First Day Back

“The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and there is work to be done.  Man!  It’s good to be back,” our protagonist thought to himself as he walked towards his work buddies.  For them the day wasn’t much different than any other, but when they saw him walking up, smiles became the expression of the day.

“Hey buddy!  There you are.  This place hasn’t been the same without you.  Where ‘ve you been?” they all clamored.

“Oh, you know,” he laughed as a sheepish grin and a lack of eye contact proved that it really was him.

In no time the guys had broken off into two-man teams and began tackling their work.  His first three customers tipped.  As much as he wished to conceal his joy, his eyes betrayed him.  We all could tell the joy he felt came from deep within.  It wasn’t until we subdued him with a prolonged peppering of questions that we learned that the light that we saw was his body’s way of saying, “Wow.  This is so much better than jail.  I’m never going back.”

The trouble was after work his mind wandered.

Review of The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman

Timeless and universal.

I have a rule.  Well, Ecclesiastes has a rule that I believe is true.  It goes like this:  “There is nothing new under the sun.”  When it comes to “get rich quick” or “relationship” books, it is impossible for me to not use this standard.  If a book claims that it has come up with a new way to make money or keep a relationship strong, then, generally, I discard it promptly.  I just simply refuse to believe that mankind’s soul has changed in any appreciable way in our existence.  That being said, Chapman’s The Five Love Languages: How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate is nothing new.  And that is good.

The book’s largest flaw is that it is a book.  It really could have been a flyer; I’m picturing a large picture representing perfect bliss overlayed by a few sentences at the bottom.  The sentences being something like this:

People express and feel love in different ways.  It seems that there are five ways.  They include physical touch, quality time, acts of service, gifts, and words of affirmation.  Try to speak your partner’s language(s).

Really, though, I’m proud to say that there is an even more fun way to help you figure out your love language(s).  How I like to think about these five languages is via one language:  song.  Want to know which language is yours using songs?  Then continue reading.

To start, if you think Kevin Costner defeats Errol Flynn in the battle of Robin Hood’s, we all know the only reason this happened is because Errol didn’t have Bryan Adams’ classic ballad “Everything I Do (I do it for you)” to accompany his swashbuckling sword fights.  And your choosing Kevin means that your language is likely “Acts of Service.”

On the other hand, if everyone in the room but you noticed that you sat up during Moulin Rouge as Ewan McGregor belted out “My gift is my saw-ong…” in tribute to Elton John’s unforgettable “Your Song“, your language might just be “Words of Affirmation”.

If it is impossible not to feel warm all over when somebody tells a story about the summer of 1991, the summer during which you recall hearing Extreme’s “More Than Words” on every radio station across the nation as you drove to the west coast to greet Gulf War One’s returning victors, then you’re only hurting yourself if you don’t own up to “Physical Touch” being your love language.

Next, and admittedly a bit of a stretch (but then again, it isn’t my language, so I wouldn’t identify with it.  Am I right Gary?), but if the only time you feel like someone really gets you is each year at Christmastime, specifically each time Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby” is played, then your love language is “Gifts”.

Lastly, if you  can finish, “Eeeiiff eye-ee-eye-ee-eye (breath) shu-uld stay…” without hesitation, there can only be one conclusion.  Your love language is “Quality Time”.   (That Costner is receiving two shout-outs is beyond me.  By the way Ma, he’s looking great once again in an upcoming action flick “3 Days to Kill”.  Check out the trailer by clicking here.)

In the end, the book only takes a night to read.  Not that you need to anymore.  You’re welcome.

****

*Chapman, Gary D. The Five Love Languages. Chicago: Northfield Pub., 1992. Print.

The Plea Answered

Dear Legs,

First, please forgive me for not responding sooner.  I was very moved by your letter, and fully intended to write you back that day.  But, as you know, life got in the way.  I’m sorry for that.

Skipping the weather chit-chat (face already reminds me daily that it has been sunny), I will get right to it.  Regarding why I am making you work so hard these days, I think I know.  You asked about the reason that I made you work so hard of late.  You asked if I was running from “responsibility” or “failure”.  With certainty I can tell you “No”.

