucial element of the picnic. The people you are with and the area you are at.

    5. And it has to have some recreational aspect to it besides the meal. Picnics are not to be rushed, but to be enjoyed, even if that recreation is just sitting back after the meal and talking, playing cards or a board game, throwing a frisbee or playing a harmonica — which is why free community concerts are ideal places to hold picnics. Because the entertainment aspect is already provided.

    As far as picnic food, you can be as elaborate as you want, but the real aspect of it is to be simple. Simple food to be enjoyed leisurely. Boiled eggs, cheeses, peperoni, hard crusted bread, cold chicken, pickles, olives, pasta salads, grapes, all make amazing and simple picnic food.

    So plan a trip. And a plan a picnic smack dab in the middle of that trip. Make it a priority to skip the eleven-dollar hotdog at the water park and pull the kids over to the picnic area instead and open the basket.

    You heard me.

    Go have a picnic.

  • How to promote your event — the opposite way that everyone else is

    pole

    In the days before the internet — this is when the earth was still cooling and bread cost a nickel — telephone poles near intersections and on busy streets were often covered with rusting thumb tacks and the gummy residue of old tape. Why? Because this was where people passed by regularly, which meant that this was an ideal area to get information to those people.

    These poles became the holders of cheaply copied signs for garage bands, bake sales and fundraisers, along with the desperate pleas to find lost pets. Some poles held a poster or two, while the prime locations would be so covered with old staples and nails that the surfaces were now more metal than wood. These were the go-to spots for grassroots marketing; when you didn’t have a budget, when you just needed to get information out to a select group of people quickly without cost.

    Now there was no way to track how successful this method actually was — few people at the garage sale passed out how did you hear about us, surveys. But the poster-on-a-pole system was easy, it was free, and it was what everybody else was doing.

    Now occasionally you will see these telephone poles being used this way today, but they are somewhat rare — you’re more likely to see signs in the grassy parts near stoplights offering to get you out of debt quickly or to buy that old unwanted house, but that’s not the same. The garage band and the yard sale have now moved on to social media.

    Social media has become the telephone pole of the internet; a way to get the word out about your stand-up routine at an open mic night, or when the Little League is having a car wash. Why? Because it’s simple, it’s free, and it’s what everybody else is doing.

    Now, all of us eventually will need to do some kind of promotion — whether it’s to get the word out about the church’s Easter play, or to help increase membership in the dart league. At some time in our lives, we all need to promote — something. And it’s very easy to think, hey I am never going to do this again, I just want people to know that we are having a chicken barbecue for The Lions Club — so let me put in on Facebook and be done with it.

    Yup, you can do that. In fact most people do.

    But here is an example.

    Next time you are on Facebook, in the search bar type the words WRITERS GROUP. When you do, many Facebook groups will pop up — some from your area, your region, and others will be large country wide groups — some of these will be large groups of 50,000 members or more.

    Now if you go on one of these groups, this is what you’ll see. There will first be a description for the group that will say something like — this is the Tralfaz Writers Group. We are dedicated to the craft of writing and of supporting each other develop the skill of storytelling.

    Okay, great. Then scroll down and look at the posts. The first one you’ll find will be from a middle aged women showing her face and her book jacket. She will tell you that her book, Vampire School, is now on sale for only .99 on Amazon. The next post will be from a young man talking about his book Space Sylum, and that it’s free all this week with Amazon Prime. The one after that, will be from a college student stating that she is willing to give away a copy of Wispy Danger, to anyone that will give her an online review.

    And so on.

    And so on.

    And so on.

    There will be no discussion on prose, or of storytelling, or of crafting a character. In fact, there will be no discussion of writing at all; it will simply be one message over and over, from everyone there — buy my book, buy my book, buy my book. A message that quickly becomes white noise.

    But it actually goes beyond that because these people are trying to sell books — to people who are trying to sell books. That’s like going up to people at a bus stop and asking for a ride.

    So why do writers to this?

    That’s easy. Because it’s simple, it’s free, and it’s what everybody else is doing.

    It’s like the old joke where a man sees another man under a street light looking for his lost watch. “Where did you lose it?” the man asked.

    “Oh, I lost it way over in that alley. But the light is better here.”

    We tend to promote, the way that is easiest — even if the results will be affected.

    And when it comes to events, the irony of social media is that it’s great to get information out quickly, but it’s more difficult to track a call to action that involves attendance.

    You could have 400 people commit on your Facebook Poetry Reading Event, but that doesn’t mean that 400 will show up, because there is no connection. It’s not a commitment; they just clicked YES on a Facebook page.

    So what’s the answer?

     

       THE FOUR PROMOTION METHODS THAT WORK EVERY TIME

     

          1. Don’t publicize. Promote.

    There are very few things in life that will make you react — just because you know about them. We don’t hear about a new movie coming out and suddenly want to see it — oh, there’s a new movie? Let’s go. No, we need more information; what’s the movie about, who is in it, what type of film is it? The same is true about grassroots events. If there is a yard sale this Saturday, so what. There is a yard sale every Saturday. How big is the yard sale? How close it? How rare are the items? What does this yard sale have that the one closer to my house doesn’t?

    Now that’s a yard sale, what about hearing of events you have no connection to. What if there is an Opera coming to town? So what. I know nothing about Opera and have never been to one — and am probably a little intimidated by then — so hearing about an Opera would have no effect on me.

    However, if a friend had tickets and asked me to go along, I might. If there was a promotion for people who had never been to the Opera, to get a reduced ticket, maybe. If the Opera Company approached my employer and offered a special rate for us, I might go. If a radio station gave me tickets and then was going to interview me right after and ask what my first experience with Opera was like, yeah. Or if I knew more about the Opera itself, if by going I felt connected to something I wasn’t before, then yeah, I might go.

     

         2. Nose-to-nose.

    There was an old phrase in business back when I started thirty years ago. It said, a face to face meeting, is much better than a phone call. That same rule has changed. It’s now — a phone call, is much better than an email.

    We are getting further and further away from our customers. Which means that those marketers that do make a direct connection, have a clear advantage.

    An example here is, how many times have you seen kids outside of Walmart asking for money for their Little League team or their town basketball team? All the time. Those fundraisers have a low cost and bring in a lot of needed money for the group.

    But how many times have those kids or parents — asked you to come watch a game?

    Probably never. They most likely just thank you for your donation and move to capture the next person leaving. They have that great opportunity to market directly to you — to tell you about their organization and get you involved — and they pass it by.

    Even if they invite you and you never go — you are now connected to them, simply because you were asked.

     

          3. Create an event — to promote the event.

    As much as the word stunt can has a negative connotation to it, stand out events work — walk down Broadway in New York anytime and see how many actors in full costumes, hand you a flyer and ask you to come see them later in the show.

    At the Sundance Film Festival, there is a VIP and celebrity shuttling service that actually creates an event in the vehicle on the way to the film. These are sponsored by various companies, so on the way to the film, there will be truth or dare questions and winners are given Ray Ban sunglasses as prizes.

    Why does it work? People want to experience new things, they want to see something cool and tell people about it.

    Don’t believe me? Watch the Macy’s Parade this Thanksgiving. This event has taken this idea to the extreme, in fact the parade itself has become a very small portion of this event — the bulk is dedicated to the promotion of the latest Broadway shows, and singer’s new albums. It’s presented as if it’s all part of the parade, but in reality this is now one long infomercial.

    But one area that actually does a very good job with this concept, are County Fairs. If you go to a fair and go in the areas where nonprofit groups display, they will have interactive events, games, contests, all to tell you about what their organizations do but also getting you quickly involved in it.

    Having a community theatre event? Get the actors in full costume to the mall and hand out flyers. Having a penny social? Have an event to try and guess how many pennies in a jar. Having a bake sale? Create a free class where you make your favorite cookies in front of people and give them the secret recipe.

    The only limit is what you are willing to do.

     

          4. The side push

    Now if there is one method that works better than all the methods combined, it’s the side push.

    Here is a perfect example. My publisher recently sold the film rights to a novel I wrote to a film company that is packaging the book as a feature film. The novel is set in 1992 and the story is presented as if the events really happened; the book is only the journals that finally tell that story. In fact, Amazon called the book — the novel that you have to Google to see if it really happened.

    The film company wanted to capitalize on this and set out to have a small companion book written; documenting the events as if they were facts  — sort of the way that The Blair Witch Project promoted that film. They went out to get some bids from writers on getting a small companion book made that they could give out to potential investors, as well as used to market the film.

    So what happened?

    Book sales went up. Drastically.

    Why?

    Because all the writers that wanted to be a part of this project, went out and bought the book to familiarize themselves with it — they didn’t do it because they were told to, but for research. But once they did, they felt a connection to it because they wanted to be the writer chosen. Now their creative work — the companion book — was connected to the novel itself. There was a bond and they not only bought it and read it, they began promoting it — writing reviews and telling others.

