The Job Market Has Some Weird Options

As many of you know I have been looking for a job far longer than I ever wanted to.  My time on Indeed and LinkedIn and the Kansas Department of Labor websites have now surpassed the number of hours logged in my lifetime on any website you would care to mention.

Scrolling through the job listings I stop on the ones which look like they fit my background.  I also stop and look at the job titles that make me very curious. 

Floating Store Manager. When the hell did the ability to defy gravity become a requirement for a job?  That class was not offered at any of the institutions of higher learning I attended. 

Vice President of Estimating. I could do that.  Hmmm, that looks to be about five feet.  Ooo, that is around 30 pounds. That guy looks like he once spent time in a maximum-security facility, about 12 to 15 years. The work I do is worth around $9,000 a week, yeah that’s about it. 

Dog Waste Removal Technician. I think we all know what that means but it sounds a lot better the way they put it. 

Nuclear License Application Development Manager – Urgently Hiring. This one scared the hell out of me.  Just how urgent and where was this job located. 

Vault Supervisor. That sounds boring as all get out.  “Yep, the vault is still there. Hasn’t gone anywhere.” Fifteen minutes later. “There it is.  The vault is right where it was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And the day before that. Arrrrgggghhhh, I’m going to go back to my last job. Watching paint dry.” 

Plant Controller. Isn’t this something super villains do to take over the world? Who advertises for that? Makes it far too easy for Batman to thwart them. 

Proposal Manager. I knew there were wedding planners and I knew that marriage proposals had been turned into extravaganzas that would make P.T. Barnum think “that was a little over the top,” but I did not know a cottage industry had popped up. 

Manager, Lipid Nanocrystal Formulation. WTAF

Agent Support Team. This has got to be the people who sit in the van and talk into a mic which transmits to some sort of microscopic earpiece worn by amazingly attractive spy type people. Unfortunately, the van people don’t get paid like the spies do. Which is totally not fair because the amazingly attractive spy people would be cheese on a cracker without the van people telling them the henchmen were in the room to their left…no, your other left. 

Diabetes Sales Specialist. If you can sell that you can sell anything.  What’s next? Cancer Installer?

Certified Sterile Processing Technician. The qualifications for this gig seem a little too personal.

Supervisor, Sterile Equipment. Does this person just keep an eye on the Certified Sterile Processing Technician’s junk? 

Assistant Retreat Director. Is this the person who yells “Run away!” after the Senior Retreat Director didn’t run away quite fast enough?   

Tasker. This is totally the job I want. “You, go do this. You, go do that. Hey, get me a drink. Paint my house. Fix Congress. Explain why so many people think Jerry Lewis is funny.” My list is endless. 

You may be surprised to hear this, but 2020 was not all that much fun...

 

DISCLAIMER:  I would like to clearly state that I realize how fortunate I am.  There has been a crazy amount of horrible stuff happen to a crazy number of people in 2020.  Actually, a crazy amount of horrible stuff has happened to a crazy number of people for years.  I know the crappy stuff in my life does not compare to the genuinely epic levels of misfortune meted out on a regular basis to so many.  All that being said, I have no compunction about complaining about the unpleasantness I experience. 

 

As of the writing of this missive of no true consequence, there are 20 days left in 2020.  A great many people will be glad to have it in their rearview mirror – and I am one of them. 

I have always disliked it when I whine about something and the response from the listener is “well, it could be worse”.  Of course, it could be worse! 

I could have the moral compass of Rudy Giuliani.  I could have the backbone of Lindsey Graham.  I could have the human decency of Mitch McConnell.  I could have weeping sores covering my body.  I could have a roommate once featured on the TLC docuseries My Strange Addiction who was compelled to yodel the collected works of Herman Melville between the hours of 2:00 and 7:00 AM every single day.  Hell, I could be compelled to yodel the collected works for Herman Melville between the hours of 2:00 and 7:00 AM every single day.  I could be compelled to yodel the collected works for Herman Melville between the hours of 2:00 and 7:00 AM every single day, with weeping sores covering my body.