I do think that I have discovered the reason that I am putting you through this situation, however.  Do you remember doing the mediation before the divorce?  There was a lot of talk about money and how much I had to pay her.  Do you remember the part about how each tax season we’d review our incomes to see if the “Memorandum of Understanding” needed to be adjusted based on how much money she and I were making?  I actually feel a bit silly admitting this, silly because I’m sure I can just ask a friend what the real answer is, but if I remember right, the rules to the divorce included that if I became a millionaire, I would have to pay her more than I already do.  Well, here’s the thing.  I don’t want to pay her more.  So it’s shit jobs with shittier salaries for now.

It probably doesn’t make sense to you two, my friends, but I think for these next couple of years I’d rather risk ruining our relationship–yours and mine–than hear another man order me to pay her more money.

I know you’re tired.  Believe me when I say I am more than aware that I am the reason you both feel and are tired.  I am sorry about that.  On the bright side, we’ve made it through one year, and that means only a few more years until this burden is lifted.  And you know how time flies.  Maybe I’ll even call up my lawyer friend and find out that I’m wrong about the situation.

In any case, thank you for not giving up on me.  I will owe you both a lot when all this has passed.

Thoughtfully Yours,

Brain

So I’m Not Allowed To Text Her Back?

“So I’m not allowed to text her back?”

“No!” they said in unison.

“Look.  It sucks, okay?  I know it does.  But you screwed up.  You sent her seven–that’s SEVEN–texts without her responding.  You freaked her out.  Then she stood you up–twice.  The only way you’ll know she’s not just stringing you along is if you wait for her to really try to set up a date.  If you answer her text now, you’re just playing into her crazy hands,” his friend explained.

“I just don’t get it.  You don’t know how she talked, what she said.  How does this make any sense?  I only texted her that night because we had scheduled a phone call and she didn’t call and it was late.  Explain to me how I am in the wrong for letting her know I was worried?” he said, still hurting.

“Listen.  You’ve only talked to this girl for a few days.  Days!  It sounds like the situation looked promising, but the girl also sounds crazy.  No one in their right mind talks to people how you tell me she talked to you.  That she has stopped talking to you, taken together with the fact that her last text to you demonstrates she can’t tell what day she received a text on illustrates that something fishy is going on.  You have to see that, don’t you?” his brother said, chiming in.

“I guess.  It’s just that I’ve never really felt this way before.  And her voice.  If you could just hear her accent…  I’m telling you, these things can’t be faked.  I need to talk to her again.  But you’re telling me I can’t.  She texted me just now.  Out of the blue.  Doesn’t that mean something?  I just don’t understand why I can’t text her back,” he cried out.

“You’re right.  I don’t understand either.  I don’t.  I don’t understand the whole situation.  I don’t understand women.  What is the deal?  I mean, we’re smart enough.  We should be able to figure them out.”

The three single men were enveloped by a profound silence–a necessary silence if they were to hear the cracking of that sentiment’s foundation.  Their smiles and laughter confirmed that they heard it indeed.

Week Off

Just a heads up, I’m taking the week off this week.  The brother is coming to town, and we’re getting high together for a couple days…  Oh, and because you’re dying to know, I did get my 200th follower.  It’s just that it wasn’t a blogger, so I don’t have anything to review.  Maybe I’ll review what I think that follower’s blog would be like if he/she had one.  Exciting.  Until next Monday, then, good day.

Get A Free Blog Review

Last summer an entrepreneur, friend, and sometimes blogger told me, “If you blog daily for six months, you should have 1000 followers at the end of those six months.”  Well, it’s been more than seven months of daily posts on Captain’s Log, and I’m sitting at 199.  As is the case with most facts, this amuses me.  Just the same, seeing that I am a part of the human race, and therefore partial to round numbers, I’m excited to amass follower number 200.  And I’m shameless when it comes to getting what I want.  So here’s what I’m offering: the blogger who follows me as number 200 will get a free review of their blog.  That’s right.  I’ll take some time between now and Monday to peruse your blog and then I’ll write the review for Monday’s post.  You can trust that I will be sure to say nice things as well as true things.  If you’re on the fence, think of it this way:  in return for a simple click of a mouse, you’ll get exposure to 199 readers who possibly aren’t aware of your stuff.  Heck, I might not be aware you exist.

This is a one time offer, and it is sure to go fast.  A little book called “The Magic of Thinking Big” mentions that “everyone you know craves praise”.  Well, I’m offering praise in exchange for bliss.  Whatdya say?

