Category: From The Editor

Fame

Since the beginning of time, man has been coming up with wise things to say to each other. Pearls of wisdom. Proverbs and sage advice. The best of these insightful phrases are remembered and passed on.

     Two wrongs don’t make a right.

     Necessity is the mother of invention.

     Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

King Solomon — often touted as the wisest man in the world and the author of The Book of Proverbs, in The Bible, penned over a thousand ‘songs’ or wise sayings about God and life. Great stuff such as: A soft answer turns away wrath. Don’t run too far from your problems, you’ll only have that same distance to return. And; A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.

Accurate statements. All of King Solomon’s writings are sound and solid but there is big difference in The Bible between the word of God — I will never leave you or forsake you — and the words of wise men like Solomon — train a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will return to it.

Because King Solomon’s words are only wise guidelines and God’s words are where the pure truth of The Bible lies.

We often forget this and therefore the phrases themselves — those motivational words of encouragement that dot our Facebook walls — become our perceived truth. But these phrases can only contain the refection of the truth, not the truth itself.

An example is the phrase is: Do what you love and the money will come.

Cute. But wrong.

If taken literally, this means that if you do only the things that you love and enjoy, you will become wealthy doing it — or at least be able to support yourself doing it. That by going after those areas that we have done before and know that we love, we will be successful and content — so all you need to do is to focus on those things you get pleasure out of and leave the things that you don’t, alone.

I love eating Oreo’s but not only would it be difficult to find someone to pay me to eat them, I guarantee that after a few weeks I would stop loving them.

So the phrase is limited. It doesn’t allow for growth and hard work. A more accurate edit might be: Love what you do and the money will come. Yeah, that’s closer. But, if you drill down deeper into what is around the proverb, what supports it, you will see additional flaws.

So what do we enjoy? — and not only what do we get pleasure out of but why do we get pleasure out of. Because the world is divided between pleasure and pain — we either turn towards something or run from it — yes, that’s true. But there is also the gap factor.

Pleasure is great, but sometimes pleasure can be pulled from one area into another when needed, which is where gaps occur. The obese woman with immaculate hair and makeup has gaps. The short man in the Hummer has them too; pleasure in one area being syphoned to decrease pain in another.

This occurs a lot in The Performing Arts where people become hooked on the adoration, the attention, the notoriety, and not the work.

Here is an example. Think of how many people you know whose dream it is to become one of these three things: a writer, an actor or a musician. Start counting in your head of all the people you know, or have ever known, who have dreamed of becoming well known in one of those categories — to catch their big break, land that perfect roll or simply be discovered.

Got a rough number?

Good. Now, do the same thing and think of people you know whose dreams, who’s very passion, is to break into three completely different career paths. A puppeteer, a juggler or a camera operator.

Got that second number?

Okay, so why is the first number so much higher than the second? According to logic it shouldn’t be. If artistic talent and passion is the true driver, then those numbers should be the same because it takes just as much creativity in making a marionette come to life as it does to pretend to be someone on stage. It requires as much skill to work a TV camera as it does to sing. So why do we not know a single kid who wants to be a juggler when he grows up? Why don’t we have a few dozen friends who after a few too many Budweiser longnecks, pine over the life they should have had with puppets?

Tom Hanks was interviewed once and was asked when he first knew that he was a success. He laughed at this and said that he was a success when he first got out of college and was performing Shakespeare in the Park. He was doing what he loved to do, was happy and probably would have been content performing in that way for the remainder of his career. It wasn’t the fame that drew him, it was the craft.

Kevin Spacy has turned down several film rolls because he doesn’t really like making films. But he loves the theatre and spends as much time performing in theatrical productions as he can.

If your dream is in one that fits in that first category, then here’s the question. How will you know if you are successful?

If the answer is — if the true answer, the one you only tell yourself — is when I’m famous, or when I’m rich, then you are heading towards the shadow of this dream rather than the dream itself. It’s a lie, a trick and a gap.

The Ancient Greeks had a phrase called The Golden Meen. Nothing to excess. Finding the balance. A life with balance is great life. It is strong and solid and cannot be tumbled. But a pursuit where there are only two levels; fame and failure, can never be aligned.

Breaking in. Catching a break. Being discovered. What does that even mean?

If you want to write, to perform or to make music, then do it. Get good at it. Hone your craft. Write plays for your church Christmas play, make music at a retirement home and do standup for Veterans. Use your gift and your passion and give it away. Get good at it.

And find the balance.

July 20, 2016
Clara

About nine years ago — this would have been when my son Alex was about ten years old — we saw Clara for the first time. We were in the car, we had just turned off of Fiddlers Green and onto Governors Avenue and there she was, over to the left side of the road coming towards us.

It was cold outside and Clara was pushing her grocery cart against traffic, the way that bicyclists do, and the wheels of the cart were biting into the grey slush of the road. Alex saw her and he stopped talking. We drove another hundred yards or so before he spoke again.

“We’ve got to go back,” he said.

Now, I know I saw Clara — not really acknowledging her but seeing her the same way I saw the Burger King sign and I saw the Michelin store behind her. But Alex had locked in on her. He really saw her.

“We’ve got to go back,” he repeated.

“Why?”

Alex told me what he’d seen. That there was an old woman in the street. Everything she owned was in one grocery cart and it was cold outside. We had to go back. To help.

“Great idea,” I said magnanimously, as I mentally scanned what cash I had on me — hoping that I had something smaller than a twenty.

“No,” he corrected me. “We need to take her — home. To our house. To live.”

We kept driving and I told Alex how proud I was of him. I praised the great heart he had and told him of what a great kid he was. And then I gently explained how we could help. With a little bit of money.

“No. We need to take her home with us.”

And I explained all the reasons why we couldn’t do that. That the lady was a stranger. We couldn’t bring a stranger into our house, it wasn’t safe. We could help, sure, a little, but we —.

But Alex looked at me with focused eyes. “But Dad, she’s old. And it’s cold and we have that big guest room that no one is using and she can —. “

He kept talking and we kept driving. When we got to Walmart he was still talking — well, I was still talking. Alex was anxiously trying to hurry us up. To get us back in the car and get rolling towards Governors Avenue.

“How about we get her some food while we’re here, huh? How about that?’

“No,” he said.

But I did it anyway. I picked out a few prepackaged sub sandwiches, some chips and some bottled water and I listened to Alex plead. And as I did, I understood that he didn’t want to bring this woman home the way you do a kitten, or a lost dog. She needed to come home with us to be part of us. To be a member of our family.

Why? It was simple. We had the space. We had a house that was warm and dry and there was plenty of food there. There was no reason to discuss it any further. We had resources that someone else didn’t. It was only fair.