    So how can you create this effect that happened by accident?

    Let’s say that your Garage Band is playing an event you’re trying to promote. Post that you need a new logo designed — don’t go to a logo company, post on social media and craigslist that you want to find a local artist that can capture the music in that perfect image, and that you want to have the logo in place for this specific event.

    Now promote your new logo search. Post on social media, ask people to give their opinion, give certain designers a plug and provide links to their work and ask for feedback.

    What will happen is, that there the artists will first research your music to get an idea of who you are — promotion — then they will go to work and their creative efforts are now tied to your creative work.

    Having a community theatre event? Post for a singer to perform at the intermission. Offer to promote that singer on the website and the playbill, and then do the same thing — promote the search.

    The key is to choose something slightly different than the event you are promoting. For the garage band, promoting for a singer may not work, because of the competition between musicians. But a graphic artist would want to help the band to help himself.

    So however you promote — your yard sale, your band, or your community car wash — do it differently then you have ever done it before. Different is remembered.

    And different works.

    Why?

    Because it’s smart, it’s low cost, and no one else is doing it.

  • The bomb shelter diet

    The bomb shelter diet

    bomb

    Klaus Fuchs was extremely smart.

    He was born in 1911, in Rüsselsheim, Germany, and from a very young age demonstrated a clear gift in mathematics and the sciences; breezing through his primary education and then being accepted into The University of Leipzig.

    Klaus studied mathematics and physics at the University, and this is where he first became involved in student politics; joining both the Social Democratic Party of Germany, as well as the Reichsbanner Schwarz-Rot-Gold, the Communist Party’s paramilitary arm.

    Now, while Klaus was still in school, on February, 27, 1933, a Berlin fire station received an alarm for the German Parliament. They quickly responded and found that the entire Chamber of Deputies was engulfed in flames — and because of the size of the fire as well as its political location, arson was suspected. So fireman fought the fire, while the police surrounded the complex to look for evidence.

    What they found, was Marinus van der Lubbe, a young Dutch Communist, inside one of the buildings. Lubbe was arrested and confessed to being involved in the arson. Soon three other men were arrested — Georgi Dimitrov, Blagoi Popov and Vasil Tanev — all Communist Party members and all confessed to the crime. They were tried and later executed.

    The event became known as, The Reichstag Fire, and here is where things really get interesting. Only a month before this, a man named Adolf Hitler had been sworn in as Chancellor of Germany. Hitler was outraged at this attack, and saw the fire as solid evidence that communists were plotting against the German government. Hitler urged President Paul von Hindenburg to pass an emergency decree that would suspend all civil liberties in order to counter this ruthless hostility. He did. And when this occurred — Nazi Germany was born. Almost overnight, the Nazi Party went from a political entity, to a dictatorship. With Adolf Hitler at the wheel.

    So the question is, did Hitler orchestrate The Reichstag Fire?

    Well historians have been trying to prove this for decades without much luck. It’s very possible that he did. And it’s also possible that he only took advantage of this opportunistic moment — to use fear as a vehicle to seize control of the government. But either way, Germany quickly become a Nazi controlled country, as well as one where being a card carrying Communist, could be extremely dangerous. So Klaus Fuchs went into hiding until he could get out of the country later that year.

    In September of 1933, Fuchs fled to England where he worked as a physics research assistant at the University of Bristol, and in 1937 he received his Ph.D. in physics. After this, he worked at the University of Edinburgh, where he earned a second Ph.D. in Science.

    Then World War II broke out.

    After spending some time in Canada, Fuchs returned to England where he began working on The Tube Alloys Project — England’s covert atomic bomb group. And this is where Fuchs began his career as a spy. He immediately began passing detailed information on the project, directly to The Soviet Union.

    In 1943 Fuchs went to New York City, to work on the Manhattan Project and then in  1944 to the Los Alamos Laboratory — where he developed the calculations relating to the first nuclear weapons as well as early models of the hydrogen bomb.

    Then came Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the end of the war. Klaus returned to the UK and worked at the Atomic Energy Research Establishment as the head of the Theoretical Physics Division.

    Five years later, on January 31, 1950, President Harry Truman announced his decision to develop The Superbomb. A hydrogen weapon that would be one hundred times more powerful than the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki — with Klaus Fuchs having a front row seat to the project. And on November 1, 1952, the United States successfully detonated Mike, the world’s first hydrogen bomb. This ten megaton thermonuclear device, was detonated the Pacific Marshall Islands — it vaporized the entire island and left a mile long crater behind.

    Fuchs’ luck ran out later that year.

    While passing some sensitive information to a Soviet contact, American intelligence followed and arrested him. He was questioned and confessed; which led to his trial and eventually lead to him being sentenced to fourteen years in prison. But the damage had already been done — the Soviet Union now knew everything we knew, about the hydrogen bomb.

    On November 22, 1955, the Soviet Union detonated its first hydrogen bomb; based on the same principle of radiation implosion as Mike —- with the same results.

    Which meant that both superpowers were now in possession of what had been called — the hell bomb.

    Two of the most powerful nations in the world, both had a weapon that could kill millions on both sides. And they didn’t like each other very much.

    The US announced that it would use massive retaliation to any Communist aggression, and for the first time in history, the world lived under the threat of thermonuclear war.

    Movies, films, books, television, newspapers — all echoed the fear of nuclear obliteration. And on October 6, 1961, President John F. Kennedy addresses the American people, and asked them to — build bomb shelters to protect themselves and their families against nuclear fallout.

    The President of the United States — one of the most powerful men in the world — asked his people to — dig a hole and get ready to hide in it.

    It wasn’t now a question of — if it would happen — it was now — when would it happen.

    Bomb shelters began to pop up everywhere. These ranged from a corner of the basement, built up with sandbags and food and water, to elaborate underground rooms with ventilation and water purification systems.

    Civil Defense agencies provided canned drinking water and water packaged in milk cartons, to citizens. Fallout drills were exercised in schools and public buildings. We were preparing.

    We had a plan and we knew where to hide and wait it out. And we had a stockpile of the basics — canned goods, dried goods, food stuffs, water. We just wanted to survive. That’s all. Nothing fancy. We just wanted to — live.

    And we waited.

    And we watched.

    And the bombs — never came.

    And that was good.

    And the bomb shelters remained unused. And then they became root sellers and playhouses and storage. And that was good too.

    But along with all that good —- came one bad thing —.

     

    WHAT IS A BOMB SHELTER?

     

    A bomb shelter is a safety net. It’s a place where the basics can be taken care of. It’s the fallback plan. The retreat point. It’s a ready area  where you and the people you care about, can go to get the basics taken care of and to be safe.

    Talk of bomb shelters today are rare, unless you are referring to the trend of Doomsday Prepping or simply Prepping.

    Prepping is similar to the movement of bomb shelters in the 1950’s and 1960’s, in that it is the preparing for a particular disaster to occur — a governmental collapse, massive chemical warfare, an electromagnetic pulse that will wipe out all electronics — but there are two main differences between preppers and those who built bomb shelters during the cold war.

    The first is, that modern prepping is more individualistic and less community based. You see evidence of this in that during the cold war, the list of items to include in your shelter contained many things, but weapons were never one of them. With modern preppers, weapons and ammunition are high on the list — in fact, many preppers have small arsenals set aside to protect their stockpiles.

    And the second difference is, that the modern day preppers are almost hoping that the disasters they are preparing for will occur. They are highly invested in them. So when the government does collapse, when modern currency no longer has value, when the world is left unprotected and vulnerable, then we will be on top of the food chain — simply because we will have the most food, water and guns.

    So bad things can’t happen?

    Oh absolutely they can — and probably will. But you are much more likely to lose your job, than you are of having your home attacked by a biological weapon.

    You are much more likely to be in a car accident, be hurt at work, or have a major health issue, than you are of experiencing a governmental collapse.

    And you are much more likely to go through a career downsizing or industrial shift where your current skill set is worth far less than it once was, than you are of experiencing a nuclear attack.

    But all of these things are life altering — a layoff is not as sexy as an asteroid, but it can still do some damage if you’re not ready for it.

    It was good that cold war didn’t escalate to something far worse. But the casualty of that time period is that sense of preparation didn’t migrate forward. That sense of simplicity, of basic need, didn’t trickle down through the decades.

     

    MISSIONARIES

     

    Many years ago, a missionary couple from Africa was traveling through my hometown and was going to speak at our church. While they were there, my parents had them stay with them and while giving them a quick tour of the area, my mother stopped at the small grocery store to pick a few things up. In one of the aisles, the man just stopped talking. He froze.

    “What —?” he asked, pointing at all the colored jars. “Is this?”

    My mother looked to where he was pointing and answered. “Jelly,” she said. “And jams.”