****

Schwartz, David Joseph. The Magic of Thinking Big. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1959. Print.

Men

An odd group, certainly.  The worst men make ritual disembowelment seem like the only sensible thing to do, while the best men…well the best men inspire us to become better men.

Like hitch hikers just dropped at a truck stop, we look around and evaluate the passing scene.  Too often we are surrounded by mediocre men.

As constant evaluators, we sometimes forget to report our findings.  This is undesirable and unproductive.  We can forge a better life through regular highlighting of qualities the best men put into practice.

To begin, they are flawed.  More to the point, they recognize they are flawed, and they do not hide it.

Next, they possess a humility that my own awesomeness seems unlikely to ever achieve.

They are genuine, or perhaps authentic works better.  You cannot catch them off guard.  They are who they are, no apologies, and who they are is worth noting.

They are well-read.  Life has seasons, of that there is no doubt.  But these men and television divorced a long time ago.

Lastly, for today, they are ready and willing to help, if we’ll only just ask.  By help, we mean nothing more than them choosing to spend their limited time on us.

Let us not forget, then, that even great men need encouragement.  Let us not forget that these men still exist in this world, feel its pressures, and are pulled daily by the temptation to give up.  Let us not forget to say thank you when their life enhances ours.

David:  Thank you.

Review of A Fly Went By by Mike McClintock and Fritz Siebel

In the classic children’s book A Fly Went By, Mike McClintock harnesses the The Great War’s lesson and with perfect eloquence tells a story that frees children from fear.  With Fritz Siebel’s poignant illustrations as the glue holding a child’s gaze, McClintock’s repetitious prose etches its way into a young listener’s mind.  The story is simple:  a boy sees a fly go by, and asks him, “Why?”  We soon find out that the fly ran from the frog.  But the frog isn’t chasing the fly; he “ran from the cat, who ran from the dog.”  The boy continues his search for the thing behind all the running, and in perfect metaphor to life, it turns out that a man was the first to run, and he ran from sounds of unknown origin.  The chain reaction resulting in all the characters running in fear thus began.  We soon discover, though, that these sounds were caused by “a sheep with an old tin can.”

Like any toddler whose parents read this book to them, apparently I had the big finale memorized before I knew how to read.  It wasn’t until after college, though, that in reading the book to a nephew I realized the lesson that stamped itself on my person.  Have no fear.  “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”  Be brave.  These sentiments and more are captured within McClintock’s fun little book.  It is a sure winner for parents who are looking for ways to teach their children a timeless truth–without the children knowing class is in session.  A life without fear is a life worth living and a gift worth giving.  Give children freedom from fear.  Share with them the story of a boy who “sat by the lake, and looked at the sky.”

****

McClintock, Marshall, and Fritz Siebel. A Fly Went by. [New York]: Beginner, 1958. Print.

Hatu

The special operations warriors segregated themselves from the rest of the soldiers in the DFAC.  “Deefak” is how everyone referred to the dining facility–the chow hall.  After only a matter of days in-country, it became apparent to all how to distinguish those who worked inside “the fence” from those who worked outside “the fence”.  These men worked outside the fence.  They weren’t necessarily more dedicated, or smarter, but they had always wanted to do what they were doing and happened to be good at it.  And they were dedicated.  And they were smart.

On the ceiling of the DFAC hung flags.  There were flags of the different nations of the world that were in the coalition of forces, and flags of the 50 states.

Suddenly, after a break in the conversation, one of the men spoke up.

“Hatu.  Huh, where’s that country?  It sounds familiar, but I can’t seem to place it.  South America?  Africa?” he asked.

“Definitely Africa,” chimed in one of the men more respected for his book knowledge.

“I don’t know,” said another.

“It doesn’t have an African ring to it.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it was in South America,” challenged a third.

Without the internet at their fingertips, the hard men were left with all the nuances of communication to determine who to believe–conviction in the voice, the tone of voice, facial expressions, and look of the eyes.  Lastly, all waited to see if somebody would wager that they were correct.  No one was so bold.

At last, all eyes found themselves gazing at the flag, trying to look for clues.  The stocky mustached reader finally broke the silence.

“Hatu.  Ha.  Morons.  It’s not Hatu, it’s Utah.  You just read it from the back side of the flag.”

In all caps, it was an easy mistake we suppose, but one that silenced this proud group of men for some time.