Of course, it could be worse.  There is no end to worse.  Just because it could be worse does not mean I have to like what is happening.  Being grateful for the good stuff is possible while also being bent out of shape about the shitty stuff.  I can handle two sets of feelings and thoughts at the same time.  Just call me emotionally ambidextrous. 

My personal 2020 was bookended by two events of crapitude.

The harbinger of the year that sucked out loud happened on January 6^th.  I went to the gym (remember doing stuff like that?).  It was so close to New Year’s Day the influx of resolutioners made it impossible to park close to the front door.  I parked in a poorly lit corner of the parking lot.  After an hour of absolutely killing it on various fitness machines (hey, I’m telling the story, allow me a little factual tinkering), I went out to my car.  The front window on the passenger side was shattered and my backpack was gone. 

I know.  It could have been worse.  I could have had a lot of valuable stuff in the backpack.  I could have had my whole car stolen.  I could have caught the perpetrators in the act and been bludgeoned over the head, kidnapped, and eventually brainwashed into joining their cabal of skullduggery.  I could have weeping sores all over my body while engaging in said skullduggery. 

From that day on 2020 life wasn’t so great.  Two examples being, a pandemic and a government devoid of the Lockean philosophy that “the Ruling Power ought to govern by declared and received laws, and not by extemporary dictates and undetermined resolutions.”  I don’t know about you, but that John Locke dude seems pretty smart.  Extemporary dictates sound a hell of a lot like Tweets, and undetermined resolutions bring to mind random stuff made up on the spot to make people believe a pack of lies. 

This brings us to the other bookend of crapitude.  I was downsized.  This does not mean I can now buy pants with a smaller waist measurement.  My job was eliminated with extreme prejudice.  We are talking Martin Sheen / Marlon Brando levels of extreme.  I start work at 7:30 AM with not an inkling of what was to happen.  At 9:30 I have a virtual meeting with my boss, which turns out to be a virtual meeting with three bosses.  At 10:00 I have no job and the work computer I have becomes a rectangular doorstop. 

I know.  It could have been worse.  Actually, I am having a difficult time figuring out how it could have been worse.  Zero warning.  No opportunity given to clean up the loose ends that my friends at work will have to figure out on their own.  No sense that the individuals jettisoning a human being who worked hard for them for five years had the slightest concern about it.  Sure, there is a global pandemic going on. Sure, the holidays are nigh.  Sure, the individual being released has zero history of malfeasance.  No biggee. 

They were probably thinking at least he doesn’t have weeping sores all over his body.  Yeah, that’s it. 

Power Corrupts - Taken to a Whole New Level

 I am not a person who craves power.  I don’t understand why people go out of their way to gain power. 

Having influence over others is different and I will do things to nudge people to do things I believe are important.  If they choose not to do it, I am willing to move on. 

This has all changed. 

I want power.  I want to force people to do things.  I have no compunction about it. 

The power of the government is formidable and too many people who wield it do not give a damn about anything but holding on to power. 

The focus is most often on Trump.  That makes sense as he is the front man for the current perversion of government.  He is devoid of empathy, sympathy, humanity, and the ability to feel happiness.  Have you seen him smile or laugh in a way that reminded you of a person who was enjoying something?  I’d think if I was getting all these people to follow me like a deity, I’d enjoy it.  Many of those television preacher guys stealing from the poor to give to themselves seem to be having a ball. 

It is the other people using Trump for their own enhancement that scare me more. 

