Legend In My Spare Time

Ricardo

2016-06-22T10:28:00.000-04:00

I want to tell you about one of my neighbors here in Miami. His name is Ricardo. He is a 25-year old Venezuelan who came to the U.S. in the aftermath of the mess of his birth country. For those who don’t know, Venezuela is, literally, crumbling. The government has become a rigid, Stalin-esque state-sponsored producer of repression and abuse. As a result, tens of thousands of Venezuelans fled and relocated here in Miami. After Cuba, it is the Latin country with the most representation here.

Ricardo is a twin. His brother was killed in a car crash when he was eight years old. His recollection of the event are sketchy – “One minute him & I were in the passenger seat of the car, the next minute I woke up, I was in the hospital and my brother was dead.”

Ricardo is a force of nature. He is the damn friendliest, ebullient person I have ever met. He is constantly happy, energetic, persuasive and persistent. You WILL end up doing what he wants to do. And you will enjoy it. He will insist.

Ricardo is gay. He has a boyfriend and he wants to settle down and marry him. He says he is tired of hookups and guys who only want to get laid. He is extremely comfortable in his sexuality. And, just for the record, I am extremely comfortable in his sexuality. I am probably the least homophobic person in the world, and I personally feel happy for people who know who they are and refuse to let other’s opinions dissuade or influence them. We spent Monday evening in the apartment pool talking about, well, whatever we wanted to.

When Ricardo was 17, he told his mother he was gay. She responded by turning the ring she had on her finger around so that the stone faced towards the palm, and slapped him across the face with it. It left a permanent scar on his face which he covers with a beard. She called him a “Goddamn faggot.” And this all happened in a shopping mall. In public. Shamed publicly. By his mother.

So to sum up: Ricardo is a happy, friendly, gay young man who has had a life of heartbreak, rejection, loss of his twin brother, forced relocation and violence at the hands of his mother.

And he keeps smiling.

There’s a message in there for all of us.

Neighbors

2016-04-16T09:18:00.004-04:00

As my friends know, a few months back I got married. And my wife is wonderful; there is no doubt that I married up. Dawn’s inclusion into my life has brought a number of positive influences to it, and one in particular –

I have met my neighbors.

I am not very sociable when I am at home. After a day of work in the bustle of downtown Miami, I just want to retreat to my little slice of Gringoism where I hear no Spanish & no one cuts me off in traffic. This city is crazy, so I prefer my home time to be relaxing with as few outside influences as possible.

But Dawn moved here from a rural area of Alabama knowing no one but me. She had to make friends, and I am happy to report: She has. And, through that, so have I. Now, you would think that, this being Miami, she has met a bunch of Cubans. Not true. By my count she has only met one – the elderly lady who lives around the corner who doesn’t speak a lick of English. But besides her, here are some bios of her, I mean our, new neighbor friends –

Ricardo – Ricardo is a 24-year old University of Miami student from Venezuela, where he and his mother fled from when Chavez assumed power. There are a lot of Venezuelans here in Miami who did the very same thing. Ricardo is nonstop chatter, and very gay. Friendly as hell, with a wide-eye sunny view of the world. I smile whenever I see him.

Ahmed – Ahmed is a 23-year old UM student from Saudi Arabia. Chain-smokes. Very thick Arabian accent, and when he talks on the phone with his mother, it sounds like Jihadists plotting a terror campaign. But Ahmed is anything but. Ahmed is a bit reserved, and avoids eye contact, but when you engage him he blossoms with talks of his dreams. His main dream is to have sex with as many American women as he can. And when we talk about, well, whatever, you can tell that America is influencing him. A typical Ahmed rant is something like, “I call to order pizza. Dees fucking Cuban on phone say he can’t understand my English. I tell dees asshole same thing.”

Molly – Molly is the elderly German lady who lives upstairs. She has been here in the apartment complex for 23 years. Very thick German accent that has obviously never left her. She is very hard to understand, and her sentences are peppered with “und” instead of “and.” Molly stays up all night watching Fox News and conspiracy shows. She is convinced that Armageddon is around every corner. But she brings us food. So that’s nice.

Scott – Finally, an American! Scott is, well, he’s Scott. He has been everything and knows everyone. Says he used to play guitar with Jimi Hendrix. Has written novels. His father founded Burger King. His dream is to move to California and sell his screenplay to Hollywood executives. Hey, go big or go home, right?

Brenda – Another gringo. Brenda is originally from Michigan, but has been in Miami for a very long time. This is evident by her leather-like skin that is about ten shades too dark for a typical Caucasian, and straw-like bleach-blond hair. Brenda lives at the pool. Molly says she uses the pool to bathe herself.

So thank you, or curse, you, my lovely wife for introducing me to these people. But given that they all live within a nine iron of where I rest my head each night, I guess I need to know these things.

Which reminds me. I have to go give Ahmed a golf lesson. There are no golf courses in Saudi Arabia.

This should be interesting.

The Flashing 12 Generation

2016-03-29T09:35:00.004-04:00

The time change happened a couple of weeks back, and as is my custom, the next morning I went around my home & moved all the clocks forward one hour. I mean, why have clocks showing the wrong time? Decoration?

Anyway, the process of re-setting my little world to the norms of the outside world got me thinking about my mom, and more broadly, her generation. Mom’s generation was definitely pre-computers, pre-digital, pre-anything but pencil and paper. Moving the clocks meant turning some button on the back that moved the minute hand forward 60 minutes. In contrast, I went to each of my digital clocks, held down the ‘Time’ button, and then clicked the ‘Hour’ button once. There – Spring Forward was accomplished.

My mother’s generation has been called The Greatest Generation, and I am not about to argue that moniker. Parents selflessly gave of themselves – fathers went to war, mothers raised their kids, and they complained very little about either. This was the American Dream of the 1950s. My parents bought a nice home in a nice suburban area, dad went to work dutifully each day, and mom got four kids ready and off to school each day. And then, in the case of my mom, she would get dressed and drive to an office somewhere and be a Bookkeeper.

Mom was a whiz with numbers. Oftentimes she would bring her work home with her, and after feeding all of us, would spend her evenings banging on an adding machine (the mechanical type, where you would punch the numbers, then pull a little bar down where the total was then printed on a roll of paper). Later, she relented and got a calculator - but with the roll of paper for an audit trail.

When computers hit the scene in the 90's mom was at the very end of her working career. She was approaching 70 years old, and when she finally balanced her last ledger, she wrote in the numbers, and, literally, closed the books. Her career was done.

But mine was really just getting going. And in my generation, the tool of necessity is the personal computer. At this minute I am typing this story in Word, and when it is done I will upload it to my blog.

A blog. Try explaining a blog to your parents.

Anyway, I remember trying to get my mom to embrace computers. I showed her neat Youtube vids of babies making faces or whatever, and she thought that was just grand. I then tried to use that bit of interest to explain to her, ‘You know, mom, anything you would ever want to know can be found right here.’ Want to take a trip somewhere? Don’t call the travel agent...fire up Expedia. Want to find a good restaurant in Medina? Google it – don’t flip open the yellow pages.

It was no use. My mom was institutionalized in the Old School ways of doing things. “I spent fifty damn years in the business world punching keys. I don’t have to punch anymore.” Okay mom. Just trying to help.

So what does this have to do with setting clocks after a time change? Well, how many of you have parents, where to this day, if you go to their homes, there’s a VCR (Forget DVD players) that has a flashing 12:00 displayed on it? And how often do you sit there thinking, ‘I could fix that in about ten seconds,’ and then you do, but then you go back a week later and there’s the flashing 12 again?

Our parents were brilliant, and my parents in particular sacrificed themselves for their children. For that I am eternally grateful.

But setting a digital clock or VCR? No clue.

So here’s to the Greatest Generation.

Or, if you prefer, the Flashing 12 generation.

Heroes

2015-11-10T15:49:00.000-05:00

“Ain’t found a way to kill me yet...”

I will admit that I used to find Veteran’s Day troubling. Having grown up when I did, which was just a little too young to be part of the Vietnam War, but old enough to formulate an opinion on war...yet still an impressionable teenager, I was conflicted. We lost the war...but our soldiers did their damn level-best. But we lost.

And as such, in the years immediately following the end of hostilities, our collective national consciousness had to find someone to blame. And tragically, many blamed the soldiers. I adopted that mindset as well. And as a result, I wanted nothing to do with military service. My father even pitched it to me as I was graduating college – “You know, son, you could go into the Navy, come out of OCS as an officer, and retire in twenty years, at age 43.”

You might as well have suggested I run off and join the circus. Wasn’t happening.

As I grew older, I realized my anger was displaced. Those troops were put into a totally unwinnable quagmire. The real villains were the politicians. And, honestly, our society for how they were treated once they returned to the States. That’s why you see so much “Honor Our Troops” entreats...I believe it was guilt over how we treated the Vietnam Vets. But I was still conflicted – I couldn’t just swivel and unconditionally thank them for their service; there was a part of me that still thought, ‘Hey, you signed up for this gig.’

“Walking tall Machine Gun Man...They spit on me in my homeland...”

So I spent a lot of time trying to understand the American soldier, without judgment. I asked friends of mine who served what it was like. I turned to media to help me understand. And it was in this search that I came across perhaps the most poignant, horrifying, and accurate description of what it had to be like in those jungles.

“My buddy’s breathing his dying breath...Oh God please won’t you help me make it through...”

Jerry Cantrell is a member of the band Alice In Chains. He wrote the song Rooster in honor of his father, Jerry Cantrell, Sr., who served in Vietnam; ‘Rooster’ was his nickname. And the video, frankly, is hard to watch. But I insist that you do:

I am no longer conflicted. They were heroes. All of them.

Happy Veterans Day.