We drove back to Governors. To the place we had seen her and she was gone. We drove further down, through the side streets. Nothing. We looked inside of Burger King and the bus stop and then circled the entire loop again but could not find her.

“Okay,” I said. “I have an idea.”

Alex looked up at me as if there was nothing I could have done to disappoint him more. We pulled into the homeless shelter that was on Governors Avenue and I parked the car. We walked inside and told the lady at the desk who we were and who we had had seen and that we wanted to get this food to her.

The woman knew exactly who I was referring to and told us her name was Clara. Clara had been in and out of the shelter many times. She had been offered job opportunities and even an apartment but something always happened. The woman at the desk told Alex how proud she was of him wanting to take Clara home. But that we had to be safe and that there were other ways to help.

And Alex, silent, looked up at the both of us with frustrated eyes. We could show him statistics, photographs, evidence, all day long and it didn’t matter. Here were the only facts that did. There was a woman that needed help. We can help. Done.

We left the food at the shelter — she didn’t know if Clara would be in but she would see it went to good use — and we walked back out to the car.

“Feel better?”

“No.” And he didn’t.

We saw Clara a few more times after that. And then we didn’t see her again.

That was nine years ago. And Alex? Well, he’s nineteen now. And he still has a gentle heart and is a sensitive, caring kid. But he has that filter now about things such as this. The ones we all have.

Now, there was no way that Clara could have come home with us. Absolutely not. I wouldn’t jeopardize the safety of my family, I know that. Everyone knows that. It would never have happened.

But still —. There’s something so —. So absolutely pure about putting what we should do — ahead of what we can do. And instead of finding a way to nurture that better in Alex, I somewhat yanked it out of him.

And I feel bad about that.

July 20, 2016
The bar

On Sunday February 4^th of 2007 — the day of Superbowl 41 — our house in Vestal, New York, was empty.

The wooden floors — that had been protected by rugs and furniture for over a decade — were now shiny and bare. The walls — including the ones that Debbie had made me paint twice when she changed her mind on the color — were now only decorated with outlines of where picture frames had blocked the sun. And rooms that we once knew every noise and bump of, now bounced strange sounds through empty spaces.

The new job I had accepted, came with a complete relocation package, which included a team of packers and movers that marched in and took our entire life — beds, bicycles, furniture, the kids toys, clothes and ten years of living — and squeezed it all into one single truck; into 208 square feet of moving space. Or 52 square feet per person. Or 19 square feet, for every year we had lived there. And all that life, all that stuff, was now parked in a storage lot for a week, until we could close on our new house, two states away.

But we would need to move out now, in order for the new owners to move in. So we would leave the town where Debbie and I had first met — at Energetics Health Club, just three blocks from our house — and where our wedding reception was — The Vestal Steak House on The Vestal Parkway — and we would leave the area that we had known for years, leave the neighborhood, the family, and the familiar.

But first, we would go to the Superbowl and going-away-party at Jennifer and Dave’s next door. The entire neighborhood would be there and we would say our goodbyes and then we would come home for one last time. We would climb into our sleeping bags that were spread out on top of air mattresses and we would sleep. And then in the morning, we would leave.

And the house at 317 Frey Avenue in Vestal — the place that had been home for eleven years — would belong to someone else.

Now, when we first bought the house — this was back in 1996 — that move was so much simpler than this one. Going from our small apartment to that big house was incredibly easy and only took my cousin Brad and I a few hours. Plus, we were only a family of three then — Nick was a toddler and Alex hadn’t been born yet and we actually wondered how we would ever fill that big house.

That first night that we spent in our new Vestal home, back in 1996, Debbie and I had sat in the living room together. We had put Nick to bed and were watching Aladdin — the cable wouldn’t get turned on until the following week and we only owned kid’s video tapes — and it was then that Debbie made the announcement.

“Go get us wings.”

Now in Endicott, where our old apartment was — clear across the river — there were plenty of places to get chicken wings and Debbie and I had become complete Endicott wing snobs over the years. But we were in Vestal now.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Go find a place.”

Now finding a place for good chicken wings in upstate New York is not as difficult as you think. It’s like trying to find a good show in Vegas, or a great fishing spot in Maine. The corner bar-and-grill always had the best food and there were hundreds of them around. So I got in the car and drove.

And that’s when I found The Terrace.

It was packed inside when I walked in but I made my way up to the bartender.

“You look lost,” Lynn spoke over the noise of the jukebox and the crowd, but she was smiling.

“Yeah, I might be. How are your wings?”

She gave me a look that was a combination of — what, are you stupid? Mixed with — don’t insult me by asking. So I ordered two dozen wings to go, and sat at the bar and nursed a beer.

I would stay there for the next eleven years.

At least once a week we got wings, or sandwiches or some other food from The Terrace — and of course you have to go there to order it. And I became a regular. The Terrace became my bar and I became a part of it. Now I never stayed late, I was always home by six o-clock, plenty of time for dinner with Debbie and the kids, or I brought dinner with me from there — and I was rarely there on weekends. Just once or twice a week for a few hours; the minimum amount of time required to hold my place in the pack. Just enough to keep the bar a part of me and me a part of it.

Now, everyone has a roll to play at a bar. You have your experts on everything — Mike. You have your big shots — Chris the lawyer and Jimmy the broker. You have the pack leaders — big Frank and Remmy. You had borderline criminals — Newt and the haircut guy, and you had a potpourri of assorted bar characters.

And at The Terrace, I got to play the part of the writer; a fun roll that required very little work and absolutely no writing. You just needed to talk about writing once in a while and as long as there wasn’t another writer that was already accepted as part of the group — which happens a lot — then you get to be it.

And then you can cool phrases used about you, like — you should tell Everett that story, he’s the writer.

I cried at The Terrace. But I laughed there too. And I always left before I really wanted to. And I did this for eleven years; from 1996 to 2007, and during that time I belonged to The Terrace and it belonged to me.

And then 2007 came and we moved away.

And although I thought about the bar — a lot — I had never been back. Not even when I’d be passing through that area — I guess I was afraid of not wanting to see something spoiled or ruined. So I never went back.

Until last month.

I was in town heading to Syracuse for a meeting and didn’t want to drive any further, so I checked into The Hampton Inn in The Vestal Parkway and then headed for The Terrace for wings.

It’s humbling to go back to places that were once important to you. Just because you left, you expect them to wind down and stop but they continue. And there are all new faces. With all new groups, that come with a different pecking order and a new gauge of respect and esteem. And you want to grab these people and tell them that you were part of this once too. That you sat where they sat and you passed the same tests they did. And that there was a time when your group — not there’s — were important to this place.