Mitch McConnell was doing this well before Trump came down the escalator to start the racist crusade to unite one set of people against the rest of us.  McConnell uses his power to block things he doesn’t like. Things that would help a great many people in the country.  He does all this after receiving 56.2% of the votes from 46.2% of the registered voters in 26^th most populous state in the country.  That is not a mandate from “we the people” to be the arbiter of what laws will even be discussed on the floor of the Senate.  He does not bother to serve the 806,787 people (0.3% of the voting age population of the United States) he duped into thinking he cares about them, much less the remaining 99.7%.  I take that back.  He serves others – the people who help him keep the power.

The people who believe the current iteration of the Republican Party are doing good things for the country astound me. 

There is another version of individual I do not understand.  I see people who want to point out the deficiencies of all other folks in the political sphere.  I know full well that the choices other than the Republicans are not perfect.  They are not without sizable flaws.  They are not devoid of bad actions or impure motivations.  However, many of these people have the concept that government is for the good of others. 

Those who point out “he voted for x” which was not a good thing means that he is not worthy of respect even if he did many other things that had merit.  She “said this” which was unfeeling or ignorant, so she is not worthy of respect even though she said many empathetic and insightful things. 

Thoughtful people should be willing to see the whole person and applaud the things which are admirable and hold them responsible for the things which are dishonorable. 

I am struggling mightily right now.  Nothing matters. 

Rules? No. 

Laws?  No. 

Ethics?  No. 

Morals? No.

Honor? No.

Decorum?  No. 

Science?  No.

Facts? No.

Fairness? No.

Kindness?  No.

The Republican base is on board.  Nearly everybody currently in a place of power within the party embrace it.  The press allows it, not to mention the political miasma pumped out by Fox News.  Nobody holds them responsible for mistakes, egregious or simple.  Trump is incapable of remorse as he cannot imagine being wrong.  The party has taken hypocrisy from a frequent occurrence to a way of life. Cruelty is strength and compassion is weakness. 

Here is the weirdest part of my current state of mind.  I am painfully sad.  I see people being horrible to each other.  I see people with a desire to be ignorant and enormously confident in acting on that ignorance.  I see all that, but I have been overwhelmed with gratitude at the same time. 

I am well aware I am incredibly lucky.  I am white.  I am a man. I have a job.  I have health insurance.  I have a secure place to live.  I have enough money to do what I need, many of the things I want, and help a few others along the way.  My children are safe and healthy as well as caring and resourceful.  My grandchildren are nurtured and full of wonder as well as kind and curious.  My job allows me to work and still be safe at home.  My co-workers are willing to listen and help.  My life partner is a perfect fit for me.  We take care of each other and her love feeds my soul. 

We are all going to need to take care of each other.  Our government has lost the desire to help and has enabled a sizable number of citizens, who may have never felt the actual teachings of Christ were something they wanted to deal with, to be out and proud about their intolerance, ignorance, and hate stoked anger.  

This is exhausting...

He works hard for the money (sorta)

So, I got a second job. 

I have a really good primary job.  It pays well, has great benefits, and the people in charge of the joint actually understand that what makes the place work are the individuals doing the run of the mill tasks.  There is a sense of being appreciated which doesn’t exist everywhere.

 

I also have a fabulous life partner.  Lori has a good job and pays more than her fair share of the household expenses – way more than her fair share.

But still I was not able to do the financial stuff a fifty-five-year-old man is supposed to do.  You know, like save money, contribute a reasonable amount to the retirement fund, afford a vacation beyond a day trip to Lawrence to cruise Mass Street, and not feel guilty when I buy a baseball hat I truly don’t need.  Those of you who know I went to St. Croix and later a Caribbean cruise do not know that Lori paid the majority of those expenses.  Remember what I said? I have a fabulous life partner.   

So, I got a second job. 

From the time I was seventeen until I got my first job as an elementary school teacher at the age of 31 I worked retail/service jobs – movie theaters, video stores, bookstores.