Discordant Discourse

2014-09-29T10:09:00.002-04:00

I can remember a time when the political landscape was dominated by, primarily, two philosophies. You had the Republican vision and the Democratic vision. At times there was a third party in play, but for a very long time, the two main parties would try to persuade voters as to which vision they, essentially, endorsed. Then whoever was elected would, in theory at least, initiated policies consistent with that vision.

That’s how it used to work.

It does not work that way anymore. Far as I can tell, I see only one party offering up a vision. The other party? They criticize that vision. And that’s fine, as that’s politics. Part of the persuasion is to discredit the other vision as wrong-headed, short-sighted, or whatever.

But…you have to have an alternate vision. It simply cannot be, “They’re wrong.” You have to tell me why you are right, and “Because they’re wrong” is not an answer. Tell me why your view is better.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you today’s Republican Party.

They have been called a number of things recently: The Party of No. Obstructionists. Puppets to the Koch Brothers. The Rich People’s Party…well wait, they’ve always been called that.

But just answer me this – what do they stand for? What is their vision? Lower taxes? Strong military? Okay, I will give you those. They have long held those values. But the math simply does not work when you want to spend gobs of money on something while reducing your ability to pay for it.

Personal freedom? Now you’re stretching. They have a differing view of what “Freedom” is, and the best recent example of their idea of freedom is Cliven Bundy – the freedom to break the law and pay no consequences for it. Back in the 1960’s, those people were called Anarchists. Now they’re called Conservatives.

But in reality, their vision is, ‘Against Anything Obama Does.’ Now I realize this pegs me as a Democrat, and that is okay. Most everyone knows I am. But you better stop with the personal criticism right there, because at least my party has a vision. And when the other party spends all their time demonizing the leader of the my party (Marxist, Kenyan, Muslim, Appeaser In Chief, Feckless Leader…take your pick), eventually you have to step to the dais and tell us your vision. We get you don’t like who is in charge. That message has been clearly sent…and received.

So if you’re a Republican, what is your party’s vision? What is the vision of America that Republicans proffer? Tell me. Guns? God? Less government? Okay. Well, the devil is in the details – how do you plan on accomplishing those things? How, for example, are you going to expand gun rights more than they already are? In many states you can strap an AK-47 on your back and walk into a Walmart. What more do you want there? God? The Constitution grants all citizens freedom of religion, totally unfettered. Hard to expand upon that. Less government? Okay. What is going to go away? Road construction? Mass transit? Head Start? They won’t answer that, but instead adhere to Reagan’s mantra that government is the problem. Well, it’s not. And they know it’s not.

Their strategy is to simply throw accusations at Democrats, Obama in particular, which have no basis in any kind of reality. Case in point: How often have we heard that, ‘Obama is coming for your guns.’ So…when is this going to happen? He’s only got two more years left in office. If that is indeed him plan he best get to it don’t you think?

Obamacare. My God the rhetoric on that hit new lows for lying. Death Panels. Killing Grandma. Government takeover of health care. When, in reality, do you know what it was? Insurance reform. It simply required everyone to have health insurance. Bought in the marketplace. Sure, with some financial assistance for those too poor to do so, but so what? It was a massive expansion of customers to private businesses. That’s it. That’s IT. Nothing more. But to hear the Republicans tell the story, it was going to be the death of this country. But if it was their idea…no wait, it was.

The Party of No is now the Party of Hell No. With no rational reason for it.

Except one.

Because there are only two parties. And, when you have no vision, the strategy becomes simple. Trash the other vision. You do not have to offer up a plan if you spend all your time discrediting the other plan. Don’t believe me? Ask John Boehner. He stated, publicly, that Congress should not be judged on how many laws they pass but how many they repeal. Well, on both counts, they have failed miserably, since this Congress is on track to pass the fewest number of laws of a Congress ever…and have repealed exactly zero.

They believe they are saving us from Obama. Well you know what? With that view you are disrespecting the will of the majority. Obama was elected, legitimately and without fraud, twice. The people spoke. You just don’t like their answer. Too bad. Win an election.

So remember this. Republicans have a vision; they truly do. But they aren’t telling you what it is. Why? Because they know it is too onerous, too repugnant to offer up publicly. I will tell you what it is – two words: Social Security. They want your money. Your money. They pretty it up with talks of “Freedom to invest your contributions as you see fit” to give the illusion of personal control. Bullshit. They want your money so it can be thrown into the stock market and they can make money off your money.

Disagree? Then prove me wrong.

Politics has been called the Art of Compromise. However, when you have one party refusing to do so, you get nothing. The system breaks down.

And that’s what we have.

Please remember that when you vote this November.

Your choice is a vision or blindness.

The Isthmus

2014-09-03T14:43:00.002-04:00

So. About two weeks back I got my U.S. passport in the mail.

Six days later I was in Panama.

I am not usually that impulsive of a person. The Virgo in me says to think, re-think, and then think again before doing something like that. But circumstances fell in a perfect way in that I had a three-day weekend coming up, a place to stay in Panama City, and a quick check of Expedia netted a nonstop round-trip flight for $350.

Not to mention a beautiful hostess who was very eager to show me around. (Insert the wink icon here)

I have never ventured outside of the States. Canada doesn’t count. So this was going to be my first real international venture. Customs. Foreign people. New culture. I was very excited. And luckily, my excitement and expectations were easily trumped by the experiences. Panama is a beautiful country with very friendly people.

Panamanians are very passionate about two things: The Panama Canal and Roberto Duran. And luckily for me, I got to meet both. A friend of mine told me, when I mentioned to him I was going to Panama, that I needed to meet Duran. My initial thought was, yeah, sure. A city of two million people and I am going to find him. I informed my hostess, Ileana, of what my friend said. She replied, “Oh, Roberto is a good friend. I’ll introduce you.” My jaw dropped. See, I am a boxing fan, and there was no better period, in my opinion, of boxing than the early 1980’s Middleweight scene – Sugar Ray Leonard, Thomas “The Hit Man” Hearns, Alexis Arguello…

And Manos De Piedras. Roberto Duran. He was the best of them all. If you don’t believe me just check out YouTube. He kicked Sugar Ray Leonard’s ass before the ‘No Mas’ fight.

So Ileana takes me to his club in downtown Panama City, we open the door…and there he is. Ileana tells him that I traveled all the way from the United States to meet him (a nice little lie there). Roberto puts his hands together and bows to me. Bows! I shook his sandpaper hand of stone and said “Manos De Piedras…it’s an honor.” He thanked me and said, “You want picture?”

Hell yes! And here we are.

The other point of pride, the Panama Canal, was also on the itinerary. We took a day trip to the Miraflores Locks and watched the huge vessel ships go through. Here was a history lesson for me – the Panama Canal isn’t just a set of locks. It is eighty miles long with a series of locks which raise and lower ships from the sea-level of the two oceans to the level of the lake in the middle of the country, about 85 feet above sea level. A massive engineering undertaking to essentially raise and lower ships via the gravity of water up 85 feet then back down.

While Panama City is certainly cosmopolitan, the country is quite third-world-like in many respects. People do not know how to drive. Road signs are a minor inconvenience, which are only voluntarily adhered to. Cars come from you in all directions. Livestock crosses roads. Some of the living quarters for people are better suited for poultry. Being from the States, I considered this all quite quaint. Ileana informed that if we got pulled over by the police to not say anything (because that would peg me as a foreigner) and to give her ten dollars. Often cops stop you just to get money. See, had I spoken and they heard my gringo voice, the price would have gone to $50.

The president of the country lives in a section of Panama City called Old Town. There is no mistaking when you get near his residence as there are soldiers at the ready with machine guns. You are instructed to turn your headlights off (after dark) so that they can see inside the vehicle. Again, a little Banana Republic-like. Old Town is a place full of character. Sort of a cross between the French Quarter and Key West. Narrow streets and a feel of danger. But I was told it is very safe, and I had a personal confirmation of this, as children went laughing and running down the streets.

Panamanians are very friendly people. Coming from Miami, and only being there for three days, I never truly accepted this, as my Untrusting American side kept coming out, like when I bought a Panama hat for $25 but handed the guy $40. He said he had to go get change. I demurred, and told him oh nonono…you leave with that $40 and I will never see you again. But I was assured by Ileana that he would return with my change. And he did.

I thought I was an urbane individual. But after my trip to Panama I realized just how much of a sheltered life I have lived.

And I cannot wait to go back.

The Cubans by the Pool

2014-08-12T13:59:00.004-04:00

I have wonderful news.

I’ve been adopted.

It started innocently enough, as I was taking an afternoon dip in the pool at my apartment complex after my Saturday volunteer gig at a local golf course. It being summer, I was a burnt to a crisp, dehydrated amalgam of suntan lotion and bug spray. I needed a body of water to slide myself into. The pool was at a crisp 92 degrees. Not that it mattered – it was wet. All I was looking for.

My apartment is the closest one to the pool, a literal 50-foot walk from my front door to the deep end. Thus, when I am in my apartment I can hear the sounds of the pool, and on a typical weekend I hear the splashing, kids laughing, maybe some music…and the chatter.

Incessant, rapid chatter.

Spanish chatter.

The Cubans had taken over the pool.

Hey, I don’t care. It’s Miami and I’m a gringo.

So there I was in the pool surrounded by a very large, extended family of Cubans. There was grandma and grandpa in their lounge chairs. There were their offspring in their 20s and 30s with their children. In all, about 20 or so. They were cooking something on the grill which smelled divine. Two young girls were splashing in the pool, shouting, “Dale! Mira!” at each other. There were two guys animatively discussing something with interjections of, “Claro…pero…” There were the mothers with their babies slowly acclimating them to the water while the babies squealed with delight. I did not understand a single thing they were saying, but I totally knew what was going on. They were having fun.

And apparently they were celebrating something, because they all eventually got out of the pool and gathered around the grill and sang something which I guess was ‘Happy Birthday to You…’ in Spanish.