It’s sad when time moves on without you.

But it’s even sadder when it doesn’t.

I had just walked through the door of The Terrace and was working my way towards one of the many empty barstools, when I heard my name. Then I heard it again. Then again.

After nine years — they were all still there. Mike. Sam. Big Frank. Remmy. Lynn. All of them.

They were all still there.

And I sat at the bar and ordered my wings. And the back-slaps and the handshakes started. And then those little blue plastic chips began to build up around my beer glass — this one is from Mike. This is from big Frank. And I took my position back.

The great crowds are now gone from The Terrace. The once strong blue collar area has dwindled, with most of the coveted high paying factory and manufacturing jobs all but vanished. And many buildings are empty, some with broken windows and grass growing through employee parking lots that once held hundreds of cars and trucks. So the large crowds had moved on, but the people at The Terrace who held court over them, have remained at their post.

Since I moved, I found the time to finally finish that book I was always talking about and it had been out for a year. And although they all knew about it, they teased and congratulated me, those accolades didn’t give back the emotional dividend I always dreamed it would.

Because it wasn’t that I moved on from The Terrace. I didn’t. I just — moved. I cheated. I didn’t graduate or wake up one day and no longer need it. I just took the bar out of the equation. And if we hadn’t moved, if I hadn’t evaded that decision, would I still be there too?

I never found a bar in Dover — where we live now. I remember looking for one when we first arrived, but I didn’t look very hard. And I don’t regret my time at The Terrace, but I don’t yearn for it either. That might be maturity, but I doubt it.

It’s just that — over time you begin to see the beauty in the unassuming parts; work, writing, the house. Because older men crave all of those things — we thrive on it. We hunt it. Older men need results.

Younger men don’t.

They need bars. Where all you need to do is dream it. Brag about it. And promise to one day — claim it.

And if your do that — then it’s real.

May 16, 2016
Velma

Velma invented the Egg McMuffin.

This would have been around 1957, at a business she owned with her father called The Gem Diner.

The Gem Diner was a little place in Sanitaria Springs, New York — which in itself was a little place near Binghamton, New York — that sat on the side of Route 7 and sold sandwiches, shakes, burgers and fries to travelers who would stop by for lunch or an early dinner. But few people came in for breakfast.

“They stop and get coffee,” Velma said to her father.

“They get coffee,” Grover corrected. “To go. They don’t want to be late for work, so they fill their thermos and leave.”

So Velma began thinking of a portable breakfast that could be made quickly. She came up with a fried egg, slice of Canadian Bacon and cheese served on a toasted English Muffin.

“What is it?” Grover felt the warmth of the English muffin and egg flow through the wax paper that covered the sandwich.

“It’s breakfast,”

“Well,” he unwrapped it. “We’ll give it a try.”

They sold out the first week. The item was named The Gem Diner Special and it cost thirty cents.

“Don’t forget The Gem Diner Special tomorrow,” Grover would remind every customer he rang out.

Now, on the road from Bainbridge, New York to Binghamton, New York, there were over fifteen places to stop and get a cup of coffee on your way home from work — twenty if you weren’t picky. But none with a prettier waitress. So every day Larry De Morier stopped at The Gem Diner. And every day he would talk to Velma. And every day he would leave — only after he made her laugh at least twice.

He proposed to her on the porch steps of Grover’s house in Sanitaria Springs — the big house that was once the town’s hotel — just around the corner from the diner. They were married in January of 1958. Grover rented the upstairs rooms out to people, so he moved to a back bedroom of the house, and the newlyweds took the first floor.

Life went on.

Four years later, two days after Christmas in 1962, Velma awoke suddenly and knew it was time to deliver her child. She woke her husband who carried her bag out and scrambled to get her into the car. Larry jumped in — it was ten miles to the hospital but the roads would be clear at this hour — but when he turned the car key, nothing happened. He tried again. And again. But without even a click from the starter to signify effort, the car did not start.

Larry jumped out of the car — leaving his wife inside — and disappeared. It was cold and silent in Sanitaria Springs at this time of night. Velma sat — trying to remain calm — until she heard the roar of a large engine in the distance, then a car raced towards her; a copper colored Ford Fairlane. Larry jumped out to transfer his wife inside.

“Who’s car is this?” she asked, through shallow breaths. .

“A friends.”

Larry shot out of the stone driveway.

On the clear back roads, they made good time. They got to the hospital and their child was born, and fifteen hours later — when his head had now cleared — Larry decided he’d better find out who’s car he had taken — since he had ran up the street and looked inside of every car he could find until he came across one with the keys in it. So he and Grover made some phone calls, identified who owned the car, described the situation. The police were contacted and they stopped their search for the stolen Fairlane.

The Gem Diner did well for a few more years but the hours were long and demanding. And Grover decided it was too much for his daughter and her young family, and too much for him. They closed the doors. So Grover paced the big house trying to determine what do next — especially since Larry and Velma would soon have another mouth to feed with their second child. He had to come up with a source of income for her where she wouldn’t have to be away from home as much.

“A fish store?” she asked. “You mean, to eat?”

“No. Tropical fish,” he said excitedly. Pointing to the area that was once the bar of the old hotel. “Right here. You wouldn’t even have to leave the house to take care of customers. You would here the buzzer inside the house when someone came in that door, and you would just walk in through the house. Simple.”

So Grover got to work on The Mermaid Aquarium, Sanitaria Springs first tropical fish store. He bought display cases and shelving, hose and tank decorations and filled over a hundred different tanks with water, gravel, pumps and exotic fish.

“Do people care about tropical fish?” she asked.

“You’ll make them care. And a fish tank is cheaper than one of them color TV’s, remind them of that.”

Grover walked out to his car, motioning his son-in-law to help him carry something back in.

“What is it?” Larry lifted his side of the box but something inside moved.

“Alligators.”

“What?”

“Baby ones. Put them in that tank right next to the piranhas.”

Preparation for the store continued. And two days before the grand opening of The Mermaid Aquarium, Grover Bennett died. Velma opened the store without him. And a week after that, she named her new daughter after her father’s favorite song; Laura.

The Mermaid Aquarium provided a solid second income to the family and with the rent of the tenants upstairs and Larry’s small salary, they squeaked by. In fact, there were even a few dollars to spend on a new trend: kids birthday parties hosted at McDonalds.

In 1972, as Velma helped kids into the basement of the Front Street McDonalds — where they had games, music and cake set up for her son’s tenth birthday — she passed a large poster announcing McDonalds newest food item. The franchise would now start serving breakfast and they invited all to try the new Egg McMuffin.

Velma smiled.