Minor tangent:  Each and every one of those workplaces are no longer in business:  the Airport Drive-In, the Southutch Drive-In (I am that old), The Flag Theater, The Granada Theater, Popingo Video – both in Hutchinson and Lawrence, The Video Station, Waldenbooks – Santa Monica Place Mall, Waldenbooks – Crown Center (the entire chain went away), Brentano’s Bookstore – Mission Center Mall (even the mall was torn down), and Hastings (yes, again, the whole chain went belly up).  The fact that all these places I worked are now defunct is not a post hoc ergo propter hoc sort of thing.  I promise.  At least I’m pretty sure.  Probably…

Anyway, I got a second job.  There is a shopping area right close to my primary job and I had seen a “Now Hiring” sign in the window of a place I had been to a few times as a customer.  I had been a retail guy a lot so it seemed like a reasonable way to make ends get a little closer together. 

I will not be speaking entirely favorably in this essay, so I won’t give the name of the store.  Let’s just say it rhymes with “Tally Mouse”. 

The manager who hired me was just about to transfer to open a brand-new store in a different city, so I arrived at a time of flux.  In that time of flux nobody thought it would be a good thing to train me.  Therefore, I spent the first several shifts figuring things out.  The only things I really did was fold t-shirts and stack t-shirts and unfold t-shirts in order to hang t-shirts. I have three college degrees, so I was able to muddle through.

Minor tangent #2:  After four months of working at “Galley Souse” the manager looked at what I was doing and said I was folding the t-shirts wrong.  I guess I should have gone for that fourth college degree. 

Eventually they gave me some lessons on the cash register functions on the computers, but I wouldn’t call it training.  Any time somebody wanted to do anything other than buy a t-shirt I had to ask for help.  This did not instill any level of confidence in me and meant that I believed in my mind and soul that everybody who worked there thought I was not very bright and crappy at this job.  This was reinforced.  Not by anybody saying things like “man, you’re not very bright and crappy at this job” but rather because nobody ever said anything affirming like “good job” or “thank you.” 

Having been in management for a great number of retail establishments (who later went out of business through no fault of my own) if I saw an employee having to ask for help at every turn I would have asked if they would like to have some tutorials on how to do things.  At “Valley Dowse” I just put my head down, glancing at the people in charge certain in my mind that they thought it odd that a man of my age and background could be so daft and returned to folding t-shirts. The wrong way!

There was one aspect of training they took very seriously.  There were worksheets. 

“Dally Blouse” was very serious about engaging the customers in conversations.  The worksheets gave scenarios for talking to customers.  There were stages to this conversation the first was called schmoozing.  I know schmoozing.  I’ve known some top of the line schmoozers. This, sir, was no schmoozing. 

I did have some fun filling out the worksheets.  I looked at them as creative writing exercises.  I wanted to make comedy routines out of them but felt that would be frowned upon so I just tried to make them interesting to me and since I am at heart an intellectual snob I tried to weave in some words I am sure had never been used on these worksheets before.  Like, accoutrements and shibboleth.  I am a jerk. 

In true “Alley Spouse” manner, the worksheets were not revisited with me at all.  The teachable moments (hey, I was a public school educator for 20+ years so I know phrases like that) were not taken advantage of at all. 

Here are some of the things I did learn. 

I learned being a 55-year-old man and leaving the house at 6:30 AM and then returning home at 10:00 PM, even if job one is not physically taxing and job two is not intellectually taxing, it wears you out.

I learned that if I am not given any positive feedback I can easily spin that into a strong belief that the people in charge believe I am downright useless.

I learned that feeling downright useless means I dread going to a place where I feel downright useless and that anxiety is really hard to shake. 

I learned that “extra” money is never really “extra”.  Oh, I made some in roads with some of the debt but not as much as the time away from home (and my fabulous life partner) was worth. 

I learned how to fold a damn t-shirt, eventually.  

So, I quit my second job. 

The Sound of One Hand Tweeting (five years ago)

Okay, this made me laugh.