It was a nice scene. Then they got back in the water and finally noticed me, the prune-fingered gringo who hadn’t moved in over two hours. And we started talking. In English. Because, yes, they spoke English as well, and very well.

And we had a great time. They asked where I was from and I told them Ohio. They didn’t understand, so I said Akron…where LeBron James is from. “Ahhh Laybrrrro Yaymes! Bayskeetbol pllllayur!” And we had a nice talk about how people in Miami are all from somewhere else, including, obviously, them. I learned some Spanish and they learned some English slang. For example, I taught them the difference between “Y’all” and “You guys.” Which is basically, what part of the United States you’re from.

These are very loud people. Very animated. When someone shows up they all stop what they’re doing and yell in unison, “AYYYYY!!!!” When they talk it’s with machine-gun rapidity. It is never quiet.

Just like my blood Italian family.

So anyway. It was getting dark so I excused myself to go eat. It was a nice afternoon with the Cubans by the pool.

The next Saturday I was back at the pool after my golf work shift doing the same thing - hydrating.

And so were they. All of them. In their usual spots. Except this time, they saw me immediately as I walked through the gate. And they all went, “AYYYYY!!!!”

I was adopted.

Bad Bosses

2014-05-15T10:47:00.003-04:00

I have been in my chosen career for over thirty years now, and have worked for five different companies during that time. And for at least a dozen different bosses. Some have been very good; inspiring, motivational individuals.

And others have just flat-out sucked.

I am a boss myself. I have a staff of 23 very different individuals. Literally, a United Nations collective, since I presently work in Miami. Comes with the territory. And I can tell you that being the boss ain’t easy. What I have discovered is that it comes down to individual relationships – what works for Scott won’t work with Merci. Management isn’t a ‘one size fits all’ proposal – what motivates one person doesn’t work with another. As well, I have discovered that what people really want to know is why they are doing something. Tell them that, and things tend to go much smoother.

By no means do I consider myself a great boss. But I do think I am fairly competent on what I do, and if my staff’s collective morale is any indication, my style seems to work. But Gawd-DAMN I have witnessed and been subjected to boss styles that are horrid. Here are but a few, and I will be careful as to not totally blow their cover.

Not that they don’t deserve it, mind you. But here we go:

The Condescending Bitch: I have nothing against female bosses; let me be clear on that. But I had one female boss who was very dictatorial and kept her staff on a very short leash. She took over as my supervisor at a job I was at about ten years ago, where I was about three years into my employment. And apparently she felt she had to squarely press her thumb down on staff. She ruled through domination. Her pet phrase was, whenever I was presenting something, was to interrupt me and say, “What Jerry is TRYING to say is…”

Bitch, what I am trying to say is what I am saying. Shut up and listen.

The ‘Nothing is My Fault’ Douchenozzle: Everyone knows this type. He gives vague, cryptic direction on how he wants something accomplished, and then when the results aren’t what he wanted, he rants. Further, he has no compunction to toss his staff under the tires when he is pressed by his higher-ups. You wish he gets run over by a truck, which usually happens anyway, since Karma takes care of these types. The pet phrase of these types is, “You need to work smarter, not harder.”

Yeah well, you need your genitals attached to electricity.

The ‘In Over His Head’ Jerk: This is The Peter Principle in practice. Just because you are a good, say, bus driver doesn’t mean you are good at MANAGING bus drivers. Management is its own field of expertise, but this guy doesn’t understand that. Through doing a certain task for a number of years, he gets promoted; usually due to nobody else wanting the position. He then finds himself in charge of people who were his peers, and he cannot make the transformation. These types usually end up burning themselves out over the pressure and end up doing the work themselves since they have no clue on how to motivate people to do it for them.

The Preening Empty Suit: I saved this one for last, as he was my boss at my previous place of employment. He would strut around like a rooster in his freshly pressed three-piece suit replete with a quad-folded handkerchief in the breast pocket, looking ready to host some fucking game show. But the clothes had no emperor. There was zero substance under the style. When pressed for direction, his common reply was, “Let me get back to you on that,” or, “Let me check with the boss.” But you knew what was really going on – he couldn’t buy a clue if you spotted him a goddamn loan to get one.

This fuck-knuckle would actually walk up to people, look them straight in the eye and say, “How much do you value your job?” Because the common theme with these types is raging insecurity – they know they’re vacuous, but to keep you at bay they have to make sure you’re worried about your employment.

I really hope I am not any of these types. I guess if I was I wouldn’t be sitting in a corner window office on the 12^th floor of a building in downtown Miami.

But you would have to ask my staff to be sure.

The Word of Our Generation

2014-05-10T21:03:00.000-04:00

Want to know the height of arrogant presumption? I am about to do it. I am going to define my entire generation via one word. One. Single. Word.

Ready? Here it is –

Cool.

That’s the word to define Baby Boomers and those who came the generation after for good measure. It’s what we all wanted to be. Cool. And what did we not want to be?

Un-cool.

It’s not a temperature. It’s not a weather term. It’s an attitude. Everyone wants to be cool. Now, previous generations had their terms that connoted cool – suave, debonair, smooth. We also had synonyms such as hip, jake, chill.

But it was cool to be cool.

Cool got you laid. Cool got doors opened for you. Cool got you popular – “Oh, Frankie over there? He’s cool.” It was the only label you needed. Smart? Psht. Educated? Please. Vegetarian? Dude, not cool.

Sometimes imploring someone to be cool is what a situation totally calls for:

Now I would be remiss if I didn't give a nod to the runner-up word of our generation: Fuck. For those offended by that, get the fuck over it.

Or fucking, better, get a fucking clue because fuck is the fuckingest baddest word any motherfucker ever fucked. Which, as that sentence demonstrates, shows the versatility of it.

But cool is a word with so many uses which all center on one, singular intent.

We all want to be cool.

Everybody’s Got A Cousin In Miami

2014-05-05T17:44:00.002-04:00

Years ago, when my dad was a young man, he would make frequent trips to Miami for vacation. As a result of those trips he nicknamed Florida “The land of the hustle.”

No, my dad wasn’t into disco. He was referring to how Florida used to be – a land where people with shady pasts or questionable character could swoop in, run a couple of scams then leave before the authorities caught up with them.

And this was more or less true in the 1960s and 1970s – Miami was a growing, burgeoning cauldron of immigrants, snowbirds and natives trying to stake out their piece of paradise. And in doing so they were subjected to various fly-by-nighters who would promise to fix a roof, build a pool or pour a patio. These vermin would take a deposit to do the work then never show up. They did their hustle then skipped town.

I am here to tell you the hustle still exists. Getting a reputable contractor to do work on your house is still a dicey proposition. But also, a huge black market has flourished here as a result – people don’t call the Better Business Bureau or check Angie’s List to find a reputable worker.

They call Pepe in Hialeah.

I am not a world traveler, so I cannot tell you about the black market in other cities, but I can tell you that whatever you need in Miami, everyone seems to know someone who knows someone who can get you it. I mean, this happens with the most mundane purchases. For example, a few months back I was informed I

needed to get a Guayabera. A Cuban dress shirt. It’s a standard staple of most people’s wardrobes here. So, I innocuously stated my intent to a few of my staff. Almost instantly, one of my staffers, who is Cuban, sidles up to me, turns and looks to either side to be sure no one was eavesdropping, and whispers to me, “Leesen. You want good Guayabera? I have a cousin who weeel hooook you up.”

Dude, I’m not trying to buy a kilo of coke.

This town is loaded with those types of transactions. Trust me, there’s a Guayabera store on damn near every major road in this town. But I was advised to avoid all those and go see this guy’s cousin. To get a shirt.

In many ways, this is a cool side to this town. It encourages you to get to know people so they can do you favors, to get connected. And people here are friendly – if they like you they will hook you up…for everything from sandwiches to yachts, someone knows someone.

But it also causes me angst. I’m a researcher. I scour the internet, craigslist and so on to find a value deal. I pride myself in making informed purchases. It is a bit disconcerting when that all gets neutered when someone whispers in my ear that their brother in law can take care of me.

Sometimes this gets to me so I retreat to my sanctuary – the golf course. Which I did the other day and played with one of the caddies at Crandon, Danny. He was going on about his new set of irons he bought, how much better he was hitting the ball and so on. He was real happy. In an effort to make conversation I said, ya know, I’m thinking on getting a new set of irons too. And there, in the middle of the seventh fairway, with nobody else around, Danny comes over to me, pulls out a piece of paper from his wallet, and whispers to me…

“Leesen. Go see my cousin on Coral Way. He weel hook you up.”

Ay dios mio.

Facebook Gobbledegook

2014-04-23T19:33:00.004-04:00

I love Facebook. I really do. It has provided me a convenient way of keeping up with family and friends who I am too lazy to call. It’s also an easy way of finding out what is going on with your friends, from heady issues such as their health or what their children are up to, to the critical stuff. Like pics of what they ate for lunch. You also learn a lot about these people not gleaned from face-to-face conversations. Not to mention the opportunity to snipe some uber cool memes. (I will never tire of Grumpy Cat) -->

But there are some things people post that make me take pause. Things that, when I see them, I think, dude srlsy?

Here are a few things that make me smh…

People who talk to their dead relatives – You know what I’m referring to. Posts like, “Mom you died thirteen years ago today but I still miss you.”

Okay, let me get out of the way the fact that many people do miss their deceased loved ones. Me included.

But what makes you think that heaven has internet?

Shit, my mom never touched a damn computer her entire life. If I Facebook posted while she was alive that I loved her, she would never have read it. So there is zero reason to think that her passing included a sudden spate of tech savviness.

People…dead folks don’t have Facebook accounts.

Yeah I know. These kinds of posts are people’s way coping. Cool. I’m down. But really – if you want to remember your dead dad, go lay some flowers on his grave.