    He stood there. Unable to take his eyes off all the different flavors, styles and sizes of jellies and jams.

    “Why,” he asked. “Would anyone need — twelve flavors of jelly?”

    And he wasn’t mocking her, he wasn’t judging her. He was only asking a question — to something that he couldn’t understand.

    Why would something as luxurious as jelly, something as rare as jam —- not a necessity but a true delicacy — why would you care, what flavor it was?

    But we do. We do care what flavor it is. And we care how much if it we have. And we care what brand it is. And what it looks like and how we look holding it.

    In Africa — food is survival.

    In Europe — food is social.

    In the US, food — has become something so much more.

     

    FOOD IRONIES

     

    • 32% of all homeless people, are obese. (Boston Health Care Study, 2008).

     

    • In a 2012 study, 42% of the time that we eat, was done because we are — afraid of being hungry later

     

    • 27% of all the food we buy, we end up throwing away — 160 Billion pounds of food each year in the US alone. And still, 75% of us are overweight and 36% of us are obese.

     

    • The average American spends three hours a month, staring into a refrigerator; trying to determine if he is hungry or not. And during peak times, we average fifteen to twenty minutes wait time to get into a restaurant. Yet — ‘not having enough time’ is listed as the key issue for most Americans.

     

    • A dinner in France averages two hours, and a dinner in the US averages forty minutes. Yet the obesity level in the US is twice of that in France.

     

    • A 2011 University of Michigan study asked, how long could a person live without food? The most common belief was — 37 hours. (With water a person can live three weeks or more without food).

     

    • The cost of eating one (1) lunch out, is equivalent to the cost of six (6) packed lunches from home. Yet the most common reason listed for people that don’t bring lunch to work is, — I don’t want to look poor.

     

    • A Cliff energy bar has 280 calories. A Snickers candy bar has 215.

     

    • 23% of all high income homes, eat at a restaurant once a day. 78% of all low income homes eat at a restaurant once a day.

     

    • The average food markup at a restaurant is 300% — for a meal priced at twenty dollars or less. The average food markup for fast food is 400% — for a meal priced at six dollars or less.

     

    • We are seven times as likely to eat at a restaurant, then we are of inviting someone to our home for a meal, or to going to someone’s home for one.

     

     THE BOMB SHELTER DIET

    A bomb shelter is safety. It is a vessel that contains the basic needs — food, shelter, water, medical supplies.

    The food in a bomb shelter will have several things in common.

     

    • It will be able to be stored for a long time — rice, pasta, oats, dried beans, can all be stored for thirty years or more.

     

    • It will require no refrigeration.

     

    • It will be able to be cooked in a creative and unique way.

     

    • Each meal will cost pennies.

     

    • It will contain little chemicals and preservatives since it will contain the basic food groups.

     

    STEP ONE: The Bombs fall

     

    The alarms sound. The bombs are coming. This is it.

    When crisis occurs — when something bad happens — we react. We get the people we care about to safety and we get out of danger. At that point we are focused on survival and protection and we will allow nothing to get in our way.

    Think of a time when a crisis unexpectedly occurred to you — the sudden death of someone close to you, a fire, a car accident, a layoff; any catastrophe that happened s quickly and without warning. When this happens — in the heat of the battle — were you thinking about food?

    You could be starving only a minute before the truck veers into your lane — thinking you can barely wait until you get to the drive thru — and then wham. Six hours later you remember that you haven’t eaten.

    What happens when you realize that you haven’t eaten? You are suddenly hungry again. Starving.

    How many times do you see photos of people outside of their burning building with a cheeseburger in their hands? Or being treated by paramedics as they grab the last of their fries? Never. Because at that point, food is not important. At all.

     

    • Make a list of ten (10) things you are worried about, trying to get to, concerned with or trying to achieve. These can be work goals, financial worries, family situations, or aspirations. When you have this list, keep it close to you; on your phone, in your bag — so you can get to it quickly, review, edit and add to it.

     

    • When between meal hunger hits, take thirty minutes — this will seem like a lot at first, but it will fly by later — and work only on this list. Make phone calls, contact whoever you need to, create options, but for thirty minutes you are only focusing on these bombs; these goals, these little issues that could become large, or these large issues that you have been avoiding.

     

    • Don’t set a timer — because you want to keep this flexible — and allow your focus to shift to what is truly important. But don’t stop until you have done at least one thing, one action, towards everything on that list.

     

    •  A few things are going to happen here. First, you are forcing yourself to see what is important, as well as what isn’t — getting food quickly into your mouth. The second is that you are reducing your appetite — which gives you freedom, which takes away the anxiety, which diffuses the food bomb.

     

    Now this goes directly against what many nutrition experts recommend — suggesting five or more little meals a day as opposed to three larger ones. But we’re not focused on nutrition, we are looking at why we do things. And the majority of time we overeat, we do it out of reflex or boredom.

    Sure there is the Thanksgiving dinner that we push ourselves back from the table and vow to never, ever eat again. But more often there are the dozens of times we finish an entire bag of potato chips in the car and not only don’t remember eating it, but are still hungry.

    We have made food important in our lives. We have made it more important than our families, than our homes, than our careers and then our goals. We need to analyze things every now and then, so we can prioritize.

     

    STEP TWO: Protein pack

     

    In a bomb shelter you will see a lot of rice, grains and pasta. That’s true. These are inexpensive, easy to store and last forever. But you will also see plenty of dried beans,   canned tuna and Salmon — because you need the protein. The starches are largely there to stretch out the meal — to make it last and to fill you up.

    Sugars and starches are cheap — that’s why they are in everything. These are the foods that stimulate insulin, which sends the signal to store fat in the body. The more starches and sugars you take in, the more fat that gets produced. And when insulin levels goes down — when we take in less sugars and starches — then more fat gets burned than is stored.

    The irony here is, sugars and starches make you hungry and proteins make you full. So you can actually eat less protein and feel better.

    We have bought into the fact that we need to stretch meals — to add in the majority of pasta, rice or grains to make it last. We feel like we are spending too much money if at least half of the meal isn’t a starch.

    So reverse the trend. Instead of the majority of the meal being starches or rice, make the majority of them the beans, eggs, fish or chicken. Eat more protein than you eat anything else.

     

    STEP THREE: Bomb shelters are for many

     

    The majority of time that we eat — we eat alone. Even if we’re in a separate room in a house full of people, we are still eating alone. And eating should always be a communal event.

    Add to that that we eat less — when we eat with others. European meals last for hours, with the majority of this time is spent laughing, visiting, talking and having fun. The smallest part is actually the eating part.

    So don’t eat alone. And I mean — ever.

    That may seem crazy, but think about it.

    If food goes back to being a communal event, something we do with others, then a major shift occurs. Instead of saying — what do I want to eat? We begin saying — who do I want to eat with?

    And remember, a meal is simply food shared with others. It doesn’t have to be a five course meal on Waterford china, it can be a few tuna sandwiches on paper plates.

    Take two weeks and vow to eat every single meal with someone else — and this includes eating in front of a TV alone, in your car alone, or picking out of a refrigerator alone.

    If you can’t find someone to share a meal with — then don’t eat until you do.

     

    STEP FOUR: Stock the bomb shelter

     

    When the bombs of life do fall — health issues, layoffs, downsizing, family crisis — having a stockpile of basic foods takes a financial and time burden off of you. For less than a hundred dollars, you can have a several months’ supply of dry goods stored and ready.

    The basics would include:

    • Dried beans — lots and lots of them. These are extremely inexpensive, easy to make and loaded with protein.

     

    • Canned tuna

     

    • Canned salmon

     

    • Canned chicken

     

    • Pasta

     

    • Rice

     

    • Cornmeal

     

    • Flour

     

    • Canned vegetables

     

    • Canned fruit

     

    Stock these things and leave them. Use them when the end of the month rolls around and you’re creeping up on your budget, or when the bombs fall.

     

    AND REMEMBER …

     

    A bomb shelter is a plan. This plan can take any form; a room, a group of people or an idea. But it’s a plan to give you freedom and allow you to think while the basics are taken care of.

    Food is not our bomb shelter.

    Food is just one of the many things we put in it.

  • You Choose

    You Choose

    chose

    In Oneonta, New York, on the corner of Main and Church Street, there once sat a bar called Red’s Filling Station. Now this was a great place. The outside was covered in red painted stone. The inside had walls and ceilings filled with vintage gas pumps, motorcycles, and license plates — this was long before the TGI Friday style became so common. Red’s wasn’t named for the color but for the owner, a crotchety upstater who breezed in once a week to complain about the ice usage and sign our paychecks. It was the most loud, crazy, and popular watering hole in that part of the Catskills, and was where several of my friends and I worked as bartenders one summer.