I have mentioned before that I have a Twitter account (2018 Chris - Twitter was newer than and it didn't have the same power to make me want to stand in front of a speeding freight train). The majority of the people I follow write jokes.  I do not follow people who use it to discuss the mundane day-to-day of their lives - Oh, boy, I just love milk - or who use it to push an agenda - You must send money today to protect the planet against the ever increasing scourge of people wearing plaids and checks at the same time - or people who simply use it as a way to self-promote - I will be selling my hand woven raffia iPhone covers at the supermarket parking lot this Saturday. Recently I clicked on the "follow" button for the Dalai Lama.  He doesn’t talk about the tasty mustard seed dressing (2018 Chris - I was soooo proud of that deep pull allusion in 2012) he had at dinner last night, ask for money to buy more robes for disadvantaged monks or peddle his mountain top tours.  He says things that promote kindness and reinforce the ideas that we need to be nice to each other.  I like that.

Here’s the part that made me laugh.  Twitter sends me e-mails suggesting people I might want to follow based on who I already follow.  The e-mail I got after choosing to follow the Dalai Lama said “Here are accounts similar to who you followed.  Similar to the Dalai Lama… The Onion.”  The Onion is an organization dedicated to silly.  It creates fake news (2018 Chris - I said "fake news" in December of 2012. Can I retroactively copyright that and make a crap ton of money?) for the purpose of entertainment and has very little concern about offending people.  So, on the one hand we have a man who has dedicated his life to spiritual enlightenment for himself and as many others as he can possibly reach and on the other hand we have a group of people who like writing stories with as many double entendres as humanly possible.  Yeah, that connection makes total sense. 

Now let’s examine the idea that the Dalai Lama has a Twitter account.  The Dalai Lama is thought to be the reincarnation of a series of spiritual leaders who have chosen to be reborn in order to enlighten others. The Dalai Lama is the highest lama of Tibetan Buddhism and the highest goal of Tibetan Buddhism is to achieve Buddhahood, or a state of perfect enlightenment.  This perfect enlightenment means one is freed from all mental obstructions, one attains a state of continuous bliss attached simultaneously with the knowledge of emptiness, and all limitations to help other living things are removed.  That is perfect for Twitter.

Let’s look at the "perfect enlightenment" one component at a time.  One is freed from all mental obstructions.  Have you spent much time on Twitter?  Or any part of the internet?  Mental is not what it excels at so mental obstructions would not be present. One attains a state of continuous bliss attached to the knowledge of emptiness.  Happiness brought about by emptiness may be a better definition of the internet than a global system of interconnected computer networks.  Finally, all limitations to help other living things are removed.  The internet is pretty magic. 

Sounds to me like Twitter was created to facilitate the Dalai Lama’s mission statement:  end suffering in 140 characters or less (2018 Chris - which is how Twitter should be, not this 280 character crap).

The e-mail from the Twitter minions brought to mind something else about the internet world.  Just how many people know stuff about me?  The Twitter guys know who I follow.  The iTunes guys know what music I buy.  The Google guys know what I don’t know.  The Wikipedia guys know I am gullible enough to believe the Wikipedia guys - see the previous paragraph comprised of Dalai Lama facts. (2018 Chris - this was written before we knew about Snowden and Assange, which sounds like a cheap version of Siegfried and Roy)

Now I lead a preternaturally uneventful life and my deepest darkest secrets include the guilty pleasure of eating food designed for eight-year-olds.  Froot Loops, they’re not just for breakfast anymore.  Also, the fact I listen to entirely too many showtunes for a fifty-year-old guy who doesn't live anywhere near Broadway.  Yes, I even have stuff from Glee on my iPod (2018 Chris - technology has evolved quickly.)  Is there a support group for this? So the internet facts of my life being open to those living in the cyber-world doesn't scare me all the much.  Really, anyone who hacks into my internet browser history would be asleep in the first ten minutes.  After the third story about Jeff Withey’s prowess blocking shots (2018 Chris - Jeff is currently on the roster for the Dallas Mavericks and averages 0.3 blocks per game) and the fifth blog entry from a guy who wrote for television comedies back in the 80s (2018 Chris - I don't even read that blog any more) they might not just doze off, they might start contemplating a fork in their own eye to spice things up a bit.  