Share if you love Jesus!

And if you don’t you’re going to burn in hell.

Apparently that’s the message. Lemme ask – can I love Jesus without sharing this post? Is that allowed? This is remotely related to my previous beef. We all agree that Jesus died some two thousand years ago, a horrific death which included nails being driven through his extremities. So he’s dead. Some think he now sits at the right hand of God. Okay.

But why does my feelings towards him hinge on whether I share your zealous post or not?

Political Opinions That Can't Be Backed up – Look. Those who know me know I love a good political debate. However, many do not understand what the word ‘debate’ means. They think they can post their view through some kind of politically-based meme and get three thousand likes.

Well, forgive me if I might have questions. And forgive me further if I ask them.

What usually happens when this occurs is one of two things: Either the poster explains they did not intend to engage in debate, or I am told how stupid I am for having a different opinion. Either reply leads to the same conclusion:

You got no business telling us your opinion in a public forum.

So stop it.

Game Invites – I don’t know what Farmville is. I have no interest in finding out.

So I guess these are usual irritants which occur when the collective moshes on a website. I wonder if Mark Zuckerburg saw this coming?

Actually, I wonder if he’s too busy counting his money to care.

The Secret to Management

2014-04-18T22:19:00.003-04:00

Okay, lets get a couple of things out of the way right at the top.

I am not Steven Covey. I don’t possess some kind mystic knowledge that can be distilled into Seven Habits and thus launch a self-help empire.

I also do not claim to possess the ability to make people who work for me motivated to the point of wanting to topple small countries on my behest.

But I think I have found the key to managing people somewhat successfully.

Ready?

Well, first, before I divulge this wad of wisdom, let me tell you how people operate in the workplace. Specifically, how do you get people to do what you want and need them to do?

People are curious. When they are faced with a task, they often have a number of questions about the task. Some of these are obvious – they need to know how to do the task; but we can assume that they already have that ability. If not, provide them training.

They also want to know when they need to have the work done by – what’s my deadline for this? That’s pretty simple too – by the end of the day, the week, or month. Whatever. But be careful with this one – don’t concoct some fake deadline to try to motivate. It may work once, but never more than that.

There are also the logistics of the task – who am I to do this with? Where? Again, those are relatively easy to address. But here’s the key to it all –

People want to know why.

So tell them.

And tell them the truth – ‘Boss is trying to prepare a proposal by the end of the week. Your role will provide the needed statistical analysis of foreclosures in Hialeah, which will give the report its needed depth. You obviously have a strong grasp on the analysis and the area being looked at. The report will be shared by upper management.’

Sometimes the why question has offshoots, like “Why me? Why not Joe down the hall?” Or, “Why can’t this be done by the IT group?”

Be as honest and as patient you can with these queries. Answer them all. If you haven’t figured out the answers to those, do so before springing it on your staff. Because they will ask. And if not you, they will ask others. They want to know why, and they are going to find one way or the other.

So take control of it. Answer the why questions.

Now, here’s the worst possible answer to give:

“Because I said so.”

Wrong on so many levels. For one, we are not dealing with eight year olds. For two, trying to place yourself on a higher authoritative level than them is ridiculous; you already have a title that clears that up. They know it is because you said so – tossing that at them absolutely kills their motivation. It’s patronizing.

A wonderful benefit of answering the why questions is, you just might find a better way to accomplish the task – “Oh, so if that’s the reason, why don’t we try it this way?” I have gotten such feedback so many times and have used that advice often. Hey, I’m just a guy with a plan, but I am not so naïve and insecure to believe that since it emanated from my brain it is infallible.

People who know why they are doing something are motivated. They’re empowered. And they feel like they have a boss who listens to them.

Which is why it works. Every time.

Mother And Child Reunion

2014-04-13T15:55:00.002-04:00

(Note: I wrote the following three years ago when my mother was still alive. It was in my first book. I felt it was worth posting here and since it's my blog, I make the rules :) )

My mother is the most amazing person I know.

I always say she was born one generation too early. Had she been born in my generation, there is no doubt she would be the head of an accounting firm, or CFO of a Fortune 500 company. Great mind, sharp as a tack, a whiz with numbers. Since she wasn’t born in my generation, she instead did what women of her generation were expected to do – she got married and raised a family. After her fourth and final child was born (me), she went back to work as a bookkeeper. She likes to use that title in an attempt to remain humble, but she was far more than the gal who balanced the company checkbook. She ran whatever office she worked in. She was the confidante to her various bosses, knew where all the bodies were buried.

When she got home, she would quickly cook supper before dad got home from his job as a plumber. We would have dinner, she would clean up, relax for like thirty seconds, then would help me with mine or my sibling’s homework. She would then retire to her chair and crochet afghans. Constant motion. Selfless. Always put the needs of the family ahead of her own.

In 1974, at the age of forty-seven, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was 16 at the time. The prognosis was not good, and the treatment plan, given the comparable stone-age era of cancer treatment that existed at the time, was a radical mastectomy - surgery to remove not only her right breast, but also most of the muscles in her upper right arm. We, of course, were horrified. The age I was at, I could not process this. Was my mom going to die?

Yes, that was a very real possibility.

The night before the surgery was surreal. It was a steady stream of well-wishers – family, friends, and neighbors. You could see the fear in each of their eyes. Mom was not scared, or at least she didn’t let on that she was…I am sure she was, but in typical mom fashion, there was no hint of it. Each person came up to her, tears in their eyes, telling her it is going to be okay. Mom’s reply, over and over, was twofold. First she would say “Hey look. I am going to be fine. I’m going to get this taken care of and I will see you next week.” Then she would ask how THEY were doing. Amazing. That’s my mom.

The surgery was difficult. Mom was in the hospital for almost two weeks. The follow-up care involved radiation, which sapped her seemingly unlimited supply of strength. Things were done for her once she got home which she did not like in the least. It took a few months until she was back to where she was physically before the surgery, but the bottom line was, she was alive and cancer-free.

Up next was physical therapy. A regimen was laid out to her that that included; yes you guessed it – taking up golf. Mom had never touched a golf club in her life. The doctor said that it would be perfect for her – a low-impact, healthy activity that would strengthen her decimated right arm. The walking would be good for her circulation. Since she had most of the muscles in her upper right arm removed, golf would help getting that area of her body into condition.

For the two years preceding this scare, I was a typical teenager. Translation: I was a lazy slacker that had to be cajoled into doing the most mundane of tasks. I was in the process of ‘separation’ from my parents. My own personality was developing, and part of that development was to begin rejecting whatever my parents stood for. There were almost daily arguments as I was being, well, recalcitrant.

But now, mom needed to learn to play golf. Whatever rebellion was fomenting inside my brain evaporated. She bought a set of Lynx Lady Tigress clubs and this hideous pink & white golf bag. She bought golf shoes, balls, tees, training aids, hats, skirts, socks, tee holders, headcovers, charms and gloves. She then turned to me and said, let’s go.

And we went. In an odd turnaround of the traditional dynamic, instead of mom helping me with my math homework, I was helping her to learn a game I had embraced years earlier.

This was difficult for me. For one, I did not like to tell my mom to do anything. For two, I did not have a real good grasp of how to communicate in a teaching manner the mechanics of a golf swing. And for three, my first student was a 48-year-old breast cancer survivor with no muscles in her upper right arm. It was a challenge. Much of my so-called instruction was, “Mom, watch me.” And her reply was usually, “Yes I see what you are doing son…but I can’t do that.”

In short order it became clear that mom needed professional instruction. She enrolled for a set of lessons with a local pro, and ate it up. Every Wednesday, 6p to 8p. She would bounce home and come straight up to me, all enthused, “Jerry, look at what I learned!” I had to admit I had to fight the urge to say uh, I don’t think that’s right mom, but the look in her eye dissuaded me from doing so. She had that same look in her eye that I did when I first fell in love with the game years earlier, and I was not about to dampen that enthusiasm with my opinion on what a pro was telling her.

My dad, who never liked to be left out of anything, started joining us. I kind of hate to admit it, but mom really did not like playing with dad, as he was wont to point out anything my mom was doing incorrectly. “Charlie, worry about your own damn game” was one of her common replies. But if I had something to say about her swing, she was all ears. See, I am more similar in personality to my mom. We are both analytical, introspective. My dad was an impulsive extrovert. If you were going to have a party, mom would plan it & dad would crash it. Dad would befriend anyone, then make mom tell them to leave. They worked well together as a parenting team, but when it came to golf, mom preferred her advice from me.

During the summer we would play at least three times a week, usually at Sycamore Valley, a short course perfect for beginners. We usually walked, and we always talked about anything and everything. Every time we played golf, I got smarter. Know how teenagers seem to think their parents are dumb as rocks? I was starting to adopt that attitude when mom’s cancer struck, and the resulting dynamic turned this traumatic event into something beautiful. At an age when most kids are moving away from their parents, I was getting closer to mine. My older siblings were gone – Barb was married, Kenny was in Florida and Patty had her own apartment in nearby Stow. The household was mom and dad…and me. There may have been some animosity of how close mom and I were becoming, but either I was not aware of it or it did not exist. In either case, it was irrelevant in my mind. I had mom’s attention now. They had their time. This was mine.

When we golfed, mom would work on what the pro was imparting to her. I would steer clear of that and help her with other aspects of the game – reading greens, playing the wind, club selection. In other words, I left her swing in the hands of the pro but I took care of everything else. The mechanics of the golf swing are just a fraction of what is entailed in “learning” how to play this crazy game. ‘Mom, see that sand trap over there? I don’t think you can clear that, so why don’t you aim to the right so your next shot is a simple pitch shot onto the green?’ That kind of stuff.

