Tagged: life

I Cried At Work Yesterday

Dear H-,

I’ve been wanting to write to you directly for some time now, and finally an event at work caused me to put pen to paper. I don’t know how old you’ll be when you read this, but hopefully you’ll be old enough to understand it. If you don’t understand it, ask me or another adult about it.

The reason I decided to write to you today is that I wanted to tell you that I cried at work yesterday.

Now, I know you’ve seen me cry once, but you probably don’t remember it. And I’m sure you don’t remember why. I never saw my dad cry, but I have to believe that he did–at least once. Sometimes I think it would’ve been nice to have seen it with my own eyes as a boy. So in case you never see me cry again, I’m telling you now that I cry.

I cried yesterday because I found out that a guy who works for the same company as me was killed on the job, by the job. And in a separate incident, another guy was really badly injured and might die as well. As the group of us walked out of the noisily air conditioned trailer where we were handed this news and into the hot sun in order to get back to the dangerous work, I could only think of you. I could only think of how you look when you look at me, which is to say look up at me. Your chin sticks out; your eyes are at attention; your hair falls freely off the back of your head. You’re such a good listener. Well, it’s time to listen up again. Sad things happen in life. Really sad things. One of the appropriate responses to these sad things, even for dads, is to cry. But just because sad things happen doesn’t mean you stop living life. Sad things are a part of life–just like happy things and boring things. You have to move forward, move past them. Even though I was sad, I went back to work.

Okay. I think that’s it. I don’t have any big finale. I love you.

Pete

PS – I do have one more thing. You’re a beautiful girl H-, never doubt that.

I’ve Been Reading Madame Bovary

The main room of the house that was built in 1950 was atypically adorned for the year 2014 in a comforting way.  One sofa, a piano, two lamps, one antique globe, four chairs, a kitchen table, and four onyx pedestals–the mineral, not the gem–displaying the Russian Baron Peter Klodt von Jurgensburg’s “The Horse Tamer” miniatures made up the room’s vertical trimmings.  Hanging on the bland tan plaster walls were three framed images.  One was a black and white movie poster capturing the famous coffee scene in Heat, another was a black and white poster of 1990s Metallica, and the third was a commissioned word-art photo–also black and white–of a TH-1H Huey bordered by friends’ well-wishing farewell comments and signatures, which received attention each time the owner was heady with wine.  And there was a white board.

As usual, George, who was sporting a clean shaven chin, was standing, Pete, wearing just-before-itchy length stubble, sitting.  They had just returned from viewing TC’s most recent film at the local theater.

“So, Mr. I-Like-Blondes, what’d you think of her?” Pete asked, looking up from his laptop while it woke up.

“Pretty hot,” George said.

“As you know, I’m not into blondes, but there was one scene which made me long for a woman again,” Pete said.

Smiling bigger than after bowling a strike, George said, “Oh yeah.  The one where she’s doing that iso-pushup.”

“The one from the preview?  Na, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Pete interrupted, derailing his friend’s excitement in favor of his own.

“What are you talking about then?”

“I’m talking about when she’s focusing on memorizing the plan that will allow her and TC to stay alive long enough to win.  When they were in the bunker room…..planning area…..with the holographic thing,” he said, trying to jar George’s memory.

“Oh.  I remember.”

“It just reminded me that it has been a long time since I have seen a woman really try hard.  As in apply effort.  Real effort.  Care about doing it right.  It was hot,” Pete said.  He paused for only a moment, but it was long enough for him to sift through a decade’s worth of memories.  Beginning again, he said, “I can remember memorizing the helicopter operational limits while on my commercial flights to my next training base.  There were like 220 numbers that had no pattern.  That kind of effort.  Or I think I’ve told you about my first memory of Greeny.  From back in college?  It was an intramural flag football game and he was on the ground, laid out, fully extended with the football in one hand–all to gain a few extra inches.  I don’t think the game even counted for anything.  But I remember having the specific thought, ‘I want to be his friend.'”