And time moved on.

Velma is 93 years old now and I thought of these stories as I helped her pack last weekend. I thought of how when my dad went on medical disability in 1978 and his small salary would now become even smaller, Velma became the oldest College Freshman at the State University of New York at Delhi’s Nursing Program. She was 56 years old and she combined classes and graduated in one year. She then went to work at The Delaware Valley Hospital in Walton for almost thirty years, where she won nurse of the year in 2002. A plaque still hangs there with her name on it.

We continued to pack.

“Not everything,” she said. “We don’t need to take everything, just a few things. I’ll be back.”

“I know.”

And we would be back. A few times probably to get the house ready to sell.

“Your heart is strong, Velma,” Doctor Freeman had said, only a few days before when he examined her. “Very strong. So are your legs. But your balance is terrible.”

So Velma would go to Ohio. To Laura’s house. Where there was a room waiting for her and a city that had senior centers and groups and organizations and she wouldn’t be alone in a big house.

“I’m not just going to twiddle my thumbs,” she said.

“No one is asking you to.”

“I need to do things.”

“We know.”

And we packed her bag and got her medication. We took a few of her pictures and I checked the lock twice. We got in the car and then went back inside for her cane — she didn’t think she would need it. Then we adjusted the heat in the car to volcanic levels — just the way she liked it — and we headed out for the five hour drive to meet my sister half way between Walton and Columbus.

“I didn’t get breakfast,” she announced, as if a serious crime had been committed against her.

“We’ll stop at McDonalds on the way out.”

“Okay.”

And we did.

January 23, 2016
The broken gauge

From the moment we are born — when we are a minute old, right to the day before our eighteenth birthday — we fall under a specific legal category. We are minors.

Now, the dictionary definition of a minor is one of lesser in importance, seriousness, or significance. Which in the legal state is somewhat untrue. Yes, as minors we cannot vote, buy tobacco, we cannot serve in the military and we cannot make legal decisions on our own. But as far as importance, we have the very highest priority of legal protection and safety.

But at eighteen years of age this changes. We leave the state of minorship and enter the legal age of adulthood. This is the line. There are the things that happened before we are eighteen — our childhood — and then all that occurs after — as an adult.

Now, there is no clear reason why eighteen was chosen for the age of adulthood. Many historians will say that it is tied to the end of the public school system and the beginning of college enrollments and most kids complete high school at the age of eighteen. An age had to be chosen and this one made sense.

So the normal path of life is tied directly to this age.

Before eighteen, we are a minor.

At eighteen we are an adult.

By twenty-two we should be done with college or have our career path chosen.

By twenty-five we should be living completely independent and be financially established.

By thirty we should be married.

By thirty-five we should have kids.

By forty we should be hitting our career stride, making a good income and raising our children.

By forty-five we should be upper management.

By fifty we should be reaching our area of peak income potential.

By fifty-five we should have our kids in a good college.

By sixty we should be looking towards retirement and the good life.

This is the path. This is the gauge we should measure ourselves and others against. If we are ahead of the curve, we are successful. If we are behind it, we are failing. And all of it is based on the fact that — we are adults at eighteen. And this is when it all begins. This is when the grading starts.

But there is a major issue with this type of reasoning. The biggest one is that the human brain — the device that has complete control over all we think, reason, decide and do — is still developing until the age of twenty-five. This is true. It’s also the reason why our car insurance rates begins to go down at the age of twenty-five because we are finally done cooking and can now think clearly — at eighteen the rates are the highest and at twenty-five they begin to go down.

So at twenty-five we first have all the mental equipment we will be given. But according to the scale we should be seven years into our path. And if we’re not; if at twenty-five or thirty we are just opening our eyes and seeing clearly for the first time — we are a failure. And worse, we have missed the boat. We realized too late. The opportunities have left us and we’ll just have to get by someway else.

And this is absolutely not true.

Life decisions do not have expiration dates. You don’t go back to college to finish, you go to college. You don’t go back to your old profession; you just decide that is the industry you want to make a living at.

Fifty is as perfect of an age to begin a business as thirty is. Twenty is just as good a time to go to college as forty. And learning to play the guitar, to speak Spanish, to dive or to juggle, has no age limit at all.

There is no back.

Because there is no gauge.

May 16, 2015
Freelance

Around the time that I first met my wife — this would have been 1990 or so — I made a change in my occupation and began calling myself a writer. Now, I didn’t say I was a writer, or that I was writing much or had even been published. That’s not the point. I just started calling myself one — see, how it works is that first you call yourself a writer, then you become one.

And what do would-be writers call themselves if they have little to no publishing credits? That’s easy. We are freelance writers. So, that’s what I was. A freelance writer.

In fact, if you look at our wedding announcement you will see listed under occupation, both a purchasing agent and a freelance writer — see, it was okay to be a purchasing agent, as long as your were a writer too.

Now, if I were to research this, it may have been possible that I had a small piece published by then, but I doubt it and it didn’t matter. The title was what was important. Which is the great thing about being a freelance writer; you didn’t have to be published or even have written anything. And because people were somewhat confused by the freelance heading back then, they pretty much left it alone after that.

Calling myself a writer was also a convenient safety chute, or back door. If my real life failures were ever brought up, I just pulled the writer thing out. Yeah, well, I’m also a freelance writer. Meaning, yeah, I may look like a loser now, but some day you may be bragging that you met me once. Other variations of this include; yeah, well I’m also a musician, and, yeah, well I’m also an actor. And when you’re young, these back doors actually work.

So Debbie and I got married and I continued being a writer. I had a few bad articles published in a few bad independent newspapers — that pretty much accepted anything — and now I crowned myself, published freelance writer. Then, when Debbie was pregnant with our first son, I pimped a copy of his ultra sound for my very first paid writing gig. A short article in The Weekly World News — a highly respected periodical of the day known for in depth studies of both bigfoot and aliens — entitled, I’m having Elvis’ baby; because at that early stage of Nick’s development, his head had that Elvis pompadour thing. I was paid fifty dollars and a batboy t-shirt. And now, I had moved to the level of professional freelance writer.

I started sending query letters out to magazines and publishers by the truck load and this probably explains while I still have this weird thing about the mail. Even in the day of texting and email there is a solid Pavlovian reaction to the sound of the mailbox being opened — I have to get the mail, this might be good news.

I managed to get a few pieces published in a few magazines and then, on the very same day that we were closing on our first house, I heard back from a small publisher. They liked a book idea I had pitched and wanted to publish it.

I had made it.