Christopher Pyle truly does believe that spreading kindness is important and hopes to end prejudice especially against grown men who listen to Julie Andrews and Brian Stokes Mitchell, on purpose. (2018 Chris - I now have Lin-Manuel Miranda on my iPhone so I am much cooler than I was.)

Just have fun with it

I have always been a sports fan. It was something I shared with my dad.  I have very clear memories of watching games on TV with him and he took me to many a live sporting event.  Each summer we would visit Kansas City and he would take me to a Royals game and he even took me to a preseason Chiefs game the very first year of Arrowhead Stadium (which he didn't fully enjoy because people stayed standing like the whole damn game - a preseason game - they stayed standing).  We also went to bunches of basketball games because Hutchinson hosted the NJCAA championship tournament every year.  

He was in his recliner and I was at the end of the couch in 1988 when the Jayhawks with Danny Manning won the NCAA championship.  That was way fun.  

Flash forward a bunch of years and I have gotten the opportunity to work in sports in a few different ways.  I have taken it too seriously but I also know how to just play. 

The too seriously can be illustrated by how I behaved as the general manager for the Dodge City Legend during the championship game in 2005.  We had lost the second game in the tournament in 2004 even though we had the best team in the league that year. One of the reasons we lost is more than half the team, including the head coach, got a wicked case of food poisoning just before the tournament started.  I still have suspicions that the Pennsylvania ValleyDawgs slipped something into the baked beans at the end of the season celebration dinner.  

Anyway, in 2005 I REALLY wanted to win.  I am a superstitious sports fan and I started pacing in the hallway of the arena and then I started to believe we were only playing well when I was pacing. This was proven to be scientifically accurate when I stepped into the arena as the best free throw shooter on the team stepped to the line. This guy had not missed a free throw in five games. He bricked it like a guy building the foundation of the new library. So, I spent far too much time in the hallway as we won the league championship.  Even with the indisputable scientific evidence of the free throw data point, that was stupid.  I took it all too seriously and I missed what could have been a fantastically fun afternoon.  

I just started helping with the new minor league basketball team in Kansas City, the Tornado's.  

I am the PA announcer during the game.  I had done just a little of this with the Legend but not much.  The first game I was a little tight.  The second game I was much more relaxed. 

I decided I should not take it too seriously. I allowed myself to just be a fan and say stuff that came to mind.  The fans don't need me to treat this like it's rocket surgery.  

There was a questionable call that went against us.  Followed closely by a questionable call that went our way.  I simply said "basketball karma".

The point guard for KC is named Charlton Jones.  He stole the ball and dashed to the goal for a lay-up.  I half sang "and along came Jones". Which was probably not a reference many, if any, of the fans present understood but I liked it.  

I was reading one of the ads for a sponsor and messed up.  Most the time people are told not to call attention to a mistake but to just keep moving.  Not me.  I said "That wasn't right.  I'm gonna try it again. This isn't my day job."  

These games should be entertainment and I am going to have fun and I really think the fans will have more fun if I allow myself the freedom to say what occurs to me.  

This is a line I am keeping handy for just the right moment. One player is named Jacob French. I can't wait for him to hit a big three pointer so I can say, "French for three. Parlez-vous jumpshot."  Lori thinks that may not be my best choice.

Cruise Musings

When we last left our intrepid adventurer he was trying to wash the fear off of his body.  Because that is totally what intrepid adventurers do.  

Let me show off more of my bold actions on this trip. The day before we went on the snorkeling adventure we went into the town of Freeport.  The first stop was a marketplace.  