We took golf trips. Myrtle Beach, Ft. Lauderdale, Las Vegas. We would discuss the game at the dinner table – “Look what Jerry showed me today”…”Lemme tell you what mom did on the course yesterday”…

Mom’s swing was very slow and methodical, much as you would expect from a bookkeeper, a person who makes a living making sure things are correct, would be. She would stand over the ball for an inordinate amount of time, going through her mental check list – (ball off left instep…hands ahead…weight evenly balanced…) – and once she was satisfied that everything was how it should be, she would take the club back slowly. She would pause at the top, but with the lack of upper-arm muscles, she could not control the club at the top – the weight of the club and momentum of the backswing would cause the club to slide out of her grip – she would then re-grip it as her first move down. This action caused her right hand to roll over too quickly on the downswing and shut the clubface at impact. The result was usually a pull-hook – the ball would start left of the target and curve/hook farther to the left.

The standard joke was, ‘My mother the hooker.’

We became inseparably close. A bond was formed that was impenetrable. For all of dad’s attempts at infiltration or my sibling’s perceived animosity, those forces were moot. Golfers know this bond. Now, mix in that it is a mother and her youngest child, and further that it was a ‘man-bites-dog’ story line, that the child was teaching the mother, and you had something that was unique, wonderful and beautiful.

Cancer is a horrible disease. It robs us of loved ones. But in the case, it reunited us.

Mom is now 83 years old, a forty-six-year (and counting) breast cancer survivor. A few years back, she contracted Reynaud’s Disease, a circulatory ailment that resulted in the amputation of two fingers on her right hand and half a finger on her left. That ended her golf, though she still crochets like mad, cranking out an afghan a week. She then donates her hand-made afghans to Project Linus, an organization that gives sick children free blankets. Recently, she completed her 300^th donated afghan.

Once her golfing days were done, she gave away her clubs to a friend of my sister’s who was taking up the game. That she gave her clubs away is typical for the most selfless person I have ever known.

Miami mas 12 mes

2014-01-30T13:26:00.003-05:00

Ay dios mio. I have now been in Miami for a year. And to a certain extent it has made me loca de la cabeza. My life has become influenced by a place that is like nowhere else in the world. Not that I have been around the world to confirm this, but I would like to know of a place that combines swamps, Cubans, high-rises, Jews, Venezuelans, pissed-off impatient drivers, empanadas and lizards.

Enlighten me if you know of such a place.

So for now there is only Miami.

I have lived in Florida for half of my life. I spent 27 years in Ohio and 27 going on 28 here. My Florida residences have been such places as Orlando, Palm Beach, Port St. Lucie, Boca Raton, Jupiter, and scads of others. I even lived in a place called Greenacres. Loot it up, it exists. None are like Miami. At all.

First, the similarities. It gets hot in the summer and comfortable in the winter. There, that’s it.

Miami is a world unto itself. Those familiar to south Florida know this, as when you cross the county line from Broward in to Miami-Dade County, it just ‘feels’ different. Things get busier, louder and edgier. Your leisurely commute down I-95 or the Turnpike turns into a screeching halt of mind-numbing traffic. The billboards are suddenly in Spanish. People in their black Beemers roar by you at 100 miles an hour. In the distance you see a skyline of a major city; scores of buildings. You know that somewhere to the east is an ocean and the so-called high life of South Beach.

But from your vantage point of creeping towards the Golden Glades interchange? It just looks like chaos.

And I am here to tell you. It is.

As you slither down I-95 towards those high-rises, you pass through the rougher neighborhoods of Miami. Allapattah. Hialeah. Liberty City. Overtown. Places where the riots happened back in the 80’s. Places where most of the country know by CSI Miami or The First 48. Nasty places. There is a small town called Opa-Locka which you hope to never find yourself in. Why? Because their crime rate is three times higher than Detroit. Be sure you do NOT stop for gas or directions in these areas. You will leave without you wallet or car. But you will be offered crack, or forced to buy it at gunpoint. True. Just keep driving.

You pass under the I-195 which takes you to Miami Beach. Suddenly the skyline is right in your face, and is it beautiful. The architecture of downtown Miami is mesmerizing. And at night, it is enthralling. You cross the Miami River, and the high-rises continue, except now, instead of it being commercial real estate, it is residential high-rises. Welcome to Brickell. You are now where the well-heeled lived. You are now somewhat safe to pull off the highway and gawk.

While you are there, head east to Mary Brickell Village and grab something to eat. Go two more blocks and say hello to Biscayne Bay and the causeway which takes you over to South Beach. Beautiful.

If you keep heading south, I-95 ends and becomes Dixie Highway. Don’t panic. You are now heading to the civilized side of Miami. Coral Gables. THE U. Coconut Grove. South Miami. You will notice the homes change from duplexes with bars on the windows to million-dollar homes with manicured yards. Your blood pressure should start dropping.

So there’s Miami geography in a nutshell. Go east and you are on the beach. Go west and you better speak Spanish. Go further west and you are in the Everglades. My Walmart is in Westchester, and you do not hear a lick of English in there. If I need assistance I have to ask, “Habla Ingles?” first.

I know this tends to piss off some people, and they rightfully point out that Miami is in the United States. Technically, yes. This is true. The American flag does indeed fly. But this is a town heavily influenced by Cuban migration which has been going on for the better part of a century. But it is not just Cubans – Haitians, Venezuelans, Colombians, Puerto Ricans, Bahamians, Jamaicans, Brazilians, Argentinians – they have all carved out their niches here. Miami is an international town, and always will be.

These factors, along with the ‘bigness’ of the place makes for a smoldering cauldron of emotions. People tend to get pissed off easily here. Don’t believe me? Wait two seconds at a light that just turned green. The car horns will reinforce that you are in a place where people do not have a lot of patience. Factor into this roux of People from Other Countries are people like, well, me. Northerners who moved to get out of the snow and cold. While there are many of us, we are dwarfed by the wave after wave of immigrants who washed ashore, literally, in Miami. I am an English-speaking gringo from Ohio, which makes me a minority.

And yes, I have seen the bias that African Americans have had to deal with for centuries. Cubans control this town. I am an outsider. It is a palpable feel. I have seen it in action at work; the bias towards those of Latin descent. They, of course, will deny it. But it is there.

So. This is how I feel about Miami: It is a cool place to visit, even a cool place to live. But it is not my home. I am here because I was offered a very good job with good money. And I am somewhat comfortable here. But I miss Orlando, the last place I lived. O-Town is Miami without the edge to it. Hell, even the dope dealers are nicer there.

So one day I will retire and I will leave Miami.

I am a city boy, but Miami is a bit too much for me.

Dude, Where’s My Muse?

2013-11-26T19:59:00.003-05:00

So I just checked my blog and realized that I haven’t written a story in over three months. Three months! That is easily the longest time between stories since I started the blog over five years ago. I have written 157 stories, which works out to about 30 a year, or about one every two weeks.

And of course, my thoughts are not that linear. It goes in spurts. There was one month where I wrote thirteen stories. I guess I just had a lot on my mind that month.

Which is not to say I haven’t had much on my mind these past three months. Certainly there have been many times in this period where I have thought, ‘that would make a good blog story,’ but I can never seem to form it into a cogent, cohesive story.

I believe this is what they call Writer’s Block.

So here I am writing a story about not being able to write a story.

But it goes a bit deeper than that. It’s not that I cannot seem to cobble thoughts together. It’s more a matter of, well shit, I’ve said what I wanted to say. 157 times. Certainly I have had material to opine on, but they are subjects which I already done. Politics? Y’all know where I stand on that, and even though Conservatives have given me much to lambaste them on; after all, they did shut down the government over not liking a law, but that subject has been done.

I’ve written seven stories on Miami, my new home. A half dozen on my mom’s passing. At least a dozen on rock and roll. And y’all don’t really care about my golf game.

So what else is there? I just described my life in its current state. I love Miami, I miss my mom, the job is great and I hate the Tea Party. And I shot 81 today with two birdies. I am NOT going to talk about the Cleveland Browns. They have already sucked enough life out of me.

So I hope I have only hit a dry patch of topics and the imagination will be rekindled. But what I fear is something more insidious:

I fear I've lost my muse.

Writers need an inspiritive spark. When I wrote my novel last summer, that spark turned into a five-alarm fire, and I could not write fast enough. I would dash home from work and write until I would look up to see it was midnight. It was a frenetic time where I was amazingly alive; thoughts flowed like Niagara Falls.

So I am thankful to my muse for that period. And maybe this is how she works – she gives and then she takes away. I mean, no writer is inspired all the time. So how do I get her back? Burnt offerings? Chanting? Meditation? Virginal sacrifices?

Where did she go? Did I piss her off? Did I bore her to death? Is she saying "Jerry, you’ve told the world what you needed to tell. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to give Stephen King yet another way to scare the crap out of people.”

Please come back, muse. I need you. I miss you.

I need to write. Please fill my head with something.

Mahogany Row

2013-08-18T19:58:00.004-04:00

I am a mama’s boy. Always have been. Many of my childhood memories centered around things I did with my mother. I am the youngest, and for whatever reasons, it seemed like her and me were together often. Just the two of us.

I am blessed in many ways, but this may the topper. Because I was influenced, shaped and molded by the most selfless person I have even known. Which is kind of funny since I grew up to be a pretty selfish person. However, I have a very soft and caring side, and the last thing I ever want to do to anyone is hurt them. I have not always succeeded in this goal, but my heart has always been in the right place.

That’s just one of the countless lessons I learned from my mom. Treat people like you want to be treated.

I remember when I was a young adult, about twenty years old and in college. Like most people that age, the future seemed very exciting…and scary. And like most, I truly had no idea what I wanted to do with my life; I had no idea where it would take me or what I would do to make a living. Oh sure, I wanted to be the successor to Jack Nicklaus, but my drive and desire to master the game of golf never ran to Tiger-like levels. I played a decent game…but I was not going to be a PGA Tour golfer.