Now, the book was a non-fiction look at the first year of marriage — at all the changes and challenges that existed. And although I didn’t want to write non-fiction — no one wants to write non-fiction — it’s widely known that once you get a non-fiction book published, agents and publishers beat a path to your door in order to get to your good stuff.

The book was badly written and badly edited and I didn’t care. I was about to be a published book author which would put me on the correct path. I went on a small book tour, did the CNN, Fox News, thing along with a bunch of book signings. And because the book was the only one of its kind back then — there are dozens now — I convinced the publisher into letting me write another one. This time on the first year of fatherhood.

Book two was the same. Rinse and repeat. And then everything stopped. The world didn’t beat a path to get to me. The publisher wasn’t interested in more of my dumb ideas and I was — confused.

The books — that were supposed to fix everything, to justify my existence and erase my many failures — did not. And I actually felt worse than I did before I was published.

Now, we enter my angry phase. I mentioned the books on my resume — as a way to catch an interviewer’s eye — but otherwise I didn’t talk about them at all. If the topic were brought up in casual conversation, I changed the subject — the same way you do when asked if you beat that DWI charge or how the bankruptcy is going.

I did very little writing during this time but ironically did land the highest paid writing job I had, or would ever have. This was the beginning of the end of the dot-com bubble and finding content providers was still difficult to do; which meant that they were actually pretty highly paid. There was a website being developed called Decisionagent.com that paid me three hundred bucks for every 700 word article I could write for them. I pumped out three of these a day, every day, for six weeks before the bubble popped and they went belly up.

Now there’s more to my glorious writing career. I got to spend the last six years working with a great group of people writing and helping direct Christmas plays, I have a book coming out next week and of course there is this website. But here is the point to all of this.

I no longer think of myself as a writer. I don’t. And a large reason for this is that I’ve learned that I really don’t like writers all that much. I’m sorry if this offends, but writers — for the most part, there are exceptions — are largely self important, arrogant, self involved people, usually with a 70/30 mix of ego over talent. They’re not much fun to hang out with and you really don’t want to aspire to be like them.

So I’m no longer a writer — freelance or otherwise.

Now, I just write.

The history of bat boy — http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bat_Boy_(character)

March 11, 2015
The core

I just reviewed some standard sourcing material that Guidance Counselors use for career assessment — you know, the stuff that helps students determine what majors to take in college and then what career path to pursue. There was a lot of information to go through, so I first took a few aptitude tests and then familiarized myself with learning platforms. Then I ran through personality assessments, aptitude enhancing exercises and tracking material to map my career path through online grids. I did all of that.

And? What did all of this determine that I should be doing for a living?

Well, it looks like I should be in —- Alternate Dispute Resolution.

Yup. That’s the career for me.

Now, I’m not really sure what Alternate Dispute Resolution is, but it doesn’t really matter because I love the field that I’m in and I love the job that I have — which has absolutely nothing to do with Alternate Dispute Resolution.

So what does this mean? Does it mean that the tests aren’t accurate? Does it mean that real life will lead you to where you should go?

Well sort of. But first, let me distract you with some statistics.

Recently, Monster.com did a survey which interviewed over 8,000 people in seven different countries and asked them detailed questions about their education and their careers. This is what they found.

15% of the US workers interviewed said that that they hated their jobs — this was the highest rate among the seven countries surveyed.

Who had the lowest rate of people who hated their jobs? India, with only 5%.

The highest pay per capita of all the countries surveyed? — yup, U.S. But — now this is interesting — the US had both the lowest allotted vacation time given to employees as well as the lowest vacation time actually taken. 60% of all US workers roll unused vacation time over each year, where in the Netherlands it’s only 7% and— now this is also interesting — only 8% of the employees in the Netherlands stated that they hated their jobs.

Hmmm.

Okay, question two. What percentage of college graduates end up working in their career fields?

Answer: Roughly half. About 50% of those people with college degrees end up working in their field — and 35% of those people said that they have never worked in that field. Ever.

Okay, one more. 38% of the people polled said that the need for professionals in their chosen field drastically changed by the time they graduated. So, they entered school to be a teacher because the market was good, and four years later there is an overabundance of teachers and they couldn’t find a job in their field.

Okay, so what does all of this mean? Well, one thing it means is that we have a culture that works hard, is afraid to unplug and who never really ends up in the field that they spend thousands of dollars being educated in — and then spending the next twenty years paying off. It means that following the money never works. It also means that the long term career plans — don’t really work.

So —. That’s it.

What? What do you mean —-? That’s it?

Yeah. That’s the whole point. That as simplistic as it sounds, the answer to this — and most large questions in life — is that plans are important but with the bigger aspects of life, plans are simply a direction to start moving in. There are too many variables that will determine the end result. They don’t really matter.

Only this does.

The core.

If your heart is strong. If you give more than you take. If you put the needs of those around you in front of your own and if you respect the person who looks back in the mirror — then you will go where you need to be. You will head where you need to head. You will land where the world needs you to be. Every time.

But if your core is out of balance; is self focused, bitter, jealous or simply driven by the prize itself. Then where you end up is just a location.

Always.

You can do all the math, take all the tests and use all the tools and it wont matter. If you contribute, if you think, if you create, if you love and if you believe. Then you’ll get where God wants you to be.

Work on the core and pick a direction. The rest will take care of itself.

February 12, 2015
Fan mail

We don’t get a lot of e-mail at 543 Magazine — not really — but what’s interesting is that what little email we do receive — in fact almost every piece of it — comes from writers, editors, SEO and internet types. Some want to write for us but all are very happy to tell us everything that we’re doing wrong.

And apparently there’s a lot.

Now what’s fascinating about all of this is, that if you do the math, there are actually more people out there that want to write for this site, than are actually reading this site. And I don’t know exactly what that means.

So removing the many, many e-mails from editors and writers who ask us to stop butchering the English language — okay, we stuck a few of those in — but mostly stuck with our favorites …

Dear 543skills,

So am I better at writing than you? You tell me. Here’s a link to my blog. My life is very interesting so I have a few ideas.

I have experience as a writer so I don’t work for peanuts. We can do a flat rate or word count rate but I need a viable monthly income if I’m doing this full time (we’re talking $2,000+). If you want me to write 600 words you’ll be paying me at least $30-40 an article. I also insist on being credited for my work or at least getting to use samples, having a profile on the site or a link to my personal website & blog.

(Wow, let me grab my wallet before the rate goes up).

Hello,

I just visited your website. While there, I began reading the “to whom it may concern” letter. I found numerous upon numerous grammatical errors in the writing. I’m not sure if this piece is indicative of the writing style throughout the site but as its a letter from the editor, it raises concerns.

(Didn’t he just use the wrong form of its, in telling me how horrible my grammar is?)