“Yeah.  Women just don’t do that.  Or at least the ones we ever come across don’t,” George said, staring through the wall, past the front yard, across the dimly lit street, and into the unending night.

“Doesn’t matter where the effort is being applied, I would chase after a woman like that,” Pete concluded.  Rejoining, he attempted old white man voice and quoted another sci-fi favorite of his day, “Hope.  It is the quintessential human delusion, simultaneously the source of your greatest strength, and your greatest weakness.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” George said.  “See ya tomorrow man.”

Life In The Oil Fields Is No Movie

Well, that’s not entirely true.  One movie came to mind on about day four as I was beginning to realize that a lot of family, not to mention my one friend, would want to know what exactly it was like to work on a rig.  Maybe even you are curious to know.  Here’s my best effort to convey understanding and feeling of the job, and why it appeals to me.

It’s a lot like Lord of the Rings.  Like the quest to destroy the Precious, in which all participants agree that there is no value in attempting any action that does not assist in accomplishing that invaluable end, the oil fields have one goal.  One.  Every single activity supports that goal.  In other words, the concept ‘efficiency’ has yet to be developed as there is no need to distinguish efficient action from inefficient action.

Also like LOTR, meals are on the go.  And every once in a while a Legolas shows up with a food whose calorie content is such that “one small bite will fill the stomach of a grown man.”  Naturally, the food is consumed with little regard for this fact.  And in similar fashion to Samwise’s indefatigably loving disposition towards food, all conclude that it tastes great.

Moreover, there is a comedic relief at every turn, and something about the nature of being part of such a singular mission attracts people with fully-developed personalities. Put simply, characters abound.

Lastly, just as no one but Frodo can carry the ring to Mount Doom, in the oil fields there is no one else coming to do the work.  If something heavy must be lifted, if something stuck must be unstuck, if something dirty must be cleaned, if someone clean must get dirty, that’s what must happen.  Nothing stops the mission.  Not the clock, not the weather, not the calendar.  Not past performance, not best intentions, not relationships, not feelings.  Nothing.

The ring must be destroyed.

It’s glorious.

They Earn More Than You And They Don’t Even Know What LinkedIn Is

The restaurant doors might as well have been ripped off the hinges if they were pulled open at all.  The culprits were four men who had just finished a long day of hard work.  They were hungry and ready to sit down.  One of them, the newbie, knew he was under the microscope.  The other three would be watching his every move.  They would be silently analyzing his table manners, how he addressed the server, what meal he chose, and most importantly what beverage.  Beyond the age of caring about such things, our man was just looking to make people laugh.  The workday was over; everyone still had all their fingers and toes.  He couldn’t help but want to promote a light mood.

Asking the server to keep the chips and salsa coming, he sarcastically inquired of the men, “So, hey.  On your LinkedIn profiles, do you put your position or just ‘roughneck’?”

The driller, one might say leader of the bunch, had the most steely, unflinching eye-contact one could imagine, and after letting it linger long enough to determine the question was not rhetorical, he asked, “What?”

“You know.  On your LinkedIn profile.  Do you put ‘driller’ or the more generic ‘roughneck’?” the newbie pressed, unwilling to lose the staring contest.

“Linked-what?”

“No way.  What about you two?  It’s not surprising that this neanderthal doesn’t keep his LinkedIn profile updated, but surely you two do,” he continued, purposefully.

“Pete, what are you saying?  Linked…in?”

“Oh my god,” Pete said, unable to not connect the dots.  With an unabashed enthusiasm, he continued, “On top of you guys doing the most impressive work I’ve ever seen, you’re now going to tell me that you don’t even know what LinkedIn is?”  He almost let the “L” word slip out, but the men’s unrelenting eye contact allowed his rational side to win that battle quickly.  “And that’s why I like you guys so much.  You don’t even know what LinkedIn is.  You’re so pure and good.  LinkedIn is like facebook for people with office jobs.  It’s ridiculous.  And you just helped prove my theory.  I only use it to publish my blog posts in the hopes of getting someone to read what I write.  But I’d rather have never heard of it–like you guys.  Nice work.”