    Now one night — this would have been somewhere in July or August of 1985 — my roommate Kurt and I realized that, well, not only was our rent due the next day, but collectively we were $84 short. So we came up with a plan — a quick and creative plan that had only one moving part. We would make all the money we needed that night in tips. And we would do this by simply telling the customers what we wanted them to tip us.

    The doors opened, our shift began, and soon the bar was two feet deep with summer college kids and townies, all clamoring to get drinks.

    I went first.

    “Okay, two beers,” I sat the drinks down on the bar in front of a guy in the Sammy Hagar t-shirt. “That’ll be a buck-fifty for the beer and a dollar tip. So two-fifty total.”

    And Sammy Hagar dropped the cash and made way for the next customer.

    “Okay,” Kurt yelled out. “Here ya go. Two vodka cranberries and a Molson. Four-fifty and with the tip that will be six bucks.”

    And it went on like this. For an hour. Until we had made the $84 we needed — then we went back to allowing the customers to decide what to tip us and the remainder of the night wasn’t as prosperous.

    What’s interesting is that no one, not one single person, questioned us. No one complained. And no one tipped less or more than we told them to.

    Now this is just a story told at barbecues and over lunches, but it’s important here because it frames the next story — the important one.

    Fast forward about fifteen years. I was now married, we had bought our first house, and we were raising our two small sons in a town called Vestal, NY. And for ten years I made a living in industrial computer electronics — which is a fancy way to say that I befriended corporate buyers and tried to talk them into buying more from me and less from my competition. And life was good.

    Then, as the electronics industry began to shift heavily offshore, the pinch was felt. And in May of 1999 I received my first of two career layoffs.

    I wasn’t really concerned about this layoff because I had received job offers from competitors fairly often, so I contacted them. But the shift was being felt by all, and these very contacts were scrambling for their own jobs.

    With the severance I received, along with unemployment, we could just take care of the essentials if we tightened our belts a bit. So we did. And I made the job hunt my full-time position, leaving early and coming home late.

    During this time one company made me an interesting proposal. They, like everyone, had a hiring freeze. But if I could work for commission only — covering my own hotel, gas, and expenses and receiving a commission on new business — I could start right away.

    It wasn’t ideal. Money would go out before it came back in and even if I sold something that first day, it would be months before a commission followed. But it kept me in front of customers, making new contacts, and in the industry, so I agreed.

    A few months went by and a little money was trickling in, but not much. Then, the Vice President of Sales was retiring and had hired his replacement. They were both flying into Rochester to introduce the new VP to one of our largest customers. My job was to make the three-hour drive to pick them up at the airport, go to the meeting, and then get them back to the airport. And I could tell by the coolness of the past week that our relationship would soon end.

    When the plane landed I was there to pick them up.

    “Well, we should probably start with the real reason you’re here and get that out of the way first,” I said, in a friendly tone.

    But they both laughed this off. I was wrong. They had no interest in making any changes like that, and in fact I was doing a great job. And the hour and a half drive from the airport to the meeting was light and friendly.

    We had our meeting. It went well, as did the working lunch after. Then we began the long drive back to the airport.

    When we had reached the halfway mark, with about forty minutes left to the airport, the mood changed. They started talking about how their expectations were higher than I was hitting. Was I really giving this my full attention? The new customers I had set up were not as many as they were hoping. They weren’t sure that this was working for them. So, they were canceling our agreement — which would have been fine, except they then started to get angry. The mood started to intensify and even become threatening.

    As the anger built up on their end, I felt myself move into defense mode — to listen and apologize, to brainstorm, to offer to work harder, to make sacrifices and…

    Then something clicked. In one of those brief moments of clarity, everything snapped into place and became absolutely clear.

    I then knew the difference between what I had to do and what I didn’t have to do. Everything stopped and I knew what my options were. And without anger, without emotion, I put my turn signal on and worked the car towards the far right lane.

    “What are you doing?” the VP snapped.

    “I’m going home,” I said. In a calm and almost sleepy tone. “So I’ll let you guys out here.”

    There was a moment of quiet, then a laugh. “Very funny,” he pointed down the road and then gave the new VP in the backseat one of those, don’t worry, I’ve got this under control, kind of looks.

    But I continued to move the car to the right and then to the side of the highway. Then I stopped.

    “Okay, okay,” the new VP joined in from the back. “I can understand you’re upset. So let’s talk about it. Let’s head back to the airport and sit down and…”

    “I’m not upset,” I put the car in park. “I’m not upset at all. This isn’t working for either of us. But I also don’t have to take you to the airport.”

    This idea confused them. What did I mean? Of course I had to take them to the airport. What kind of a lunatic was I? I did have to take them to the airport. Didn’t I see that?

    “You have to…”

    “No, I don’t,” and still there was not a single trace of anger in me. “I don’t have to and I don’t want to. So I’m not going to.”

    Several moments of frustrated silence followed before anyone spoke.

    “Well,” the current VP finally said, with a cocky smirk, “then we have an issue because we’re not getting out of the car.”

    “That’s fine,” I replied. “But I’m turning around at the U-turn spot right up there. And then I’m heading the three hours home, in the opposite direction. So if you want to get to the airport, this is the closest you’ll be.”

    More silence. More looks back and forth. Then I pressed the button that popped the trunk. They both sat there. Quietly. Then the old VP got out and the new one followed. I let them get their bags from the trunk and shut it. Then I pulled out, turned the car around, and headed home and I never saw or heard from either one of them again.

    Now, do I feel bad for leaving a 65-year-old man and an overweight VP on the side of Highway 90 in the middle of the summer?

    Nope. Not at all.

    They both had cell phones, granted back then they were the size of hoagie rolls and cost about three dollars a minute, but they could have called someone. And I have no pride in the act of leaving them, only in clearly seeing what my options were. The point was that I didn’t have to drive them to the airport, and I didn’t want to. So I didn’t. I made a choice instead of followed the momentum.

    And I also have no bitterness or anger towards them — I didn’t then and I don’t now. Because it’s not about anger. It’s about options.

    Because there is nothing in life, and I mean absolutely nothing, that we have to do.

    We don’t have to go to work. We don’t have to make our car payment. We don’t have to pay taxes and we don’t even have to get out of bed in the morning. We choose to do all those things.

    Now are there repercussions if we don’t do them? Yes. Of course there are. But there is a cause and effect in all things.

    There is nothing in life that we have to do. We choose to do it all. And yes we can make bad choices and we all do. Every day. But the challenge is to make sure they are our choices not just our reactions.

    Choose to do it, or choose not to. These are the only options. But never respond simply because the bartender tells you to, or the guy going to the airport needs a lift —it’s not your fault those two idiot bartenders didn’t budget for their rent and neither is it that the two business men didn’t want to spring for a rental car.

    You determine if you want to tip them or give them a ride.

    You decide. And then you choose.

  • Narcissus

    Narcissus

    boston

    For a few months, in 1985, Kirk and I were in Boston. Starving. Well, probably not medically starving, we did have the olives and slices of lemons we stole from the garnish tray whenever we could. Altogether, I’d say we ate every two or three days.

    When we first arrived in Beantown we were eating pretty regularly. This was partially due to the fact that YMCA on Huntington Avenue gave you a breakfast voucher to their cafeteria every day; one egg, any style, toast, and coffee. So every morning, with the $35 room that Kirk and I split, we ate. And it was a great beginning to the day. But you can only stay at the Y for two weeks so we had to move on. Later, when breakfast had to be removed from the budget, we would miss that voucher and would actually taunt each other with the chant — one egg —any style—toast and coffee.

    The shoeboxes of food my mom gave us at the Greyhound bus station in Oneonta, NY, oh man, they were long gone; the ham sandwiches on croissants, the plastic jugs of Kool-Aid, (frozen to keep them cold longer), the apples, the crackers, the pepperoni, the boiled eggs, the cottage cheese containers filled with macaroni salad. All gone.

    Now in Oneonta, yeah it was my idea to leave. I admit it. But it was Kirk’s idea to go to Boston.

    “I’m taking off,” I said as I looked out of his apartment window that looked down on Market Street. “Come with me.”

    “To Binghamton? Why?”

    “Because there’s nothing for me here and there’s nothing for you either.” I said. “C’mon, it’ll be a blast.”

    And I made it sound like the beginning of a film. As if we were two desperados. Two beaten men who would head out to make their fortunes and leave the place that had mocked them behind. Me? I was nursing a seriously broken heart and damaged ego and didn’t want to be around when school started back up again. And Kirk had flunked out last semester and couldn’t re-enroll until the spring semester anyway.

    “I’m taking a semester off. I’m leaving. So come with me.”

    “Maybe,” Kirk flipped the channels until he got to an episode of MASH. “But not to Binghamton. If we’re gonna go, let’s go.”

    And we toyed around with different locales. Chicago. Miami, we even thought of L.A. But once we landed on the idea of Boston, Kirk was sure that this was the place for us.

