Perspective

When I was in college, my best friend Tom was a Resident Assistant I had known since high school. We spent many a night hanging out in his oversized room of authority keeping on eye on the people on the floor with Tom playing guitar (think Guns and Roses, not James Taylor) and me making up lyrics on the spot - usually liberally sprinkled with expletives rhyming with luck, hit, and pitch. But who was keeping track?

Well, I used to play volleyball and he was athletically inclined, so I convinced him to play in a couple of 2-on-2 tournaments with me. Now, I'm 6' 2" and he was a generous 5' 8"-ish. We'd sign up and go to the court to play across from two trees of men, say 6' 6" to 6' 9". As you could imagine, we'd get our asses kicked!

Through it all though, Tom and I would be laughing so hard it hurt. He'd dive for a ball, somersault and karate kick it over the net - and we'd laugh. I'd duck out of the way of a missile then prance after the ball like a gazelle - and we'd laugh. He'd run up to the net to try a block and cry "whose your daddy?" as the ball was easily spiked over his head - and we'd laugh.

Because we had a mantra - perspective. Here these trees were crushing us and were soooooo serious, seemingly having no fun. We were getting crushed and having a great time. Keep it all in perspective my friends!

Another pet peeve

Let me get back to a pet peeve -- #33, I think. Speaking of which, I hate lists…more about that another time!

I despise one-way telepathy. This isn’t normal telepathy where two parties talk back and forth through brain waves or something. One-way telepathy flows one way – they expect you can read their mind without any requirement on them to be able to read your mind.

Like you are dating someone (let’s call her Frank) and she wants to go see “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.” This would be great if Frank actually said – “hey, I want to go see ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.’” Instead, she says, “well, what do you want to see?”

So, you reply – appropriately – “let’s go see ‘Transformers’”

And she says, “really?”

“yeah! It’ll be fun.”

“Okay. Well, I was thinking maybe the ‘Curious Case…’”

“No, that’s a chick flick. Let’s see ‘Transformers.’”

So you do…and she doesn’t talk to you the rest of the evening. Or have sex with you, either.

Next time, Professor X, just say “I want to see ‘Transformers’” so we can skip this little dialogue! And get busy later, too.

Interviews

As I sit outside the Dean’s office at Montclair State University waiting for an interview with a newspaper person, I start jotting notes on my life’s journey – professionally at least – to prepare myself on what to say so I sound mildly enlightened.  In outline form, it is what one might considerately call lacking.

Lacking vision.  If you jot down “once displaced, a number of people would say to me in the course of conversation ‘I wasn’t even sure what you did’”, your career lacks vision.  How hearty is the “I’m a musician” “I’m a doctor” “I’m a teacher”?  You understand – not all the nuisances and nuances, but you understand the vision.

Lacking social return.  The job you take feeds your pocketbook, first and foremost, so you can pay bills and keep a roof over you.  McDonalds or Merrill Lynch – they are the same if all you do is pay the bills.  When you have the ability (i.e., education, modest financial ability) to do more than the basic, shouldn’t you?

Lacking strength.  If you try for your dream and fail, you have a story, experience, an edge – you have fed the core of yourself which acts as a ballast to life’s ups and downs.  If you don’t try, you’re hiding.

You never know when or where an a-ha moment might occur.

Reflections on Ireland

I was a little apprehensive to bring the kids to the Emerald Isle.  Mostly because of the foriegn travel, although admittedly, I was nervous about them thinking it was not cool enough.  Like teenagers ho-humming their way around the world and wasting time before they could watch the American Idols finals, I thought the offspring would think "Boy, this looks just like Wisconsin."

Well, we landed in Dublin, got into a rental car to head to Cork, and the test was on.  The daugther wanted to stop in Waterford to scope out the Vikings -- yes, those Vikings.  Gotta love her!  I learned having a titular descriptor is soooo Viking, meaning I know all sorts of Vikings - Bob the Builder, Thomas the Tank Engine, Tim the Toolman.

But the biggest impact came after the museum.  Rain required some hotfooting over to dinner where we met Frankie.  Its been weeks after the trip and the kids have kept talking about Frankie the Waiter [apparently a Viking!]  And what was so amazing about Frankie?  Well, other than being friendly, nothing much.

He was polite to us, spoke to the kids, used good manners and was patient enough to provide a number of tips for having a great time in Ireland.  Read: he did those things your parents tried to teach you for years and eventually gave up in frustration.

How did the kids see it?  Frankie was THE nicest guy in the world!!!!  So, I've resolved to be nice, speak to people, use good manners and be patient with everyone I meet.  Pass it one...

The Wallaby Incident

We were tooling around Ireland - checking out the sites and whatnot - when a funny thing happened.  At first, though, it was not funny AT ALL.

We were staying at a hotel outside Cork which is located 2 kms from a open range wildlife park where giraffes, zebras, and other animals wandered in very large fenced areas.  It was very cool.

The cheetahs were held separately, of course.  Although, to demonstrate its "wildness," a dead rabbit was hung on a fancy clothes line and zipped above the cheetah's head.  The cheetah gave chase, eventually getting its lunch.  Cool and sad.

The other animals [pelicans, wallabies, capibara, mara] were largely allowed to roam freely around the park.  The coolest were the wallabies who sat munching grass while the kids pet them.  Little did Alex know he was petting the Wallinator...who passively allowed Alex to pet its back before it ATTACKED leaving a scratch across his face and ear..