“You done?  The server’s waiting on you to order.”

“Oh.  Apologies.  I’ll do the chimichanga.”

“And to drink?”

“Do you have root beer?”

Will I Ever Become a Man?

He taught me so much, and I don’t even know his name.  All I remember is that it was a sunny, hot afternoon at Heritage Square.  H- and I had been pounding the pavement and riding the rides all morning.  It was time for a break.  We headed to the grill area.

There happened to be a vintage motorcycle show on the same grounds as the theme park that day.  As expected, there were plenty of leather vests, bandannas, and unkempt beards.  Wearing a black leather vest over a black t-shirt and sporting a very unkempt beard, my average sized soon-to-be mentor was even missing a tooth.  I can still see the gap now.  Yellow, yellow, yellow, black, yellow, yellow, yellow.  I also remember that the remaining teeth on his mandible were strikingly tall and thin for some reason.

But what really made him stand out was the rather long sentence that was typed in white font on his black shirt.  As usual, I noticed “fuck” before any of the other words.  I became simultaneously terrified and curious.  What kind of randomly long t-shirt slogan contained the eff bomb?  His vest, which cut off the first and last letters of each of the three rows, did not make the task any easier.  Attempting not to stare, after several volleys, I finally made out:  “Off is the general direction in which I wish you would fuck.”

“So, H-, what would you like for lunch?  They have grilled cheese.  Do you want grilled cheese?” I queried, the shrinking line forcing the discussion.

“I don’t want a grilled cheese.  I want a hot dog.”

“We’re having hot dogs tonight, so it’s gotta be a grilled cheese.  Well, I guess there is also chicken fingers, or a corn dog.”

“Corn dog?”

“Yeah, it’s a hot dog wrapped in corn bread.  Is that what you want?” I asked, devastated that she found a loophole to my no-hot-dog reasoning.

“I think I want a corn dog.  No, I want a grilled cheese.”

“Good.”

Only one more customer to go, I noticed that they had some beer bottles on display, in addition to the typical beverages I’d come to expect.  Not just beer, they also had three flavors of delicious Mike’s Hard Lemonade.  Debating for longer than I’d like to admit, I decided to stick with soda.  I really wanted a Mike’s, and figured just one wouldn’t be weird or inappropriate on a nice afternoon of riding roller coasters with my daughter, but I couldn’t do it.  I genuinely feared what the biker behind me was going to think of me for buying a Mike’s.  Not knowing anything more than any of us about the guy, I was afraid because I knew that if I was him, I would loose a smart-ass comment on the strange man in front of me whose t-shirt didn’t have the eff-bomb on it and then bought a Mike’s.  So I stuck with the combo meal that came with a soft drink.

Even knowing that there was only one line was not enough to prevent me from nearly breaking my neck as I turned to confirm what my ears reported next.

“Will that be all?” I heard the cashier say, as I saw her hand the biker a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

Review of Grudge Match

I will cry when Sylvester Stallone and Robert De Niro die.  In the past I have thought about celebrity deaths that will be difficult to stomach, but only after watching Grudge Match am I sure that those two will cause a genuine sense of loss.

The movie is easy.  The story is straightforward.  And as a bonus, a black man and an old man use their societal advantages to provide the audience with guilty laughs.

The movie is almost good enough to be called “good” even if the viewer hasn’t seen Raging Bull or any films in the Rocky Saga–almost.  Then again, no movie would be comprehensible if all context could be removed.

It’s humorous the way each fighter is equally the underdog.  We have underdog versus underdog.  Luckily, the respective underdog attributes are acted well-enough to birth some curiosity.  By the time we find ourselves calling the filmmakers names for not having the courage to use Rocky’s theme song one last time to accompany the mandatory training montage, we do wonder how the fight will end.  And we nurse a hope that it will end the way we want it to, whichever way that is.  Surprisingly, the film’s writers and director are more on point than we ever could’ve imagined.

In the final round of the fight we arrive at two specific moments that explicitly reveal the film’s theme, and whether these moments are taken together or individually, that theme proves to be well worth the, at times perfunctory, 90 minute commute.