    “Boston?” I asked.

    “Yup. That’s where we need to go.”

    So, Boston it was.

    We had taken the seven-hour bus ride from Oneonta to Boston a week before, to scope everything out — to see how difficult jobs and apartments were to find — and by mid-morning of that very first day, at our very first interview, we both walked out with two jobs in our pockets. And not just any jobs; for two college kids from the sticks, they were dream jobs.

    Kenmore Square is the intersection of Beacon Street and Commonwealth Avenue and was the heart of Boston nightlife. It was behind Fenway Park and Boston University and Narcissus was a huge nightclub where students from Harvard and B.U. came to spend all their money. And Kirk and I were hired to be two of their newest employees.

    The place was huge and actually held three clubs in one: Narcissus, Celebration, and Lipstick. But Narcissus was the gleaming, Studio 54 jewel of the crown.

    Since it happened so quickly, Kirk and I went to the club that night to see if the crowds really did bring pockets full of tips for their favorite bartenders, as we were promised. And they were.

    “Well, my friend,” Kirk clinked his beer glass to mine and screamed over the sound of a thousand college kids. “We are gonna to be rich.”

    We were ecstatic. And as soon as we got back to Oneonta we tossed everything into a few bags and jumped the next bus to Boston.

    Finding an apartment was the first challenge. With all the fees added up between first and last month’s rent and the security deposit, we would need to come up with $3,200. Which we didn’t have.

    We were earning a little bit of money, but the challenge was that there was a pecking order at Narcissus and we had not earned the plum bartending slots yet. Because we worked during the day, Juno scheduled us for a lot of corporate parties and band things where we worked the service bar and our tips came from the waitresses who were supposed to give us a percentage. Which they never did.

    And because there were so many bartenders at Narcissus, if we worked a night, Kirk and I would come home with $35 to $45 each — hardly the $100 a night we were hoping for. The good news was that the work was easy and the place was completely mobbed; we only had a few feet of bar space to cover.

    Unfortunately, what money we were earning was going straight into Terry’s hand. He waited behind the door where we lived, and would pop out like a sentry as soon as our feet hit the wooden landing.

    “Well?” Terry scratched his chest through his Talking Heads t-shirt and held out hand — like we had tried to sneak out of a window a thousand times before this. And without words we’d hand over the forty bucks — or however close we could get to it. If Kirk and I were both working that night, our combined tips would make it with a few bucks to spare. But if just one of us was on that night, we’d be short, unless we saved from a night when we did both work.

    Forty dollars would get rid of Terry until the next day, since that’s how much the room cost per night. Thirty-five dollars would lead to a tirade on how he wasn’t a bank and we were the most worthless rags he’d ever met.

    I don’t know if rags was a Terry phrase or a Boston one, but he was the only one that we ever heard use it and he did so  often.

    By October we knew we had lost a lot of weight — each time we got dressed it seemed like we had shrunk a pant size — but when the junkies on Washington Street took interest in our new ultra-thin frames, probably thinking we might have a connection or a hit to share, we knew that food had to become a bigger priority.

    That’s why the envelope was such a big deal.

    The envelope — and I can still see it after all these years — Kirk had found on High Street. It was in the shape of a small paper rectangle and had Asian lettering on it and since we were pretty close to Chinatown, this made sense. Inside the envelope was a bright red foiled liner and a small card. The card had more lettering, stuff we couldn’t read, but inside of the card, pressed between the thick paper folds, were two crisp ten dollar bills.

    Kirk kept punching my shoulder. “We could of walked by it,” and he continued to punch me all the way to a Burger King, where we ordered two Whopper meals. We dove into the burgers and could only finish about half before our shrunken stomach’s gave in.

    “I know what’s for dinner,” Kirk smiled, as he wrapped his leftover sandwich back in the foil. And we sat there for a long time. Happy. Happy because not only did we have a meal, but we actually had the next one covered too.

    From the remaining money we bought crackers, peanut butter, and beef jerky — stuff we could easily hide from Terry, since food in the room was forbidden and he checked regularly.

    We had a certain routine, Kirk and I. Northeastern University had bought a huge apartment building near us and was converting it to dorms. We went exploring one day and found that the laundry room was never locked and within the room was an ironing board and iron. So every day that we had to work, we would stop there and iron our black pants and white shirt before getting on the train to Kenmore Square — we didn’t have an iron and had been yelled at a few times for coming in with wrinkled clothes.

    There was this very cute girl in the dorms with red hair that we would see every now and then. She never paid much attention to us but when Kirk went alone to iron his clothes, he would always come back telling me of how she stopped to talk to him and flirt. But then when we went back together, she ignored us again. Kirk was like that. The nights I didn’t work, he would come back with stories of how the owners would buy him shots and pretty bartenders would hit on him. And then when we worked together, we were invisible.

    That’s why the shooting probably didn’t happen. Looking back it doesn’t matter if it did, but it most likely was made up.

    It was the second week of November and I was off for the night but Kirk was working. He came home excited. He told about how there was a robbery and a guy shot one of the bartenders. Then the shooter came back behind the bar, robbed the cash register and then headed out — only to be shot by cops before he hit the street.

    The story probably didn’t happen. But I never had a chance to verify it. The shooting was my excuse. I was going back to New York.

    Kirk was sitting in the chair by the door as I threw my clothes into a bag. He looked at me with a mixture of fear and pain as I said goodbye. From Brookline, I walked to the bus station where I used my last $22 — my half of tomorrow’s rent — to get a ticket to Schenectady where a friend picked me up and took me the remaining two hours to my parents’ house.

    And I left Kirk there. Alone and broke in a city that didn’t want him.

    There are two kinds of bad decisions. There is the mistake. And there is the regret.

    A mistake is a miscalculation. An error. Bad data and bad calculations.

    But a regret is when a moral or ethical line has been crossed. When you have the chance to do the right thing and you don’t. And most regrets come from the wrong answer to one simple question. Do I stick, or do I run?

    A life filled with mistakes is not a bad life at all. It’s one of excitement and energy and fire. But one with regrets will weigh you down because regrets don’t have shelf lives and their backup batteries never run dry.

    I never saw Kirk again. I have no idea what happened to him, since I transferred to Cortland the next semester. I do know that he didn’t have any family — his mom had died when he was young and his father a few years after he graduated High School.

    So here is the question. How hard would it have been to get us both to my parents’ house? To get us both someplace safe until we figured out the next step? How difficult would it have been to have thought of my friend even a fraction of the amount that I thought of myself?

    Probably not very. It most likely would have taken the same energy it took to leave him behind.

    The irony that Narcissus is the Greek god of self-love, isn’t wasted here. And neither is the fact that I have very few good memories of Boston — most likely because it represents the ugly parts of myself that I want to forget. But I would like to think if this happened today, thirty years later, that the man I am now would react differently and show just a little bit of loyalty and grace.

    I’d like to think so. But I’ll never know.

    Because that’s why they call them regrets.

    http://www.thecrimson.com/article/1993/7/6/narcissus-fuit-or-the-death-of/

  • REVIEW: Vacation Spot. Cambridge, Maryland

    REVIEW: Vacation Spot. Cambridge, Maryland

    crab

    My wife and I have never really been vacation people. Not really. I mean, we’ve taken a few vacations over the years. Well — one. We’ve taken one real vacation in twenty-three years. That’s one. We did that, airplane ride, baggage check, reservations through a travel agency, kind of trips when we went to Key West for a week. One time.

    And then when the kids came, we started talking road trips — too many to count actually. We went to museums, water parks, zoos, carnivals, cabins, cities, to visit family, beaches, battlefields. In fact, if it’s within eight or ten hours of us, we’ve been there. And we drove.

    So although we may not be vacation people. We are definitely road trip people. Which I think is just as good.

    And now that the kids are older, Debbie and I try to get away a few times a year, just the two of us. Someplace close — just a quick trip for a few days. And this past weekend — our anniversary — we went to Cambridge, Maryland.

    Now Cambridge, Maryland, is this quaint little, brick paved street, kind of town that sits between the mighty Choptank River — which is the greatest name for a river, ever — and the Chesapeake Bay. It has restaurants, shops, fishing, music, dinner cruises, golf and just about everything you would ever want in the entire quaint little town package.

    But — and this is where it sounds like a bad movie trailer — there is something a little off about the place.

    If you go to Cambridge, the trip will start like this. You’ll drop your things in your room and head downtown — to go to one of the great restaurants, shops or museums that you’ve heard about. And when you get there —.

    You’ll walk into a place that calls itself a wine bar. And you’ll see three bottles of wine sitting towards the back someplace.

    Then you’ll walk through another door that raves about homemade lunches and the lady will have to go and see if they still have a menu.

    Then you’ll decide to try that gastro pub that has such good reviews and you’ll find a dozen college kids drinking around some brewery vats.