He comes barrelling toward me with this look mixing terror and disbelief.  I turned from the otter pen to look at what happened.  Seeing this crazy look on Alex's face, I began laughing which only got him to cry more.  We settled him down and even got him to laugh about it.  But next time you are at the petting zoo, keep an eye out for the Wallinator

Queueing

Sorry to get all British, but queueing is a fascination/addiction.  A queue is a line - such as at the supermarket check-out or a gas station fill-up.  Most people think it simple and straight forward principle:  When someone leaves, everyone moves up.  Simpleton!  This stuff is complex with college-level courses to boot.

Engineers use queueing to understand how many cars make it through a green light.  Please note:

• The first person in the line gunning it doesn't do anything
• Providing another driver in line the finger may reduce your ability to get through the light
• Swearing improves your mood (not technically part of queueing, but whatever)
• There is no formula to hit all green lights - hey, it's math, not magic!

Merging traffic is a queue system combining two lines.  Theoretically, optimal performance dictates the use of all lanes available and an even ratio when merging - like a zipper, if you will.  So, inching forward to prevent the jerk who jumped into the off-ramp from merging is referred to as sub-optimal.  Although yelling 'eat my exhaust, cretin' seems to help.

Driving on the highway is a queue with velocity introduced.  There are technical terms in the system.  Like that son-of-a-monkey's-brother who cut you off to go 45 mph so he can see an open road ahead isn't called a jack ass.  Officially, he is called a disruptor.  Avoid them at all costs.

This may all drive the better half CRAZY, but it really comes to a head with check-out lines.  This isn't something rushed into.  You have to assess how many lines are open, how many people are in the lines, and how much they have in their hands/carts.  Then, you have to understand the throughput ratio of the cashier - they aren't all created equally, you know.  Finally, you have to be able to adjust!  Price checks on Preparation H or significant couponage or the addition of an incremental line (with a cold cashier), all have to be assessed in determining if you need to switch lines boldly.  And be willing to throw some elbows around, if needed.  The fate of your checkout time is at stake here.

Because you have to ask yourself, are you optimal?  Well, are ya, punk?

Mike

So, Mike.  

He was my older brother.  Teaching me all the things to do when one is an older brother - rules bending, rules breaking, blame shifting, obfuscation, and dating.  With a modest dash of tweaking the parents to boot.

Mike died when he was 14, although in his short life he taught me a lifetime of lessons mostly by showing me what not to do.  Although, that didn't apply to dating.  He was quite accomplished and dated enough to see eye-to-eye on love with friends, friend's dads, and friend's grandfathers with equal parts brilliance and bullshit (and pull it off.)  

I was never one to have success with the ladies, so this might be a good opportunity to explore what I could have learned about dating from Mike.  OR to highlight why I was never as successful at dating.  Yeah, the second one:

• When seeking his desire Mike brought bravado, I brought confusion
  
• Mike was a smooth talker, I was a mumbler
  
• His immaculate dress was offset by my rumpled professor look
  
• Mike spent hours ensuring he got the right look...I had a healthy fear of combs
  
• His muscled chest and arms where no match for my concave chest
  
• He had Romanesque locks and stature to contrast with my stately Steve Urkel build
  

Thus, he had a port in all storms, a ship in all ports and more nautical themed hijinx I can't mention here where my dinghy seldom set sail.  In the end, I managed alright - for a rumpled professor mumbler with a concave chest.  Or maybe it was pity...

Collar Bones

I’ve broken my collarbones 7 times.   

The collar bone is the curvelinear bone connecting the shoulder to the breast plate at the neck.  It’s a generally useless bone, unless its broken.   When broken, you can’t lift your arm.  At all.   Front, back or side.  Huge pain shoots up your neck straight to your head which gives one the impression your head just got shot off.     

I’ve had my collarbone broken at a park…and had to walk home about a mile.  I’m cringing in reflection.  

I’ve had my collarbone broken playing tackle football … in the snow … at a Catholic school.  The kid who did it is still in purgatory...may he find peace.

Apparently, when I was around 2 years-old, I broke my collarbone playing on one of those toy horses that are suspended from a frame by springs so you can "ride" the horse.  Well, to augment my riding skills, my older brother, Mike, who was probably 4 at the time pushed down the tail aggressively.  I went flying head first into the ground - broke my collarbone.  Allegedly, I did not fuss or cry which left the break undiscovered for about a week's time.  

That is me, a mixture of bravery and stupidity - and a large helping of older siblings.

Next: Mike

Dogs

We’ve always had dogs.  

My entire life, there was at least one dog in it…Magoo, Useless, Nameless, Sir Edwin Poop-a-lot, Luke.  My father named them, with more gusto than common sense.  Magoo probably ran into walls, although I'm not sure.  Sir Edwin Poop-a-lot I do know had a very weak constitution – and for about 6 months had to be put on a cottage cheese diet.  I can’t make this stuff up, I can only be the scribe.

About Magoo, all I really know is the story my mom has said 1,249 times about how we used to live on a farm in Beaver Dam, WI (extra credit for determining what the town was "known for") and Magoo was a life saver.   

We lived off of County Road M, I think.  Well, mom sent us outside to play and telling the dog to keep an eye on my sister (~5 years old), my brother (~4 years old) and me (~2 years old.)  As we wander close to the road, Magoo heroically shephards us back toward the house by physically putting herself between us and harms way.  The story usually ends with an amazed look on mom’s face, a shake of the head and an “oh, that Magoo.”   

What a dog, right?  Keeping the family safe although its just a dumb animal.    

Honestly, I know we were pretty broke growing up, but we could not scrap together enough coin for a babysitter?  The dog you named because it ran into walls is babysitting your kids.  We could have been happily playing in the stinking barn or chicken coop or even the rabbit cage, rather than under the glaucomic eye of the dog.

Next: Collar Bones