In short, if you remain undecided about watching it, watch it.

Review of Quiet, by Susan Cain

The film V for Vendetta has a line which goes, “Artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use them to cover the truth up.”  Growing up, I was under the impression that internalizing the latter sentiment was required in order to call yourself an American.  In other words, when I heard the line, the idea that politicians lie was nothing new.  But I can’t say I had ever heard the first part, the part about artists deliberately using lies for good, until I watched that movie.  Neither a politician nor an artist, Susan Cain attempts to simply tell the truth in her book Quiet.  However, Fyodor Dostoevsky (artist) has this to say about telling the truth in his classic Crime and Punishment: “If there’s the hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a discord, and that leads to trouble.”  My experiences have convinced me that Dostoevsky speaks the truth.  What we want to know, though, is how does Susan Cain do?

As best I can tell, Cain’s thesis in Quiet is that between the two major and decidedly different personality types (extrovert and introvert), in America the extroverts have convinced everyone that their type–their personality–is the ideal personality.  More simply, Cain would like to be Luke Skywalker for introverts and return balance to the force.  Unfortunately, there is quite a bit more than a hundredth part of a false note in her book.  Two of them warrant attention here.  

First, there is a section where she attempts to demonstrate that The West has a history of valuing extroverts, while The East has a history of valuing introverts.  How does she go about this supporting this claim?  Like any rhetorician, she uses proverbs.  One of The East’s proverbs she provides comes from the reputable founder of Taoism, Lao Tzu, and reads, “Those who know do not speak.  Those who speak do not know.”**  Fair enough.  The provided proverb for The West, on the other hand, comes from Ptahhotep.  What Westerner doesn’t have a few ol’ Ptahhotep’s sayings memorized?  For the fuzzy, Ptahhotep said in 2400 BCE, “Be a craftsman in speech that thou mayest be strong, for the strength of one is the tongue, and speech is mightier than all fighting.”**  With writing being a relatively new form of communication back then, this guy may have just been saying the what-might-actually-be-a common western proverb, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  And, from where I sit, that has nothing to do with extroverts or introverts.  

Maybe Cain just made a little mistake, but still understands the big picture?  I wanted to believe so, too.  But then she added, as her concluding proverb for the perpetually extrovert-loving West, “The squeaky wheel gets the grease.”  Now, I am under the impression that a proverb is prescriptive in nature, not just a true, clever sentence.  I have never heard anyone use that truism in a genuinely prescriptive manner.  Maybe I’m sheltered.  I’ve told people, mockingly, to squeak if they want something, sure, but I’m pretty sure they understood the tone of my advice included that I thought they’d lose a part of their soul for doing so.  I think the bigger problem is that, by definition, there aren’t any proverbs that advise self-promotion and talking endlessly.  Quite the opposite.  The thing about proverbs is they have to stand the test of time to earn the title.  In her research for western proverbs promoting extroverted characteristics, I find it hard to believe she didn’t stumble across “the empty can rattles the most.”  But, then, had she included that one in the book, her thesis would’ve lost some bite, I think.  

The second false note, which is not exactly false, though it definitely calls into question the gravity of the entire supposed problem, is deep into the book.  We find ourselves in the midst of a lover’s quarrel.  It seems that extroverts and introverts are often attracted to each other, which can sometimes result in marriage.  This causes problems, it seems.  For Greg and Emily, the problem is dinner parties.  Greg wants to host them.  Emily does not.  As it turns out, once Greg and Emily learn that Emily’s introversion is not wrong or bad, a compromise can be struck.  Cain’s advice?  Don’t focus on the number of dinner parties, but the format.  She says, “Instead of seating everyone around a big table, which would require the kind of all-hands conversational multitasking Emily dislikes so much, why not serve dinner buffet style, with people eating in small, casual conversational groupings on the sofas and floor pillows?”**  A friend of mine recently enlightened me to a witty phrase that defines Greg and Emily’s situation and I think fits here: White whine.  Seriously though, ladies, if you have multiple sofas and throw pillows that you don’t mind replacing every other weekend after your friends prove they’re not the refined diners you’d like to believe they are, then I can already tell you’re beautiful–we should chat.