Dear 543skills,

Please find attached my article on Gene Doping. I would like to submit this as my first piece. I noticed you don’t have anything on Gene Doping and you should.

(How could I be so stupid as to forget to do an article on Gene Doping? I am such an idiot).

Hey,

In lieu of my resume, here is my email address. We don’t need to wast time with writing when I can save all my good idreas for yer site. How do you get paid for this?

(I’d tell him, but I don’t want to wast his time).

Dear 543skills,

Would you please review my work and get back to me I need work.

(But there was no work attached. Did he mean for me to review it —- telepathically?)

Hello,

I’m a writing specialist and have read a number of your articles, and (shudder) your writing sucks. The articles are poorly edited and …

(Wow. I made someone shudder with my words).

Hey Fellas,

My name is XXXX. I have been a writer for almost 8 years now and I am currently doing freelance work. I do articles, academic papers, web contents, blogs, and creative writing. I always get a high satisfaction ratings from my clients. You will see two bad reviews if you Google me. Ignore them. I can deliver quality output on time with …

(No problem. Consider it ignored).

Greetings,

I have experience in blogging and content writing. I would like to know when and how I get paid. And how much then I’ll let you know if I will write for you.

(Sure. Makes sense).

Prepare to have your mind permantaly blown. HERE. IS. MY. WRITING.

(I refuse to read it. What if he’s right?)

THIS ONE IS ACTUALLY THREE SEPARATE EMAILS ….

EMAIL #1: I’m an experienced freelance writer and I would very much like to join your magazine. I’ve visited your site, browsed through the stories and believe I could make a very good contribution. I would love to be able to

EMAIL #2: Sorry, Im trying to do this on my phone and messed up. Let’s try this again. I’m an experienced freelance writer and I would very much like to join your magazine. I’ve visited your site, browsed through the stories and believe I could make a very good contribution. I would love to be able to write on a variety of topics.

EMAIL #3: Sorry, me again. Can you just call me?

(That’s the entire email).

EMAIL: I’m interested in learning more about your magazine. Can you direct me to a website so I can check out your credentials? Do you have an issue submitting to a background check?

(Nope. And I have a polygraph in the car we can use).

Hey site, How’s it going? I sent along my piece yesterday, but I realized that I didn’t attach any contact info. I’m XXXXX and I can be reached via e-mail at XXXXX@yahoo.com or by phone at XXXXX. If you do call, please leave a detailed VM as I get many calls from publishers and can’t keep them straight. And I will get back to you ASAP.

EMAIL: Hello, name is XXXX. I’m the guy that Jesus Half Animal Villa uses for his content on his website. That should be all the references you need.

(Oh. Well then —. Who?)

So keep those cards and letters coming.

Thanks,

Everett

February 4, 2015
To Whom it May Concern

My name is Leo Blathe and I would like this letter to act as a personal recommendation for Brandon Delucca for the position of Senior Vice President at Cheltech Industries.

I have had the pleasure of knowing Brandon for over three years now and during that time I have found him to be a creative and goal oriented individual to which any company would by impacted by hiring.

I first came to know Brandon when he was a young college student and went door to door looking for odd jobs in our neighborhood. And yes, I have to admit that I was very impressed by his tenacity but I didn’t feel that we needed any help at that time. It was actually my wife, Jocelyn, who immediately saw the potential in this young man and he soon began doing odd jobs for us; helping around the house, mowing the lawn as well as running errands. Later on, as my position changed and I needed to spend more time on the road, Brandon became invaluable to us by not only taking on more responsibility at the house but was even thoughtful enough to stay overnight while I was away. Jocelyn often commented on how comforting it was to have Brandon there while I was gone and I felt better knowing that he was.

As time moved on, Brandon became a bigger and bigger part of our family. But it was about a year later that I got to know Brandon extremely well during the many court appearances that I would see him at during our somewhat complicated divorce trial. At that time, Brandon was not only dependable enough to make sure that Jocelyn made it to each and every court appearance — she didn’t miss even one — but he was also thoughtful enough to drive her in my 1967 Camaro that I had restored so that I could see it. And I have to admit, seeing that car made the long walk back to the hotel all that more pleasant.

As a side note, Brandon is a very talented singer; he plays the guitar and has some extremely impressive dramatic talents. And — oh my gosh — this boy is funny. If you could have seen him during the trial; convincing the judge and court officials that I ran a large methamphetamine lab in our garage —holy cow, I thought I was in a comedy club. In fact, this act was so impressive that the court folks didn’t know that Brandon was joking! Isn’t that amazing? And it was this very enactment that was responsible for me being able to now see my children any time I want to — as long as that is no more than twice a month and providing that a Child Protective Service’s agent is available.

Brandon is an intelligent, capable and dedicated young man. He is quick on his feet and adept at handling any situation. One example of this was when my security clearance at work was being questioned due to the media coverage of our divorce. It was Brandon who played another one of his practical jokes and convinced the National Security Agency that besides being an obvious flight risk, that I had also bragged to him about my years of embezzling and should probably remain under house arrest until this could be fully investigated. And let me tell you, besides it being a pretty funny joke, I sure did appreciate all that down time right about then. I mean, after all the stress of the divorce, my arrest, the heart attack and Brandon’s accident when the Camaro was totaled — don’t worry, he’s fine — it was sure nice to sit in that hotel room and decompress for hours on end. And what a treat; the calming sounds of the freight trains, wow. But it was one nostalgic trip down memory lane getting to watch all three television channels on the hotel rooms black and white television, with vintage rabbit-ears antenna — just like I did as a kid. Ahh, good times. Good times.

So please feel free to contact me with any questions regarding the employment of Brandon Delucca for my old position at Cheltech Technologies. Although I no longer have a cell phone and am not allowed near a computer until I can explain how all those photographs got on my laptop, you can always contact me through my court appointed attorney; Martin Pincolwski. And please do. I don’t receive much mail any more and I would very much enjoy corresponding with anyone about Brandon. Or if you’d like, we could discuss sports. Or current events. Or anything you’d like. Anything at all.

Please write me.

Sincerely,

Leo Blathe

January 27, 2015
Steve Vaught; The fat man walking

It was not only the feel good story of the year but it was the greatest underdog comeback — ever. We loved it. And we couldn’t get enough of it.

This is what happened.

In 2005, Steve Vaught; an obese man of 400 pounds, a married, ex-marine with young children — saw that his world was spiraling out of control. He wanted to gain his health and his life back. So, with the support of his family, he decided to do something drastic. He would walk — yes, walk — across the country from his home in Seaside, California, to New York City, on a spiritual and mental journey. He would walk 3,000 miles. And when he got to New York City he would be the man, the father and the husband, that he had always wanted to be.