So what was I going to be? I had no clue.

So I asked my mom.

At the time mom was still working as, as she put it, a Bookkeeper. But she was just being humble. She was the Accountant for one of the largest construction companies in Akron, the confidante to the big boss, and the person who knew where all the bodies were buried. She was plugged in to the corporate scene. She knew people. And they loved her because she did her job expertly and could be trusted with anything.

So when I asked her this question, “Mom, what am I going to be?,” she gave me that warm smile she reactively gave, looked me in the eye and said, “Son, you are headed to Mahogany Row.”

Mahogany Row. I had no idea what that meant. But it sounded nice.

She elaborated. “Son, you are going places. You will one day have a large corner office with people reporting to you. The term comes from the desk you will sit behind. It will be made of mahogany. That’s what bosses sit behind.”

Now. This could, and likely was, encouraging motherly talk. But that did not matter to me. My mom always spoke the truth.

I am honing in on thirty years in my chosen career. Earlier this year I took a job in Miami, which is the best job I have had yet. The money is very good, I am a ‘boss’ to 23 people, and I have a corner window office. But the desk isn’t mahogany…that was the one detail she did not quite get right.

I accepted that position on February 6^th of this year. At that time my mom was in a hospice care unit with advanced stages of dementia. I debated whether to even tell her the news, as I am sure she would not have been able to process it. I was so proud of my accomplishment that, finally, I could not help myself. I had to tell her. So I called her at the facility. She did not answer. Two days later she passed away.

At the calling hours that Friday I had a few minutes alone with mom at her casket.

It was made of mahogany.

Confessions of a Tired Fan

2013-07-29T19:26:00.005-04:00

Okay, let’s get this out of the way right at the top – I am a Cleveland Browns fan.

I will wait for the snickering to stop.

Still waiting.

Done?

All right, that’s enough. Look, I had no choice in this matter. I was conceived in Akron and raised in Northeast Ohio. They are pretty rabid about their Beloved Brownies. And I embraced that rabid…, uh, ity, and proudly donned the seal brown and orange right about the time the team was in the last throes of yearly dominance while that team 125 miles away rose to prominence. That ushered in a reversal of fortunes for the two teams, as the Browns went into hibernation, occasionally coming out with seasons like the 1980 Kardiac Kids and the unfathomable teases of the late 1980s Bernie Kosar teams which always got slapped back in the AFC Championship by John Horseteeth. The 1990s brought us Bill Belichick before he was a genius followed by the unthinkable – the team was taken away.

A new team masquerading as the ‘Cleveland Browns’ resurfaced in 1999 pushing the envelope of putridity to depths never before experienced.

Meanwhile that team 125 miles away got six Lombardi trophies.

Oh, and the team that left Cleveland in 1995? They got two.

My God I’m tired.

Yes, training camp has just begun, and yes, I am reading every bit of information about how Paul Kruger is looking awesome, how Barkevious Mingo is ready to decapitate opposing quarterbacks and how Trent Richardson is ready to churn out twenty touchdowns this year. And I am really trying to get my ‘tude on and go toe to toe with fans of other teams, about how THIS year it is going to be different.

Here come those snickers again.

And they have every right to snicker. 1964. Nineteen-freekin-sixty-four. That was the last time the Browns were the champs of the NFL. Forty-nine years ago. Jim Brown. Frank Ryan. Gary Collins. Names I have read about, but since I was only six years old at the time, never got to see play. I have proof in black and white footage of Collins catching three TDs in the title game as the Browns laid the lumber on the Colts, 27-0. My dad said it was awesome.

But me? I got Earnest Byner’s fumble and Art Modell’s greed as my memories.

I give up. Y’all win. There is nothing left in the smack tank with me anymore. We suck. We have sucked for a long time. Point your fingers and laugh. You will get no retort from me. I got no room to talk. What, am I gonna say how good Derek Anderson looked for half a season in 2007? How I thought Lee Suggs was going to win the rushing title?

Laugh away.

But.

Just because that’s the way things were doesn’t mean that’s the way things will be.

Remember that when we hoist that motherfucking Lombardi Trophy one day.

Then it will be my turn to laugh.

America The...Salad?

2013-07-27T11:51:00.000-04:00

I love my country.

But, as many know, this does not mean I love everything about it. I love the concept of our country – the idea of a government of, by and for the people. However, in practice, we fall well short of this ideal. More accurately, this country is of, by and for the powerful and connected. Money rules. And it always will.

But anyway. I want to talk about a phrase used to describe America, which I believe, is totally inaccurate. That we are a ‘Melting Pot.’ That somehow, people from all over the globe come here, become Americans, and get added into this purported roux with the rest of us resulting in an altered, refined mixture.

Bullshit.

For starters, for that kind of alchemy to occur, those who are already here would have to accept and respect the cultures of those who recently arrived and, further, embrace them. This does not happen. It never has. Whether it were the Irish who came here in the mid-nineteenth century, the Europeans in the early twentieth century, the Cubans who came here in the early 1960s, or the Haitians soon thereafter, each was met with scorn and resentment. They were exploited, ridiculed, considered less than equal in the eyes who were here before. It was only after a long period of time, usually stretching to two or three generations later, did these groups gained acceptance. And that’s where our purported charity stopped – eventually their numbers became so large that people finally said oh all right. I guess you’re here to stay.

But never does the overall ‘mix’ of this country get adjusted due to their presence.

So, we are not a Melting Pot, so stop with that description.

So what are we? What is a more accurate description for this nation of people from somewhere else?

A fruit salad.

Think about a fruit salad. It is pieces of various, well, fruits, each individual in its taste, texture and color. Sharing the same container.

That is America. The blacks are over there, the Hispanics are down the street, and the whites are behind the guard gate. They each occupy a space in the overall container, and sometimes rub against each other, but a piece of pineapple remains a piece of pineapple. It is not overly affected by the piece of cantaloupe next to it, or the grape next door. We all go to Walmart to buy our stuff and see each other (and that’s where the overlaps occur – we all buy Walmart shit), but each gets back into their shiny metal box and heads back to their turf in the salad bowl.

So please. Let’s stop glamorizing a vision of America that does not exist. We are not tolerant people. New pieces of fruit appearing (What is that? What’s a kiwi fruit? Get it out of here!) are barely acknowledged until too many of them appear, at which point the established fruits rail against their existence in the bowl. They want them expelled for fear of contaminating the salad.

But…what makes a good quality fruit salad? Uniform pieces of melon? No, that would be a melon salad. What makes a great fruit salad is the variety of fruit.

And that’s what makes us a great country. New pieces of fruit, each with its own flavor, which adds to the overall awesomeness of the salad.

But each piece still separate. Grapes taste like grapes, melons like melons. You never get a hybrid Grapelonapple. There’s no ‘melting together’ going on.

Maybe I should conduct diversity training. Because that’s what diversity is.

And that’s what our country is.

Dancing With Myself

2013-07-06T10:07:00.002-04:00

I have a pretty good life. Good job, live in a nice place, I have my health. When I take an inventory of how I am, what I have and how I interact with people, and the world in general, it comes out on the positive side. Most know me as a somewhat intelligent, friendly person. On the minus side, I can be overconfident to the point of being arrogant. I have a strong personality that turns off some people.

So where am I going with this?

Here. I am 54 years old and single. Not even in a relationship.

And I don’t know how I am supposed to feel about that. I know how I do feel about that, and that is, ninety-five percent of the time I am okay with it. The other five percent of the time is when I ponder the next ten to fifteen years of my life, when age will catch up to me, my looks will deteriorate (not that they’re all that at the present), and I might move into senior citizenship without a partner. I think about that scenario for a bit then fire up match.com and check out personals. After a few minutes of that I move back to the ninety-five percent mindset and go grab my golf clubs.

I like being single. Which may be simply a different way of saying I suck at relationships. Both are, undoubtedly, true statements. My track record speaks for itself – twice divorced, many ex-girlfriends some of whom have severed all contact with me. And it bears noting at this point that I have never laid a hand on a woman – I have never abused, either physically or emotionally, a mate. I’m just a difficult person to be with…I guess.

And as I get older that will just become more difficult, as I do what I want to do when I want to do it. Kind of goes with the territory of being alone. So when someone enters my life and suggests something I don’t want to do, I bristle. I simply am not used to sharing my life.

So this begs the question – what’s the problem, Jer? Are you saying you want to be in a relationship?

And here is the answer. I don’t fucking know. Societal-speaking, I am somewhat of an aberration – a mid-50’s guy alone. But I do not want to live my life based on what society expects of me. Shit, for that matter, I don’t live my life based on what anyone expects of me. I did that for too long, and it made me feel uneasy, uncomfortable with myself.

One of things I have realized about, well, life in general, is that it is unscripted. It’s weird. You cannot say ‘Okay, this is how it is going to be,’ and then it turns out that way. Further, past performance is no indication of future events. If you flip a coin fifty times and it comes up heads all fifty times, the odds of the fifty-first flip is still 50/50 of coming up heads. The point being, I try not to worry about what will come, and further, cannot control it. So why worry. I could meet the love of my life this afternoon.

It is those types of thoughts that get me back into my ninety-five percent comfort zone.

Then I grab my golf clubs.

So now, you’re probably thinking, ‘Gosh thanks for wasting five minutes of my life reading all that. Your point, Jer?’

Eh, nothing. Consider this one of the thoughts that hangs up in my brain…much like those cheese doodles in the snack machine.

And like those cheese doodles hanging there, it will remain until action is taken to move them. Or to let them hang. I guess that’s what I am dealing with, with this whole ‘lack of relationship’ issue I have.