    Nothing is how it seems — or how it’s portrayed.

    Now we are all accustomed to businesses, products and shops that exaggerate on what they have to offer — even the old bait and-switch — but here, it seems like the entire town is in on the deal. Every place is smaller, dingier, or in many cases just completely different, then you expect it to be. And the vibe is very odd too.

    In Cambridge, you will see Porsches — and not just any Porsches, models you don’t even recognize — parked next to old Buicks that know people are living in. You’ll see well-dressed tourists and right behind them you’ll see a group of people that spend entirely too much time looking in your car. And there is this extremely strong Stepford Wives kind of feel to the place. As if as soon as you drive out of site, someone will give the signal and they’ll fold it all up and set up shop somewhere else — so when the authorities get there they’ll be harder to find.

    Now if you leave the small downtown area and go the big Hyatt resort a few miles away, everything is clean and pretty and homogenized. Manicured lawns, a luxury golf course and beautiful people — we saw former Eagles player Vince Papale in the hallway. There is nothing strange — or actually interesting — about the place because it’s like all overpriced resorts. Scrubbed of any genuine feel and made safe and clean.

    Now with that said, if you do ever make it to Cambridge, Maryland, one thing that is absolutely a must is to take an hour’s drive from there to a place called Elliot Island. This is a tiny little patch of land — there are only a few homes, a fire station and a church there — but to get to it you’ll need to pass  through hundreds of acres of protected wet lands, and that’s the best part. You will drive for twenty minutes without ever seeing another car — and what few you do see, will wave to you as you pass. We saw bald eagles and huge turtles that sunned themselves on logs and acres and acres of wide open land — which is pretty rare in that part of the world.

    And then, you cross over the tiny bridge to the island. And you see all the little houses that sit next to boats and crab pots. And the GPS shows that large blue area ahead of you that keeps crawling closer.

    Until you roll to a stop.

    At the end of the road.

  • Father’s Day

    Father’s Day

    Larry

    When Edwin De Morier accidentally knocked the oil lamp onto the barn floor — this would have been in France in March of 1918 — it took only seconds for the flames to race across the straw and up the dry wooden walls. Within minutes the barn was ablaze.

    But during the confusion of battle, the fire was all the British and Americans needed to triangulate and regroup — it also increased morale when the three German soldiers that were hiding in the barn loft jumped out and surrendered.

    So could you say that my grandfather was a World War I hero? Umm, sure. Sure you could. And since the war was over nine months later, it’s obvious that Edwin’s contributions were a large part of the victory. A very large part. But it’s more important to note that the barn fire led to Edwin’s one and only nickname: Eddie Elbows.

    When Eddie returned home, he went back to his little barber shop in Afton, New York. And after watching Louise Kramer walk past his front window to the hotel she worked at each day, his newfound battlefield bravery allowed him to approach her and say hello — after 17 failed attempts. A courtship eventually followed and a year later Eddie and Louise were married. They moved into the three rooms above the barber shop.

    On February 15th, 1923, Edwin and Louise De Morier gave birth to their first child. A boy named Lawrence, but who would always be known as Larry. My father. Three years later their second child, Lyle, was born.

    Life in Afton was happy and carefree with the exception of Eddie’s emphysema, which began to become more and more chronic — leading the shop to be closed more than it was open. And when his clientele began to frequent more reliable barbers, the rare times when he could work Eddie was seeing less and less business. The family income was dwindling.

    In 1936, Larry came home with two announcements for his parents. The first was that he had quit school and the second was that he was now an employee of the D&H Railroad. And although Eddie Elbows and Louise weren’t happy about this, the family’s options were slim. So when he was sixteen years old — the same age that my youngest son is now — my father became the sole breadwinner for his parents, his 13-year-old brother, and himself. He’d be working alongside men, repairing rail, laying ties, and loading freight.

    When World War II broke out, Larry De Morier was one of the first in the area to receive his draft notice. He reported for duty, went through the physical, and after failing the eye exam miserably, the doctor asked, “Where are you glasses?”

    “Glasses? I don’t have any glasses.”

    “Well go get glasses ya idiot. Yer blind as a bat.”

    Larry was told to see an eye doctor for glasses and wait to be called back for active duty.

    The call never came.

    I often wonder how my father’s life, and ours, would have been different if he went to war. Would he have come back? Or when he did, would he have been more cautious? Would the events that happened to him later have not occurred or would his training have prepared him to defend himself?

    This major turning point, this single event, that changed my father’s life, occurred in July of 1955. Larry had walked his mother to the stands of the Afton Fair where a dog show was being held. He told his mother he would pick her up in an hour when the show was over and he left to explore the fairgrounds.

    If Larry had stayed with the crowd, if he had not walked in the alley behind the booths but down the midway or around by the animal displays, his life may not have drastically changed.

    But he didn’t. He walked in the dark alleyway between the games and the concessions. And seeing him take this path — and believing that the young man in a jacket and tie was much more prosperous then he really was — two unknown men followed my father down the fairground alley. They surprised him and beat him with a rock, crushing his skull and leaving him unconscious.

    They took everything of value that Larry De Morier had, which was four dollars and a tie clip. And when he recovered, they left him with violent seizures that he would experience for the rest of his life.

    Now, although the 1950s and 1960s are often remembered through fond nostalgic eyes, there are certain areas that are not as enlightened as you may think. Epilepsy was one of them. This was largely due to the common belief that the disease was a side effect of years of heavy drinking. My father, whose first and only drink was a glass of champagne at his brother’s wedding, was aware of this belief. He also experienced the first-hand fear on the faces of those who looked down to him when coming out of a seizure (on the rare occasions when he felt one coming on and couldn’t slip away quietly).

    His obsession for the next forty years would be to hide his epilepsy. He had worked on the assembly line at Borden Chemical for almost twenty years when he took the janitor position there, so he could easily slip away to the janitor’s closet when he felt a seizure coming on. And he even hid it from my mother; they had been married two months before she saw the first seizure.

    My father turned down promotions and he declined other job offers because the risk of exposing his illness was too high.

    On November 25, 1964, a month before my second birthday, Eddie Elbows died. My father would stop by his mother’s house every day after that to check on her, never missing a single one for the next three years until she died.

    Growing up, I didn’t see any of this. I just saw a man that I was embarrassed by. A man who couldn’t throw a ball or shoot a basket, because he was driving railroad spikes at the age when you learned these things. A man who was getting drastically older than the other fathers around him because the medical treatment for epilepsy in those days was a harsh cocktail of side effects (which didn’t stop the seizures from coming; they only made you so stoned that you really didn’t care).

    In April of 1976, Larry De Morier’s thirty-year run of luck ran out. Feeling a seizure come on, he was not able to get his janitor’s closet in time and it was witnessed by coworkers. He was forced into disability.

    The two areas of pride for a man of that era was his ability to work and his ability to drive. Larry lost both of them on the same day.

    The seizures my father would experience always came in threes; if he had one, within a few hours two more would follow.

    As a teenager I would latch onto these times when I knew my father was extra short-tempered. I would purposely say or do something to set off the delicate balance of chemicals in his head and he would become angry with me. I enjoyed these times because it was safe — my father was a gentle man and was incapable of harming anyone — and even though we would be nose to nose yelling at each other, he could never touch me. I knew this. We would yell. We would hurl threats at each other. We would say horrible things. But he never touched me.

    The next day, the seizures would occur and the day after that, my father — now with the chemicals in his head stable — would be humiliated by the things he said to me. Ashamed. He would try to apologize.

    Larry De Morier was a sensitive man, but like many men of those days he was unable to express himself. Fathers didn’t tell sons they loved them back then; that was for hippies and weirdos. My father would try to joke with me, try to get me talking, try to tell me how sorry he was and I — the insecure and cruel kid that I was — never let him. Not one time.

    On November 17, 1990, Larry De Morier died. He had six dollars in his wallet — two more than he had on that day in 1955.

    Throughout my life I was embarrassed by my father, who didn’t own a pair of blue jeans or sneakers and whose favorite color was polyester. I was embarrassed by how fast he was aging, that he knew nothing of sports or the outdoors. I was embarrassed because he rode an old bicycle instead of driving a car and I feared those times during school plays when the crowd would suddenly start mumbling and moving and I knew that out there in the dark area below the stage, my dad was having a seizure and people were trying to help him to his feet.

    Who was I to be embarrassed by such a man? Who was I to look down on anyone who took such good care of all those around him, no matter what? A man who never complained. A man who never called “foul.” A janitor who kept us fed and safe — whose Bible was dog-eared with use, who never had a regret, and who was grateful for everything he had.

    In the 24 years since my father died I’ve forgiven myself for the way I treated him. I’ve also realized how truly lucky I was.

    Larry De Morier was a much better father than I was a son. He was a gentle, loving, unselfish man. And my goal is to be half as protective and giving a father as he was to me.