Is there an extrovert ideal in America?  Has a (perhaps unintended) consequence been that introverts get lost in the shuffle, or worse yet, believe they should strive to change a part of themselves which cannot be changed and live with the resultant shame?  Susan Cain believes so.  I’m not convinced.  Maybe I’m not her target audience.  In any case, I’m attempting to navigate life using something a good friend taught me recently: “Every person has a story.  If you listen to it, you just might avoid judging them.”  When that doesn’t work, I fall back on Billy Joel’s, “Don’t take any shit from anybody.”  But a bibliography containing only two entries probably isn’t robust enough to get published and entice readers.  I guess if I hope to ever be published, I’ll just have to make it up as I go.

****

*Dostoyevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment. New York: Modern Library, 1950. Print.

**Cain, Susan. Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. New York: Crown, 2012. Print.

 

A View From The Top

“I guess it had to happen sometime.  Wait, no it didn’t.  I can’t believe it happened at all.  Can not,” he said, over-emphasizing the tuh in not.  The car slowly pulled away.

“Was she pissed?” G- asked.

“Huh?” he responded, waking from contemplation.

“The old lady you just talked to,” G- clarified.

“Oh, no.  Well, not about her car wash.  That’s the weird thing.  But she called me a pussy,” he said, still working his way back to reality.”

“What?” G- asked.

“Not just me, actually,” he said.

“So what happened?”

“Let me see.  I guess the best place to begin is with the fact that it is supposed to snow tomorrow.  If we start there, the next step is to divide the residents of this city into two groups, for the purpose of this story.  Group one: residents who, today, think, ‘Gee, it’s a great day for a car wash.’  Group two: residents who do not.  Now, G-, you and I are clearly in group two, right?” he asked.

“Right,” G- answered.

“That old lady, on the other hand, is in group one, right?” he asked.

“Yep, she sure is,” G- responded, enjoying the banter.

“Good.  It’s important that we agree,” he began again.  “Anyhow, I’m sure you heard that she had a dog with a pretty ferocious bark.  When I saw the guys signal that her car was ready, I trotted towards it, meeting her along the way.  I was hoping–as usual–to use engaging small talk and piercing eye-contact to distract her from inspecting their work.  So intent on my mission was I, that I forgot my surroundings; forgot them, that is, right up until the dog that was now standing directly at my side let out another very loud bark, unexpectedly.  This startled me, as I think you can imagine.  I mean, quite literally, I jumped at the sound of it.  Then I began laughing at myself and recounting the moment to the old lady.  I told her, ‘Man that scared me.’  All I got back was a look that I couldn’t place.  I ushered her towards her front door, and that’s when she stopped and said dryly, ‘I think you all are kinda pussies for being scared of my vicious  dog.'”

“She actually said ‘pussies’?”

“Yep.”

“What’d you say?”

“Before speaking, I looked at her hard, because, remember,” he paused for effect, “she’s in group one.  Then I decided her imbalance wouldn’t likely result in violence, and frankly said, ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I deserve to be called names today.'”

“What did she say back?”

“I could tell that she felt my meaning with her heart, but she didn’t back down much at first.  Then she went on to explore, in a dry, lamenting manner, how it surprised her that her dog could cause such fear in so many people.  I explained that I didn’t mean that I was scared of her dog, but startled nonetheless.  It seemed that maybe I wasn’t the first person to comment on the animal today, and she remained in a state of silent query after my explanation,” he continued.  After a breath, he resumed, “I then tried to clarify that, perhaps, unlike the other people she dealt with earlier, I just don’t like dogs anyhow, nothing against hers.  Admittedly, I couldn’t help myself and added, ‘I don’t understand you people anyhow.  Toting your dogs around in your cars and all that.’  I mean, seriously, G-.  Did I tell you I saw a lady with a litter-box, as in a functioning, full of kitty litter litter-box on the floor beneath the passenger seat in the front of her car earlier today?  Dubble-yoo tee eff?”