But in the end, it’s only an issue if I wish it to be. Which gets back to my perception. And you know what? If I am okay ninety-five percent of the time, that’s a pretty damn good percentage. But I am also open to whatever life may toss at me in the future – I don’t ever want to get into a situation where I feel ‘compelled’ to get into a relationship so someone can call 911 if I keel over in my recliner. If I get into a relationship, it has to be organic.

Much like how I am now.

So, that’s all. Welcome to life inside my brain.

Happy Birthday, America.

2013-07-04T09:09:00.004-04:00

Today we mark 237 years of existence. Nice run.

There is no doubt, at least in my mind, that we live in a country where we enjoy certain freedoms not available anywhere else in the world, and for that I am grateful. To think that I could have been born in, say, Iraq or North Korea, but instead was conceived in Akron , Ohio, and therefore by birth I am granted the benefits this country offers, is quite humbling of a thought.

If you feel a “but” coming, you’re right.

Those who know me know I tend to not only see the positives of a situation, but also what could be improved. And in today’s America, there is much that can be improved. But on this day, July 4, I will respect the country’s birthday and not go into what those areas of improvement are.

But (there it is), I will say this: I am no less an American for wishing for a better country than those who quickly slap back with the ‘Love it or leave it’ mantra. I don’t have to love America in order to stay here; that’s not a prerequisite to my citizenship. I don’t have to stay silent on issues such as veterans sleeping on the streets or children going hungry when the nearby grocery store bulges with food. We can do better, a lot better.

Which leads to my main point – Patriotism in not a political issue.

Yeah, well, tell that to the two main political parties.

My good friend, who is a veteran, just posted on his Facebook page the Lee Greenwood video ‘Proud to be an American,’ which I would certainly expect from him. What sickened me about it was Sarah Palin standing next to him smiling.

Yes. It is sickening to think some public figures use patriotism for political advantage, as if to say, I am more patriotic than those whiners over there. Vote for me.

Sickening.

Look, we are all Americans. By birth, therefore by default. And you would certainly think anyone running for political office simply wants what is best for this country, regardless of political affiliation. Some think that means government should get out of our lives. Some think that means government should help those too unfortunate to help themselves. Some think people should pick themselves by their bootstraps. Some want to offer boots to them first.

Whatever. That’s all in your political beliefs.

But none is ‘more American’ than the other.

We hear from certain groups that, if the policies of the other party are followed, the country will be ruined. I doubt that. Fortunately, we have a governmental structure which divides up power evenly such that no one person – or party – has too much power. In other words, no one group can screw things up.

What can screw us up? Simple.

We. The People.

How? Again, simple.

By turning on each other. By believing the hype and paranoia of elected officials who claim that ‘The Enemy” is people who don’t think like they do. You know, other Americans who are doing nothing more than exercising their First Amendment rights.

That’s our Achilles Heel. Those who would divide us, who would like us into ‘Us Versus Them’ camps. Who would then say, if you don’t think like we do, then you’re not as patriotic as us, and, therefore, not as American as us.

Those are the people who scare me.

So, on this birthday of the country of my birth, I wish us a future of common unity based on our founding principles – life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

And dissent.

Because people who don’t think like you are patriots too.

Miami Plus Three Months

2013-06-30T09:33:00.004-04:00

I am a fan of symmetry. Maybe it’s my math background, I don’t know. But I find a certain beauty when things appear to fit.

Don’t worry; this is not a story about gay marriage.

In looking through the 151 stories I have written on this blog, I noticed some symmetry. Back in 2009 when I first moved to Orlando I wrote a story about how awestruck I was with the town. Then, three months later, I wrote a more grounded, yet still positive, story about where I was with the Orlando Experience. Earlier this year I moved to Miami and wrote a similar awestruck story. I have now been here three months.

Time to true up the symmetry.

Three months seems to be a good barometer. The initial excitement and confusion about living somewhere new should have subsided, replaced by familiarity and reality. This is definitely the case with my Miami Experience. So what have I learned about my new home during this time? Well…

Let’s start with the obvious. You do not hear a lot of English spoken here. Spanish is the default. You sometimes have to make a concerted effort to find someone who speaks English, especially in places like Little Havana or Westchester. My closest Walmart is in Westchester, and the last time I was there all I heard was a constant stream of Spanish. In fact, when I need assistance finding something and approach an employee, my first query is, “Habla Ingles?”

And as I mentioned in my last story about Miami, this does not offend me. I don’t grumble about the fact there is an American flag flying outside yet English is the secondary language. Because Miami is a young city; a hundred years ago it was little more than a swamp. About fifty years ago, Castro came into power in Cuba, which triggered the first exodus of Cubans to Miami. Thirty years ago the Mariel boatlift occurred, depositing 125,000 of Fidel’s Finest here. And since then, other Latin America countries have become noticeably represented here – Colombians, Venezuelans, Nicaraguans and so on. And what do they all have in common? Spanish.

So what is occurring here is a generational thing – the elderly speaks Spanish. Their offspring, folks around my age, are bilingual. Much like the Little Italy section of New York. And like New York, Miami is truly an international city. Which leads to my next observation –

The food here is outrageous. Whether it’s Ropa Vieja at Versailles on Calle Ocho or Arroz Con Pollo at Kokoriko in Brickell, it’s all good. Real good. Or, I should say, muy bueno. And the people here are proud of their heritage and are very friendly. As you can imagine, especially among the older Cubans, there is an inherent joy in being somewhere where speaking your mind does not land you in jail. As such, these folks like to celebrate.

But there are instances which makes me truly feel like the minority that, well, I am. For example, FM radio. It sucks. But then again, it reflects the demographics of the area. Ninety percent of the stations are Hispanic music. The other ten percent is classic rock or sports talk. So you choices are bonga-bonga-bonga arriba te amo, Led Zeppelin, or Dan Lebatard.

Well, I don’t care for salsa and I am burned out on Zep. Dan, by default, wins.

Which is a good segue to something Miami is also know for, its sports teams. I just worked the Miami Heat celebration parade. It was attended by 400,000 people. Now, being a native Ohioan, having been born in the same town as LeBron James, there is a personal grinding of my teeth to see the Heat win championships. As I have found out, this is a view held by most people who live outside of Miami. But in Miami? They don’t care. In fact they take it a step further – they don’t want to hear it. If you are upset about the Heat cherry-picking elite players from other teams, keep it to yourself. They know the rest of the world doesn’t like it, and that just gives them more resolve – hate us, as if we care. World champs, muthafucka.

There are a couple of other minor, yet infuriating aspects of living here. Why does it cost twenty freaking dollars to get my car washed? Where are the coin-op self wash places? Why does it cost SIX BUCKS to park at a county park?

But those are easily dismissed for the far more important positives of being here. I have assimilated into an international city where I am proudly a minority (and a 54 year old white boy from the Midwest is definitely a minority), the beaches are awesome, the women are beautiful (a product of mixed bloods), and I am happy.

And you likely would be too if you lived in Miami.

So if you want to only be around white people who speak English, stay in Iowa. If instead you want to experience how the rest of the world lives, c’mon down.

But download Rosetta Stone first.

Delayed…But Not Denied

2013-06-04T18:53:00.003-04:00

So I just took a dip in the pool at my apartment. Sounds pretty boring, right?

Well, it was. Thank goodness.

I need a good dose of boring. The last three months were beyond crazy. I cannot recall a similar stretch in my life where more things happened in such a short period.

Let’s rewind to February 6^th of this year. On that day I resigned from my position with a firm in Orlando to accept a similar position with a firm in Miami, knowing that would trigger a number of required activities like relocating.

At the same time, I knew my mother was in the advanced stages of dementia, so I was debating whether to even tell her this news, for fear of whether she could even wrap her atrophied mind around it. On Sunday February 17, I called her to tell her the news. She didn’t answer the phone.

Two days later, she passed away.

Now, the plan was for my last day at work in Orlando to be that Friday, February 22, to start work in Miami on March 11. Two weeks and two days. Plenty of time to find a place in Miami, get my stuff down there, relax a couple of days, then hit the ground running at my new job. With mom dying, that was all tossed out the window. Obviously I had to get to Ohio for the funeral…but that was my last week of employment. So on my way out the door to head north, I handed my employee badge, tears in my eyes, to my boss & told her, “I guess this is it.”

Fortunately, they extended my employment a week, to March 1, so I could take care of things in Ohio. That was extremely nice of them, but it did not change my start date in Miami. Now my two weeks between jobs was truncated into one. The result was my moving plans were scuttled and I ended up in a hotel in Homestead instead of a condo in Brickell. For my first two months of employment in Miami, my commute was a surreal combination of driving, bus ride & rail ride – over an hour each way. And this was on top of learning a new job with12-hour days. During the period I basically did three things – work, eat and sleep. There was no time for anything else.

In late April I was able to find a nice apartment in South Miami, with move- in mid-May. This triggered my moving activities, with multiple 500-mile round trips between Miami and Orlando to get my belongings. I finally finished that on May 19.

Whew.

This whole time prevented me from normal activities related with losing someone’s mother. Like grieving. I was too busy. In one aspect, that’s good. I was perpetual motion, too many things on my plate to simply sit back and reflect.

But finally, last night, I did. I sat in that pool at my awesome new apartment in Miami, took a look around the beautifully landscaped area, let out a deep breath, and thought ‘I made it. I did it.’

I then thought about my mom.

And I cried my eyes out.

That was way overdue.

The Way It Is

2013-05-04T11:23:00.002-04:00

Having now lived in Miami for a couple of months, I have discovered that what a lot of people know about this area is true. You don’t hear a lot of English being spoken here.

And here’s my thought on that – so what?

I can hear the Bubbas now – “This is AMURRICA! We speak ENGLISH here!”

Well yeah, with a decisively ignorant accent.