    So happy Father’s Day, pop.

    I now get it.

     

  • The lost art of eye contact

    The lost art of eye contact

    eye

    My son’s best friend practically grew up at our house. He eats here a few times a week. He sleeps over once or twice a month. When we go on trips we usually take him with us and when his parents are looking for him, the first place they check is our family room — where he and my son Nick will be laughing through some interactive battle that requires headsets and game controllers.

    Then one day — for about a week — he just stopped showing up.

    Nick was still in the family room — talking to unseen people in the world of X-Box Live — but no one else was there.

    When my wife asked where Austin was, Nick gave us a confused look, then answered. Home. And it was then that we understood what happened.

    Austin had been saving his money and just got his own X-Box. So, now Nick and his friend were spending the same amount of time together — talking on headsets and playing the same interactive games, blowing up the same creatures that exploded party favors out of their heads when killed, only now, his friend was plugged in at his house and Nick was plugged in here.

    And the frightening aspect of this was — they were both fine with that.

    The key was to be together in the world of Minecraft. They didn’t need to physically be in the same room, just as long as they were both in the game at the same time.

    Now, Austin s sixteen and has a girlfriend. She lives in Canada. He lives in Delaware. They e-mail, text and talk during the week. They get each other Christmas presents and birthday presents and have been dating now for over a year. However, they have never met. They discovered each other through — well, I’m not sure what internet introduction — and for the last year they both consider themselves in a serious relationship.

    Now the fact that they have never met is not a concern. And when I ask how can you be dating someone you have never physically seen, he smiles and give me that patient, wow, you are so old, look.

    The point of all of this is, you and I live in an extremely unique point in technological history. For the first time we can discuss, fight, negotiate, schedule, console, beg, mend and comfort, without actually needing the person we are communicating with to be anywhere near us.

    On any given day, we text, phone, e-mail, Facebook, Bluetooth, chat, play interactive games and Tweet more then we directly interface, face-to-face, with other people.

    The process is, we interact with a device — a cell phone, a keyboard, an I-pod, a game controller, a Bluetooth headset — and then wait for the person we are corresponding with — someone we cannot see — to interact with their device and reply back. The gadgets we are using are near us. The people we are transmitting to are removed.

    [amazon asin=B00IZ95BSE&template=iframe image][amazon asin=B00GOLGWVK&template=iframe image][amazon asin=B004DNVP40&template=iframe image][amazon asin=B0014E26L2&template=iframe image]

    Now, before you roll your eyes and think that this is a rant against technology, it’s not. It’s simply demonstrating two things. The first is that we are now becoming extremely comfortable in communicating without human contact. Through a device. And secondly, that given the choice many of us will often choose to communicate in this fashion.

    Now, my son’s best friend is a smart and good looking kid — tall, blonde, on the school swimming team — and is content with a girlfriend a thousand miles away that he can date through a keyboard or a cell phone, rather than one that he has actually met.

    Here is another example.

    You are in a restaurant and see a group of people sitting at a table together — and this is not necessarily always a younger group, I’ve seen people of all ages do this — and at least one of these people are speaking into a cell phone to someone that is not at the table. And we’re not talking about a quick five or ten second conversation, where there is crucial information that needs to be passed on. I’ve seen — and heard — thirty minute casual cell phone conversations between people, during dinner, while these same people are sitting and eating at a table with different people.

    Which means that these individuals had a choice. They could talk directly to those sitting in front of them, face-to-face, or they could use a device to communicate with someone removed.

    You see this on a massive scale at any airport in the country. Here you will see thousands of people all plugged into cell phone conversations, completely oblivious to the other people that are inches away from them, who are also plugged into other conversations.

    So maybe they’re busy? Maybe these are busy business people closing crucial and important deals.

    Maybe.

    But it’s not hard to listen to samplings of most of these calls — many people on cell phones don’t realize that sound travels — and they are in the large part mundane and simply chatty. Actually, most of the times these calls simply seem to be a way to kill time.

    And even though the content of the calls are usually non-critical, the need to stay connected to another individual is extremely great. The first time I was in a busy airport men’s room and saw a man continue his cell phone conversation as he stepped into a bathroom stall — or better yet, take the call while he was already in there — I was amazed. Now it’s so common that I don’t even notice.

    And a month ago, at the gym, there was a man who had stepped into the shower and hung his shorts — with his cell phone in the pocket — on the hook outside the shower curtain. His phone rang and he reached his wet hand out to get his phone — and took the call while in the shower.  

    So, what’s the point of all of this?

    It’s simply this. We are so accustomed to — and the need is so great to—  communicate with people without seeing them that we no longer see them.  

    The ancillary people — the toll both operator, the cashier, the waitress — simply become white noise. A disjointed voice — and we are now very accustomed to talking to disjointed voices. We say hello, we say thank you and we leave and we rarely — and I mean rarely — make eye contact.

    Up until recently if you entered a crowded room of strangers, that room, those strangers, became your world. Until you left that room, those people are now connected to you simply because you are sharing the same space, the same situation and the same time.

    No more.

    Now we can be in the same room but be texting someone else, making a phone call or sending an e-mail from our phone. We are no longer in the same room as the person a few feet from us because we are now connected to someplace else and therefore disconnected from the people next to us. The physical space we occupy is no longer important.

    I think this is one of the main reasons that we no longer talk to the people  sitting next to us on airplanes. We used to. We would introduce ourselves, give a brief bio and then chat for the next few hours. Now we avoid saying anything to the person sitting next to us and in fact try to avoid having anyone sit next to us at all. We linger to the end of the boarding line so we can get inside the plane after everyone and see if there are unsold seats where we can spread out and sit alone.

    So wait, all of this has to do with eye contact?

    Yes.

    Because for men, eye contact is a tricky area anyway and now — due to the change in technological culture — it is becoming even more complex. As men, we use eye contact to seduce as well as to intimidate. We use it to calm and to  ignite. The wrong look at the wrong time can lead to battle. The right look at the right time can lead to love.

    For men, eye contact is a tool. A weapon. And instead of learning to use that weapon properly we are allowing it to get dull and acquire rust.

    Those people around us every day — the waitress, the store greeter, the bank teller — are people. They are not screen savers or extras in a film. We are missing something by not connecting to them — even for a second — by making eye contact. And they are missing something by not taking that second to connect to us.

  • How to Play the Harmonica

    How to Play the Harmonica

    miller

    The harmonica — also known as the mouth organ or the blues harp — is a great little instrument. In fact, the harmonica is the great equalizer of all musical instruments because you don’t need to read music to play one — you don’t even need to have any true musical ability. It doesn’t take years of dedication to master the harmonica — actually, you can bang out a few tunes in just twenty minutes or so and unlike the hundreds or thousand of dollars that many musical instruments cost, you can get a decent harmonica for about twenty bucks. And a harmonica does not take up a great deal of space —  I often carry mine in my shirt pocket.

    Also, the harmonica has the distinction of being the only musical instrument that I know of that you can play one handed while driving — I am not confirming or denying that I have ever done this, I’m just saying it can be done.

    And in the category of harmonica-trivia, though I have no proof, it is very possible that a harmonica may have saved my life.

    [amazon asin=B000Q87DAQ&template=iframe image][amazon asin=1908707283&template=iframe image][amazon asin=0793515599&template=iframe image][amazon asin=B000EELFTW&template=iframe image]

    It was about ten years or so — I had a twelve-state sales territory back then — and I was driving through the great state of Texas when I saw a man hitchhiking. Now hitchhikers were rare in my part of New York so I decided to stop and give this traveler a ride — help out a stranger kind of thing — as well as swap a few stories. As I pulled over and the man started running toward me, I realized that I might have made a mistake.

    The guy was real rough — tattoos everywhere— including every knuckle— and several piercings, which really didn’t concern me. But what did send up some warning signals was the panicked expression on his face. The fact that he kept looking nervously behind him and the way his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

    My instincts were screaming by the time he reached the car but before I could think of a safe way to bow out of this arrangement, the man stuck his head in the passenger window and looked at me. Then he looked at the cup holder where my harmonica sat. Then he looked back at me. Then back to the harmonica. Then a moment of silence passed before he spoke.

    “No thanks,” he said. And walked away.

    Just like that.

    A few minutes later I was back on the Texas Route 273.

    Now, I’ve always wondered what that hitchhiker thought when he saw my harmonica — maybe his instincts were screaming as loud about me as mine were — or maybe he had never dealt with the kind of sociopath that would travel with a harmonica in his cup holder. But from that day on I always keep a harmonica in the car and I am proud to say that I have never been murdered. Not even once.

    Coincidence?

    I don’t think so.

    HOW TO PLAY THE HARMONICA

    The harmonica is an instrument that creates different notes when you blow in than it does when you draw out. The key here is not to think of sucking and blowing, but just of breathing. Practice breathing in and out while playing the  harmonica — play a few chords out, then draw back and breathe in.