So, Steve said goodbye to his family — his wife April, his infant son Nicholas and his two year old daughter Clara — and began walking, very slowly, heading east. Always east. His wife created a website for him — fatmanwalking.com — to track his movements and to add in journal entries that Steve would dictate to her from the road.

It didn’t take long for the word to spread of Steve’s walk and people began logging into the website — a few people at first and then a few more until millions were on the site. Then people would wait for him along his route to have their pictures taken and encourage him. Then the media became interested. Then manufacturers contacted him; hiking, camping, walking shoe companies; all donating equipment for Steve to use.

And — when Steve was not even half way through his walk — Harper Collins offered him a lucrative book deal with a $150,000 advance and assigned a ghostwriter to do all the actual writing; the publisher quickly got a $70,000 check out along with a book contract. Oh — and this was besides the documentary film crew that began filming him and offered him a distribution deal. And I’m not even including the worldwide media coverage that came everywhere from CNN to Oprah to the BBC.

Steve Vaught had become America’s darling. In fact, Katy Couric used those very words the next morning after Steve entered New York City on May 9^th of 2006, this completing his trip and appeared at the Today Show studios to talk about his journey.

Now that was in May of 2006. And by September of 2006 — three months after completing his famous 3,000 mile trek — Steve Vaught was divorced, broke, unemployed and living in a Super 8 Motel (an actual step up from sleeping in his car where he had been until it was sold to avoid repossession), declaring bankruptcy and fending off lawsuits and creditors.

Harper Collins wanted their advance back, stating they cannot work with him. The documentary company has shelved the project with no plans of ever completing it and a plan for a fat man walking series of runs and speaking engagements were cancelled.

What?

How —? How — did that all happen?

The idea of a fat man, walking across the country, taming his demons, is a great story. An amazing story. And it’s easy to become attracted to it and want to learn more, which is why the interest grew so quickly. But here are the facts.

Vaught abandoned his struggling young family to take this walk. Yeah I know, abandoned is a tough word since it was possible that he could have walked away with $150,000 dollars in his pocket afterwards to better support them — something he did not know or expect when he left. But still, it was a gamble and it demonstrated where his priorities were when he would leave a family who was already in serious financial trouble and needed him as a provider and a father. This character flaw would show itself in other ways.

Vaught went walking but still did not deal with his addiction to food — of all the photos from the website and the video, he eats all the wrong foods and a whole lot of them. A whole lot. For a man on a journey to fight his addictions, it looks like he didn’t fight at all but simply took them on the road.

Steve Vaught has no problem accepting charity. In fact, Steve was glad to receive donations from people on the road as well as donations through his website. Not a problem at all. If you are walking across the country, it’s almost expected that you’ll need some help along the way. But he quickly began to expect these gifts and feel entitled to them and it appears that this practice has not stopped. On one of his most recent Twitter posts, almost ten years after his famous walk, Steve is asking complete strangers to donate money so he can open up an auto repair facility. Before that he was asking for donation so he could pay his rent. These are not the qualities we like to see in our heroes.

There is some question if Steve actually did walk the entire way from California to New York. In fact, on one occasion, he walked 114 miles around Albuquerque in a single day. That’s a very long way to walk for a man who moved at a snail’s pace and averaged anywhere from zero to fourth miles a day. So that was also the highest single day he had ever walked — by triple. But Steve states that he did walk that distance and he did not take a single ride.

Steve Vaught did not lose much weight. In fact, he lost very little weight. Accounts vary since there was not an official weigh in and weigh out. Steve stated he lost 100 pounds and then other times said 60 pounds. But if you look at the before and after photos, there’s not a big difference. In fact, hardly any. And for such a journey we wanted to share in were expecting a spiritual and physical transformation.

Vaught talks about his journey but if you read the journals and his blog, he doesn’t seemed to have changed much as a person over that trip. We don’t read of any epiphanies or adjustment in his outlook. He doesn’t talk of being blessed or lucky. He doesn’t become humbled. He just walked.

Walking across the country should take about six months. It took Steve Vaught over one full year because he flew back to California more than once — and on one occasion he stayed there for several months working with a personal trainer.

And …

Steve Vaught is not a very nice person. He just isn’t. He is self-focused, a little egotistical and he believes that he is entitled to a whole lot more than he has and is waiting to be given it.

Which goes to prove — what?

Well, it goes to prove that opportunity is easy. It’s out there all around us. Everywhere. Big opportunity. But our character will determine if we can capture that opportunity and keep it. Or if it will just burn away.

Carl Bagley, one of the directors on the now defunct documentary project about Steve Vaught, was quoted as saying, “It’s an amazing thing about America: We can make anybody a hero. Whether they deserve it or not.”

January 14, 2015
Depression in men
A radical statistical shift is when a significant number of people within a group suddenly change in action — it’s the unexpected, quick right turn of statistics. It’s when, without communicating and completely independent of the group, individuals act in a common but unpredicted manner that isn’t orchestrated or even acknowledged and the group shifts. So, instead of deciding between a Ford or Chevy, for example, millions sell their cars and start riding bicycles; or a neighborhood that is prime and expanding, suddenly sees a mass exodus of people selling and moving to live off the grid. It’s the place on the graph when the spike moves sideways.

It’s the didn’t see that coming, moment.

One of these radical statistic shifts have occurred with men over the last ten years that wasn’t expected and is more than a little shocking.

For the first time in American history, the largest group of people most likely to commit suicide are — middle aged men.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, middle-aged men — those between the ages of 45 to 64 — have the highest rate of suicide; a rate that has been rising since 1999.

Which means that for the first time ever, the once vulnerable teenager — insecure, sullen, angry and fearful — is half as likely to kill themselves as their own fathers are.

Why is this?

Well, one major driver seems to be that men emotionally suffer alone — especially when it comes to sensitive areas such as stress, relationships and financial issues; common categories involved in suicide among men. Men ignore it and suck it up. We plow through crisis rather than dealing with the causes. We fight instead of discuss and — and here is the big one — we don’t know how to, or even want to, cope with the possibility that we may be — depressed. We see depression as something that’s for the weak and an area to simply ignore and work through. Men can view depression as being ungrateful — as a slap in the face to our family, friends and work — since what do we have to be depressed about? As well as see it as a state that only occurs to frail people, ungrateful people. Not to us.

Now, does being depressed mean that we are likely to commit suicide?

Absolutely not. It’s the smallest percentage of depressed men that go on to commit suicide. The very smallest. But — here’s the important part — all men that commit suicide are depressed.

So what does that mean?