Look. We are a nation of immigrants. And if you want to really get down to it, the ‘native’ language of this country is whatever the Sioux or Senecas were speaking 400 years ago. English was imported here from, well, England.

Yes you heard me. English is a foreign language.

But it is also what was taught to us as children. It is the accepted form of communicating in this country, and is certainly the dominant language of our nation.

But not in Miami.

And I realize this pisses off a lot of people. Many avoid this area as a result. Which is too bad for them, as this is an entrancing place loaded with local flavor and multiple cultures. Miami isn’t just a city with a bunch of Cubans. There are Venezuelans, Colombians, Brazilians, Puerto Ricans, Virgin Islanders, and so on.

But yet, the ignorant among us want to avoid them and decry their insistence on speaking in their native tongue. And I dare say, it is these same ignorant people who, when traveling to Europe, insist the French or Italians speak English to THEM. After all, we are Americans, and damn, we are full of ourselves. It’s almost as if we are saying, “We are armed to the teeth & can blow your little country back into the Stone Age so don’t tell me I have to learn your language.”

And we wonder why other countries hate us. They love America, but not crazy about the Americans inhabiting it.

But anyway. I took Spanish back in high school. Four years of it. But given that was 35 years ago, obviously I have forgotten much of it. My vocabulary is probably a hundred or so words, but I can fluently state to someone of Hispanic descent, “Yo hablo solamente un poquito de Espanol, porque yo aprendo en la escuela…many years ago.”

They then smile at me and we proceed to have a nice conversation…in English.

Because here is what the Bubbas don’t understand – these people know English too, at least the vast majority of them do, and the ones that don’t, you can still communicate with them.

See, here’s the lesson, kiddies. You can communicate without using words. Verbalizing sounds is but one way to communicate.

So here I am in Miami with very limited Spanish at my disposal, and I can tell you I am not at all at some kind of communicative disadvantage. I get along just find, gracias.

And I can tell you my Spanish vocabulary is, obviously, growing. It is inevitable in a place like Miami. But do I feel irritated by this? Do I feel resentful that I have to try to learn a language in a place where the stars and stripes flap on a flagpole?

Not at all.

And why not?

Because it’s fun. It’s what makes Miami Miami. And it exposes me to new cultures, new activities…not to mention some totally hawt Hispanic babes. And by speaking a little Spanish to them, you know what happens? Their faces light up and they smile.

See, I am more about trying to ingrain myself into the culture of a place instead of dogmatically insisting they conform to me. By having that attitude, new vistas open. And here, with over sixty percent of the population being of Hispanic descent, the city and all its charms open up to me.

But, if you want to insist everyone speaks English, stay in Iowa. Because no matter how many laws are passed, no matter what efforts are instituted to homogenify everyone into only one form of communication, it will never work. They will still speak Spanish in Miami.

And I have no problem with that.

Home Sweet Home…stead?

2013-04-27T11:48:00.000-04:00

They say home is where the heart is.

Lately, my heart’s been freekin’ everywhere. I was born and raised in northeast Ohio but have lived my adult life in Florida. For the past four years my residence was Orlando, which I became quite fond of, but I recently took a job in Miami. But I don’t yet have a permanent residence in Miami. Instead the temporary place I’ve been resting my head is Homestead, Florida, in an extended-stay hotel.

A hotel room. In Homestead.

So that’s where my body is. Where’s my heart? Hell if I know. I am still only two months removed from my mother passing away, so part of my heart is with her. Ohio will always be special to me, another piece is there. My son lives in Jupiter, he gets a chunk. And I left Orlando begrudgingly, as I became quite attached to a place most of the world knows for its mouse ears & overpriced buffets. So O-town owns a piece too.

So while I am still sorting out the postal codes my blood-pumping organ resides, I want to talk a bit about where my carcass presently calls home. Homestead.

Look on a map. You will see that Homestead is waaaaay down south, right next to Florida City – the last two vestiges of civilization on mainland Florida, the gateway to the Florida Keys. To the west are the Everglades, to the east, Biscayne Bay. Ground Zero for Hurricane Andrew’s landfall in 1992.

And my temporary home. I took up residence here to get started with my job in downtown Miami, which is 35 miles away. Economics drove the decision – things are much cheaper down here than in Miami. In fact, about the only thing Homestead has in common with Miami is they share the same county.

But that’s it. Homestead ain’t Miami. At all.

Homestead is a cool amalgam of small town & old Florida. It’s primary sources of economy are agriculture and the nearby Turkey Point nuclear power plant. It seems to be a close-knit place, and the locals like where they live – they seems to reject the ‘big-ness’ of Miami and revel in the fact that they have nothing in common with their huge neighbor to their north.

The people. They’re an interesting bunch. Every Saturday morning I have breakfast at the local restaurant – the Royal Palm Grill on Krome Avenue. And you want an example of the old Florida I speak of? The Royal Palm Grill is embedded within a Rexall drug store. Yep, Rexall’s still exist, and this particular one has sundries on one side…and the local’s favorite restaurant on the other. Retro-cool.

The Royal Palm Grill is teeming with local character. Virtually every time I have breakfast at the counter, I engage in conversation with whoever is next to me. And I have received phone numbers from these folks who insist I call them for a quick trip to Key Largo (which is only 25 miles away) or a round of golf.

And then there’s Star – the aging, self described Hippie. Star is one of the servers at the Grill, and she is, most of the time, a blur of motion. I would guess her to be in her early 60s, and this morning, as she was racing past me, I said to her, “I bet when you get home you pass out.”

That stopped her in her tracks. She turned to me, walked over and whispered, “I have MS, and the way I figure, if I keep moving it can’t catch me.”

Rock on, Star.

She then sped on to fill a cup of coffee and deliver some toast.

When she returned to my vicinity, she decided she earned a five-second break and told me, “I treat my MS homeopathically. Acupuncture and herbs. I’m a Hippie! I was at Woodstock…I hitchhiked there!”

And off she went.

So after breakfast I decided to take a drive around town. Homestead actually has a downtown, a quaint five-block stretch of

Mexican restaurants and an old movie theater. To the west you can see the flat expanse of open farmland. Along Krome Avenue are old-school hotels. Things move slower here, and there is palpable feel of real community – something Miami sorely lacks.

I needed to run some errands, and one of the places I needed to stop at was the local U-Haul, as in two weeks I will be moving from my hotel room to my apartment in South Miami. My time in Homestead is nearing an end.

And that actually made me choke up for a moment.

Looks like Homestead now owns a piece of my heart too.

Today, Random

2013-04-18T09:27:00.000-04:00

Leave it to Facebook to provide me inspiration for a story.

A couple of days back I was perusing the ‘News Feed’ – posts from my Friends, and one bugged me – it was a pic of Shirley Temple and Honey Boo Boo side-by-side, with the caption “What has happened to this country?”

Setting aside whatever political statement the poster was trying to make (which I still don’t know and don’t really care), the inspirative thought hit me –

Why do people romanticize the past at the expense of the present?

Now sure. Some of it has to do with nostalgic recollection of days gone by. And certainly I have no problem with that line of musing. I do it all the time, especially when I see an old friend – “Hey remember when we were in high school and that night with those twins? Man, those were the days…”

Okay, there was no night with twins. Roll with me here.

What I am referring to are people who embellish the past at the expense of the present; people who think things – or they – are worse off now than then. Now add to it the future, and these people have some grave, apocalyptic Mad Max vision of how things will be, both for them and for society.

And some of my Facebook friends apparently can divine all this from pics of Shirley Temple and Honey Boo Boo side-by-side.

Well, here’s the truth. The past was not as great as you remember it, the present isn’t as bad as it appears and the future is not going to be a mega clusterfuck.

Why?

Because life is weird. It’s random. It is, literally, unpredictable in the most literal sense – nobody can predict what will occur based on what has occurred. And definitely not politicians, so remember that in the next election cycle.

Let’s take my friend’s Shirley Temple example. Apparently his message was that things were much better in the 1930’s than they are now.

Really? Millions of blacks who did not have the right to vote and could not attend schools with whites would beg to differ. Polio sufferers would have issue with that. And that guy in Germany who had visions of a ‘master race’ was plotting his plan.

Okay, I win that point you say. But what about on a personal level? “I miss the good old days!” you cry.

Well, cry all you want, but you are suffering from selective recall. You remember the good but conveniently forget the bad. Let me use the one subject I am an expert on, myself, as an example. It is very easy for me to sit here and talk about how ‘wonderful’ things were in, say, 1983. I was 24 years old, had just moved to Florida, I was meeting a lot of girls and living a very carefree lifestyle. But I was also dirt poor, my car broke down every other day, and was living with three other guys in a house with no privacy…and no air conditioning. In South Florida.

So yesterday was no picnic. Now, let’s go to today, and let’s stay on the personal level, because opening that discussion up to the global levels brings in politics and world events and all kinds of stuff that will get us off message. What is going on in your life right now can either be looked at positively or negatively. Your choice. There is good and bad going on – nobody has a shithole/no positives existence and no one has a utopian/everything is perfect one either. We are all in that muddled middle of good and bad.

But here’s the thing – it’s all temporary. None of it will last. So remember that when you are hitting a rough patch. It will pass. But, that also applies to the good times - those too shall pass.

So it’s all in how you look at it.

I hear you now – “Gosh thanks Dr. Phil.”

Whatever. But it truly is all about perception – your perception and your life.

Now, the future. This one is simple. Who the fuck knows? Nobody. And I caution you from drawing conclusions of the future based on current conditions. Why? Re-read that paragraph about it all being temporary.

So, what’s my point in all this? Simple. It’s all up to you. I’ve seen happy people who don’t have a pot to piss in, and I’ve seen unhappy people in mansions. It’s all about perception. And one of my favorite phrases is, if you have one foot in yesterday and the other in tomorrow, you are pissing on today.

Carly Simon said it best. These are the good old days.