    Oh Susanna.

    For some reason, the song Oh Susanna, is the great beginner harmonica song. Practice breathing in and out on the harmonica while playing by ear, the song Oh Susanna — just practice on the chords; which is playing several notes at once. This will give you a larger margin of error.

    Single notes.

    Once you have the basics of Oh Susanna, on chords, focus on playing it on single notes. Single notes are played when you move your lips so air is only moving in and out of only one single path of the harmonica, rather than several. This is a little more difficult then playing chords, but it will start to give you muscle memory on where the individual notes are.

    And those are the bare bones on playing the harmonica. Pretty simple, huh? Because the harmonica is one of those rare instruments that can easily be self taught.

    Now, I found this great website that focuses on learning to play the harmonica and it was created by a man named Dave Gage — http://www.davegage.com/tips.html  . So I contacted Dave and he gave me permission to use it here.

    Dave does a great job of not only explaining the basics of playing the harmonica, but he covers purchasing a harmonica, what different types of harmonicas there are out there, and he has actual harmonica lessons. You can use the site to learn just the basics. Or you can treat it as a format for actual harmonica lessons and become quite accomplished quickly — Dave even has a paid section of his site for you gifted harmonica aficionados.

    So pick up a cheap harmonica today. Toss it in your pocket, your backpack, your tackle box or if you are in West Texas, place it in the cup holder of your car.

    You won’t regret it.

     

  • The midlife review

    The midlife review

    review

    It has been fifty years,

    Well, no — that’s not true.

    Once you carry the seven,

    It’s been fifty-two.

    And in fifty-two years,

    No vast rise, or succumb.

    Slower than many,

    But brighter than some.

    _____

    So now, halfway through,

    Time, the older man’s chore.

    To weigh and assess,

    All I need answer for.

    Not a trial, inquisition,

    Or a stern talking to.

    But a chance to appraise,

    It’s my midlife review.

    _____

    So I found a nice tie,

    A clean shirt and a coat.

    And I drove to the place,

    Spelled out there on the note.

    To a part of the city,

    Not been to before.

    I walked to the building,

    And right through the door.

    _____

    Once inside the office,

    I strode down the aisle.

    Where a man at a desk,

    Sat there reading my file.

    He stood and bowed, hi,

    Rolled to me, a chair.

    Walls the photos of all,

    Those before me, hung there.

    _____

    Then he spoke with a smile,

    Well, I’ve good news to tell.

    On your choice of a spouse,

    You did quite very well.

    She is loving, supportive,

    And in church, volunteers.

    Did not kill you, not once

    In all twenty-three years.

    _____

    Then stirring through papers,

    To find the right page.

    On your kids, here again,

    Mostly high marks to gauge.

    Sons are happy and strong,

    Tender hearts they have grown.

    Both to soon make their marks,

    They can think on their own.

    _____

    But now, that part over,

    Smile fading from face.

    He shuffled the papers,

    Let’s back to your case.

    In the asset department,

    You must surely know.

    That your financial levels,

    Are shockingly low.

    _____

    I smirked and replied,

    Mine, more lofty pursuit.

    Don’t you know that with evil,

    It’s money at root?

    As you see, it’s my family,

    The center for me.

    Not the stocking of wealth,

    Here in this life, agree?

    _____

    Then he took off his glasses,

    He then rubbed his nose.

    I think there confusion,

    We should here dispose.

    See, the standard for this life,

    Not to wealth be driven.

    But be the good stewards,

    Of all we’ve been given.

    _____

    And I see by these files,

    That you’ve wasted a lot.

    Some, they make more of,

    But time — they do not.

    So the question remains,

    Although here not bereft.

    Now what will you do,

    With the twenty years left?

    _____

    Just twenty? I mocked,

    That seems a bit lean.

    Well, he said, rounding,

    It’s more like eight-teen.

    You will die on a Wednesday,

    The fifteenth of May.

    Which is eight-teen years,

    One month, from today.

    _____

    What? I said, shocked,

    As I let this sink in.

    I know, this news hard,

    But we must now begin.

    You need to make plans,

    To ponder in thought.

    So what will you do,

    With the years you still got?

    _____

    And I sat in that chair,

    With my heart in a twist.

    ‘till I finally did speak,

    Well, I do have a list.

    But before I could finish,

    He stopped me there, true.

    This gift you’ve received,

    It’s not about you.

    _____

    You’ve been handed this grant,

    Not to ski down a slope.

    Not to climb up a mountain,

    Or zip down a rope.

    You came into this world,

    With nothing you own.

    And all that you have,

    Is simply on loan.

    _____

    And soon on a day,

    Eight-teen years from now.

    You will stand before Him,

    To answer your vow.

    And when that linking,

    From this world is free.

    What for the kingdom

    Did you do for me?

    _____

    He handed me pamphlets,

    And wished me good luck.

    And I dazedly shuffled,

    Right back to my truck.

    And I sat there inside.

    Letting set that review.

    So little time,

    And so much to do.

  • The 10 films that every man needs to see before he dies

    The 10 films that every man needs to see before he dies

    film

    There are great films and then there are great guy films — and I’m not referring to movies that have that all important catch phrase or the chase scene of the Corvette down the escalator that you will be a social misfit for having not seen. But great films — movies that make us think and feel while remaining a pure guy film.

     

    10. THE LONGEST YARD. (1974).

    Of course I am not referring to the 1974 Burt Reynolds film not the Adam Sandler version — which I’ve never seen. The Longest Yard is just a great all around guy film and although the plot seems a little thin — NFL quarterback goes to prison and is forced to lead the ‘cons vs guards’ football game — the movie has intensity, excitement, humor and is one of those films that gets under your skin and stays there. In Burt Reynolds long career he has only made two great films — Boogie Nights and The Longest Yard.

     

    9. SLING BLADE. (1996).

    Although there are moments of acting and dialogue in Sling Blade that still make my cringe, the characters are so strong that you really don’t care — in fact the first ten minutes of Sling Blade are probably the best dialogue ever written for film. A great guy movie.

     

    8. ARMAGEDDON. (1998).

    Okay, hear me out on this one. Armageddon is not only a great action film but is practically a blue collar opera. The idea of the world being saved by finding the best deep core drillers, is right up there with needing to find the best dry-wallers or small engine repair guys. The writing is solid, the story is strong and the acting top notch. A great movie.

     

    7. THE FULL MONTY. (1997).

    If you had asked me if I wanted to see a film about a group of down on their luck blue-collar English guys who decide to become exotic dancers to pay their bills, I would not have rushed to the ticket counter. But The Full Monty is one of the greatest guy films ever made. There is not a character in the film that you don’t care about and the movie is emotional, real and powerful. You’ve got to see this one.

     

    6. SEVEN SAMURAI. (1954).

    Although I’m not a big fan of subtitles, you need to see the subtitled version of Seven Samurai to appreciate this film. Seven Samuria is a story of 1587 Japan when the feudal system is fading and the once and powerful Samurai are  now unemployed. Seven of these men join forces to protect a town against marauders because, well, they have nothing else to do and in effect create a great friendship. This is an amazing film and was the basis of John Sturges; The Magnificent Seven. You’ve got to see it.

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    5. THE STING. (1973).

    The Sting is the con artist move to which all other con films are judged. It’s a great film and a great story and keep you guessing all the way to the very end — when you’re still not exactly sure the ride is over. This is one of the top ten American Films of all time.

     

    4. RAIN MAN. (1988).

    Although I am not a big Tom Cruise fan, Rain Man is one of the greatest films ever made; a true road film that documents the relationship of a twenty-something, self involved man and his estranged older brother — it also is an interesting example of what the motion picture industry thinks of men as this film was almost not made because the producers didn’t believe men would watch any film without a chase scene.

     

    3. THE GODFATHER. (1972).

    Although Goodfella’s is an amazing film, The Godfather still remains the big daddy of mob films — and of motion pictures in general. It’s an epic story of the rise of an Italian Mafia family. An incredible movie that has influenced American culture and for those thirty or so men in the US who have never seen the Godfather – go see it.

     

    2. ONE FLEW OVER THE CUCKOO’S NEST. (1975).

    One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is not only Jack Nicholson at his very best, but it’s also one of those rare occasions where a film is actually better than the book. This movie launched many careers and is an incredibly powerful story that doesn’t stop until the credits roll. You only need to see this film once and you will remember every second of it.

     

    1. SAVING PRIVATE RYAN. (1998).

    Not only is Saving Private Ryan the greatest World War II film ever made, it is also one of the greatest American film’s ever made — one of the reasons I stopped watching the Oscar’s was when Shakespeare in Love beat this film out for best picture. Are you kidding me?

    If you have never seen Saving Private Ryan, stop what you’re doing and see it right now.