Well, it means that as tough as it sounds, we men need to acknowledge and face the fact that we are very likely to get depressed, return to it and possibly may be depressed right now.

SINGS OF DEPRESSION IN MEN
- Unexpected anger and anxiety
- Loss of interest in once pleasurable activities — work, family, friend
- Change in libido.
- Not being able to sleep or wanting to sleep all the time.
- Feeling very tired
- Difficulty in concentrating or remember details
- Overeating, or not wanting to eat at all
- Escapist or risky behavior; driving recklessly, compulsive gambling, abuse of drugs or alcohol, or an emersion in pornography.
- Aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems
Yup. So according to the math, there is a 73% chance that you have been, will be or currently are, depressed. And the first step — that absolute silver bullet — is to acknowledge it. To recognize it.

Being depressed as a man does not make you weak. It doesn’t make you vulnerable. It doesn’t mean you’re broken and it doesn’t even mean that it’s a permanent state.

It makes you human.

And being human males, there are certain ways — methods that are effective for us — to work through the depression.

Here are a few.
1. Exercise. Exercise is the absolutely best self-treatment for depression. Physical activity releases endorphins in the brain and elevates mood — even a 20 minute walk each day can have amazing results in how clear you think and how you deal with stress.
2. Unplug. In our stressful lives, it’s important to build in time to turn off the cell phone and computer and give yourself permission to leave the cyber web for a while. Go for a walk, a bike ride or go read a book — without being able to be contacted by text, email or voice. Step out and go black for a while. Or a weekend. Disconnect.
3. Identify sources of stress. This is a big one in men because we see this as a weakness but by classifying what we see as stressful, we can create ways to act differently. To build in methods to counter it. If we know the Tuesday meeting is stressful, we can schedule our workout right before it, or if that confrontation with the neighbor is going to get heated we can go watch a comedy before and just laugh for an hour.
4. Accept help when it’s offered. Whether it’s having someone else read through your presentation or getting a neighbor to help you stack wood, asking for help is difficult for men. But it does not mean your weak and it does not mean you’ve failed if you need help to accomplish something. It shows wisdom in asking for and accepting help.
5. Say no. This is huge with men. Not only do we want to do everything, we want to do it all well and we want there to be no limit. But we also need to find what works for us. Over committing is the fastest way to tap into your energy reserves and sabotage other areas of your life. It’s not weak, uncaring or wrong — to say, no. It’s healthy and wise.
6. Talk. Find someone — a member of your family, a friend, co-worker, professional, it doesn’t matter — and begin to unload. Talk about what’s going on; what’s your feeling and frustrated with. It’s very common that when you begin to actually put into words how you feel, the bubble weakens. But here is the trick. For many of us that finally unload on thoughts and feelings that we’ve kept bottled up we often feel angry afterwards. Agree that when we talk we are not going to regret the talking.
January 10, 2015
Couch surfing
The process of personal travel — whether it’s a European tour or a weekend getaway — is all pretty much the same. The location doesn’t matter. The time of year doesn’t matter and neither does the budget — you could have a thousand dollars a day to blow or you could need to stretch a few bucks for the entire week.

Whether New York or Paris; whether it’s a cruise to the Bahamas or a camping trip in the Adirondacks; the process, the plan, the results, will always follow a specific path. The core will remain constant which means the results will be similar.

Here is an example.

Let’s say you’re taking a trip to a place that you’ve never been. You arrange transportation. You pay for a place to stay — a hotel room, a houseboat, campsite, it doesn’t matter. You research things to do and see while we you are there. You arrive and you head out to do and see as many of those things as possible in the allotted time you have.

Now, when the trip is over, this is what will have occurred.
1. The place you stayed during this trip will most likely be your biggest expense, transportation often being a close second, which means that you are paying someone to allow you to sleep
2. Since you’ve never been to this location before, you are relying on guides, websites and reviews to guide you to locations and activities that are in the business to get you to their service or their location.
So this means that, in theory, three different groups can go to, let’s say New York City, at different times of the year, from different locations and stay and different places. And they could all come home with the similar photographs in front of the same areas of the city and — and here’s the big part — probably not have any experience that involves other human beings besides the ones that they went on the trip with,— or developed new relationships with anyone other than those they traveled with — in spite of the fact that they are in a city of nine million people.

Oh sure, they’ll have a great story about the waiter and that couple they spoke to on the bus, but pretty much all their photographs, all the video, all the Facebook posts will be of the group they went with; seeing the places someone else wanted them to pay along with the standard tourist attractions.

Okay, so here is option two.

You decide to go to a place that you’ve never been to. You make contact with a person, family or couple that have the same values as you, the same interests, who live in the place you want to visit and who love having house guests. You visit their home — as their guest, at no charge — and they show you the area from the perspective of someone who lives there. Sure they take you to the touristy areas but also to the local haunts that you would never find on your own. They introduce you to their family, to friends, to coworkers and you have a trip that not only involves a new place but a new group of people that you didn’t start out with. Which means this set of photographs, these pieces of video and these Facebook posts will be completely different than the first group.

Oh yeah I forgot — and since you’ve taken lodging out of the budget this trip could cost half of a traditional one.

And then let’s flip that. What if you found a person, family, couple who had the same values as you who wanted to visit your area from a different country, different city, or different coast. Think about how unlike the average week it would be at your home if you had someone from France, Belgium, Africa, the Netherlands or even just another part of the country, staying in your guest room or crashing on your couch? And what’s interesting about that is that most people have only a few weeks of vacation but by having people stay with you, you in effect have a vacation with each batch of visitors.

And yeah, I know, it’s not for everybody. And yes, you’re right, there is some safety and background steps that are built into the process and absolutely you need to take precautions, but this option, this manner of travel — changes everything.

This is called Couch Surfing — or hospitality exchange or it has many names with many different databases to choose from. And it makes travel an adventure — and a low cost one — rather than a destination. (Oh, and even though it’s called hospitality exchange there is no requirement to host in order to be hosted or visa versa. You can just travel or you can just host or a mix).

Which brings us to Kenny Flannery. Kenny is a young man who in 2007 decided to walk away from his New York City office job and see the world and for seven years he has been hitchhiking, bumming rides and sleeping on strangers couches all over the country and parts of the world. Now Kenny is the extreme example of this but it does illustrate that the guy without a job probably has been to most of many of the places on your bucket list.

Why?

Because money has nothing to do with travel. Absolutely nothing. And by tapping into this worldwide collection of people who just want to meet you — it changes everything.

Couch surfing website —- http://about.couchsurfing.com/about/

Kenny Flannery’s site — http://www.hobolifestyle.com
January 7, 2015