The marketplace was an adventure as well.  There were a bunch of stalls housing brightly colored clothes, t-shirts, local crafts, and jewelry.  The proprietor of each spot was very vocal in their invitation to please buy from them.  This doesn't work for me.  I can't even make eye contact with anyone wearing a blue polo shirt at Best Buy.  If I happen to be wearing my blue polo I avoid me.  The hard sell makes me want to run away.  I fear if there comes a time I am dying of thirst and the only water available is being aggressively peddled by an overly gregarious person I will opt for thirst.

"Hey, there, sport, I got some top of the line H20 for you right here.  This water is wet and cold and will give your body life. The price is right, too." 

To which I respond, "That's okay, I'm just looking. " *cough* *gasp* *fall*

This fear of salespeople is just one of my issues.  I don't know if there is an entry in the DSM for another mental malady I seem to have. I'll use a story to illustrate what it is.

A while back Lori and I went to the Sprint Center to see a concert.  We sat down just as the opening act started. Soon after we sat down the people next to us decided it was time to make a visit to the concession stand.  Not three minutes later two different people came and sat in the recently vacated seats.  This kicked in my mental malady.  I started stewing about what was going to happen when the first people returned.* This made total sense as I was the duly appointed captain of the row.  Nobody knew I was the captain but I was on duty.  

This unfounded anxiety is brought to a boil whenever I travel by air.  

Some people put on sleep masks and plant their earbuds to detach and relax.  I need to do that because my captain of the row genes kick in and I am dropped into deep anxiety as people don't do what they are supposed to do.  They stop and spend an inordinate amount of time arranging their bags and such making it impossible for others to move, delaying the whole process which means the plane will be late taking off and I will miss my connector flight in Dallas which means I will have to pay for an extra hotel room night which means my monthly budget will be blown causing me to fail to save for my retirement and I will have to work at some fast food joint well into my seventies which causes me to eat french fries for breakfast, lunch, and dinner thus my cholesterol levels go through the roof hardening my arteries to the point that I pass away quietly in the break room while watching reruns of Dick Van Dyke on my smartphone.  All this happens because some lady wants to put her roller bag, her coat, and a shopping bag holding a teddy bear roughly the size of a Ford Escort in the overhead bin which is...against...the...rules!  

Then again, maybe not.  

*When the people came back everything turned out fine.  The people sitting next to the seats in question were in the wrong row and politely moved making room for the right people in the right spots.  It was a good thing I was there to spend all that mental energy making it possible for the right thing to happen with no actual action on my part.

Vacation

Lori was very generous this holiday season and took me and her twin sons on a cruise to the Bahamas.

I had never been on a cruise or to the Bahamas so it was chock full of new experiences. 

We went to the piano bar one evening.  The performer was Barry.  Barry proudly stated that he had been performing on cruises for 23 years.  There is an old axiom in education: some experienced teachers have taught for 23 years and some have taught 1 year 23 times.  Well, piano man Barry seemed to be doing the same shtick he had done each of those 23 years .  The humor was flat and sexist and forced and he played Billy Joel's Piano Man like the third song.  Everybody knows you save that one for towards the end.  

We signed up for a snorkeling excursion in the port of Nassau. We got on a small boat and cruised out to a coral reef with about 45 of our fellow cruisers.  The place was pretty and ride was smooth.  Lori, Dustin, and Alex had experience with this activity and I had not.  I can't even really swim so I was the only one of us who popped right up when they offered the life vests.  So, we get to our destination and people put on their masks and start getting into the water.  Some with grace and some with a touch of clumsiness and yours truly with a certain je ne sais quoi, if je ne sais quoi translates to "panicked ineptitude".  