“How’d she take that?”

“Judging by her expression, I’d say she was genuinely shocked to discover that there exists a human being whose conclusions differed from her own.”

Laughing, G- responded, “Sounds like a pretty big moment for her.”

“We can only hope that the depth of the experience compensates for the brevity.”

 

 

 

Entitlement

I first heard the term “entitlement nation” somewhere between 2005 and 2008.  I can picture some article hanging on the wall somewhere at work.  Or maybe it was the back page of a magazine at work.  In any case, entitlement was about–so I thought–the general public wanting something for nothing.  As in, people wanting money for not working, people wanting healthcare without paying for it, people wanting to retire without saving for it.  Little did I know how wrong I was.  Perhaps it is more accurate to say little did I know how small a part of entitlement those big social programs were.

Want to know what entitlement is?  Entitlement is driving too close to a semi-truck that kicks up a rock that chips your windshield and believing the semi-truck should pay for the damage.  Entitlement is believing that you should only have to stand in line a certain amount of time at a store.  Entitlement is believing that your food should come out in a timely manner at a precise temperature, and if it doesn’t, the restaurant should pay for the meal.

Learning is defined as a change in behavior based on experience.  Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.

By the time a person is old enough to drive he has heard stories of large trucks kicking up rocks which can chip windshields.  Learning has not occurred when a person drives too close to a large truck.  Learning has occurred when a 16-year old gives a large truck enough space for some other moron to drive too close to it.

By the time a person is old enough to be in a line at a store by himself he has to have seen the correlation between number of items and people and the length of the wait.  Learning has not occurred when this person freaks out or allows his emotional state to change because he just can’t believe he has to wait so long.  Learning has occurred when an impatient person stops shopping during the busiest time of the day.

By the time a person is old enough to be at a restaurant and pay their own way he has to have seen the occasional slip up by the staff.  Learning has not occurred when this person demands their food be free and throws a temper-tantrum.  Learning has occurred when this person pays their bill and never returns to the restaurant *or* returns but has lengthened the expected wait time and lowered the expected temperature of the food.    

Learning is changing.  Insanity is sameness.  Entitlement is sameness.  Entitlement is insanity.

Quit being insane people.

Mommies Are Not Alive

Her new nearly-florescent neon tennis shoes did little to distract him from feeling the sting of what she said next.

“Mommies are not alive,” she purported.

“Mommies are not alive?  I don’t think that’s right H-,” he returned.

“They aren’t alive.   Mommies are not alive,” she said.

“What is a mommy?” he asked, seeking context at the least.

“K- is my mommy,” she answered.

“Hmm.  So you know K- is your mommy, and that she’s alive, but you still maintain that mommies are not alive?”

“Yep, they’re not,” she said.

“Well,” he took a breath, “I hate to break it to you kid, but mommies are very much alive.  Your mommy is alive.  My mommy is alive.  They’re alive,” he lectured dryly.

“Mommies are not alive,” she continued, a perfect stubbornness showing through.  “Skeletons aren’t alive either.”

“Skeletons, eh?” he said.  “Oh!  I get it.  Not mommies, mummies!  Muh-muh mummies are not alive.  You’re trying to say that dead bodies wrapped in tape are not alive, right?  They’re called mummies, muh-meez, not mah-meez.”

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes betraying her brain’s increase in activity.  “Bodies wrapped in,” she paused, “in tape,” she finished, her nodding head and squinting eyes calling out his inaccuracy.  “Mommies-”

“Muh H-,” he corrected,  “muh-meez.  Mummies are not alive.”

“Mah-”

“Muh-”

‘Mah-”

“Muh-meez H-,” he said, feeling his patience about to buckle. “Forget it.  Can you say reanimated?”

“Re-ami-nated?” she asked.

“Re-ani-mated,” he repeated.

“Reanimated,” she said.

“Good.  Now say ‘mummies are reanimated, but mommies are alive.'”

“Mommies are reanimated, but mommies are alive.”

“Perfect.”