I have read a lot about how the brain works.  There are often conflicts of input and the brain must make sense of the input in order for the output of action to be decided upon.  One part of my brain could tell the life jacket was doing it's job and I was just fine.  Another part of my brain believed I was in eminent danger of drowning and never seeing any of my loved ones again.  The output of action made me look like a bobber attached to a line being mauled by a catfish of mythical size.  I heard the captain ask Lori if I was alright, a very reasonable question in the circumstances.  Since I suffer from katagelophobia (the fear of ridicule, being put down or embarrassed) I called out to him that I was fine.  Better dead than mocked, I always say.  

There was a real chunk of time when I was under control and moved through the water in a purposeful if wickedly inefficient manner.  Still my brain fought the conflicting inputs.  I would put my face in the water, the entire point of snorkeling, and the you-are-clearly-going-to-die part of my brain said "Don't breathe, for the love of all that is holy, don't breathe."  Then the you-are-currently-wearing-an-incredibly-simple-device-which-makes-it-possible-to-breathe part of my brain would allow me to take a breath and I would observe the really cool vista below me.  Then it was time for another breathe and the fight started all over again.  

When we returned to our state room I said I was going to take a shower to wash off the salt and fear.

Tourist Information

So, I saw a sign pointing the way to a building which offered tourist information.  Since I was new to the area I thought I'd stop by and see what interesting tidbits they had to offer.

I walked in the front door and was greeted by a very pleasant gentleman who appeared to be in his late 50's.

"What can I do for you, my friend?" he asked.

I pointed at the sign out on the street and said. "I'm here for some tourist information."

"Excellent," he responded and took a couple of seconds to consult a large book on the counter in front of him.  "We have Brad and Sue Chapman visiting from St. Louis.  There is a  family, the Webers, who are in town to visit the college as their oldest, Keith, is a senior in high school this year.  He's thinking maybe sociology or psychology for a major. And there is a whole bus load of folks from Iowa in town. They might even spend the night."

I thanked him for his time and turned to leave.  Before I got to the door he called to me.

"Come back tomorrow," he said. "I think we might have a group all the way from Japan."

Orphan (lack of parents) Often (frequently)

I am an orphan.  It is not all that unusual for a 55 year old person to be moving through life without parents.  It is also not unusual for a 55 year old orphan to wish the aforementioned parents were still available.  

This past weekend there were a couple of instances when I was very aware I couldn’t talk to my parents.  

Lori and I bought our Christmas tree and started putting up some decorations.  

Christmas is a time I wistfully remember my dad.  This might surprise many of the people who only knew him professionally.  He was an imposing individual.  Smart, direct, well-spoken, highly ethical, with expectations that the world ought to be a place of equality where people took care of each other.  (His level of disappointment and disgust with the politics of today would be epic.)  One of my high school buddies said he had a quiet power like Anwar Sadat.  I never crossed him.  Partially because I couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing him and partially because he could give me a single look which turned my spine to pudding.  

He was not a big fan of organized religion but he loved Christmas.  During December we referred to the station wagon he drove as the sleigh.  We kids suspected there were toys and such in the trunk space in the back of the car.  

I remember each year he got Mom some clothes.  Things which looked soft and comfortable.  He tried but I do not have memories of seeing Mom wear them.  I was not the most observant kid so maybe she did.  Ask my sister.  She paid attention.  

When the four kids got older we stopped getting up before dawn to dive into the Santa spoils under the tree.  It was then that Dad became the person chomping at the bit.  He would take his cane and pound on the ceiling of the living room which would make noise in the upstairs bedrooms of the slumbering kids - when down below there arose such a clatter.  

My dad had a difficult childhood but he was still able to be a child with us.  

Last Sunday night there was a special television show commemorating the 50th anniversary of The Carol Burnett Show.  I will always think of my mother when watching Carol.  

I  watched a lot of television growing up but it was not a solitary activity.  The entire family sat together and watched.  The most common thing on the TV was comedy.  We laughed out loud together.  Except when there was some sort of off-color joke (which were much more veiled at that time) the only one laughing was Dad and that was only obvious if you were looking at him and saw his stomach going up and down (his enjoyment of the off-color jokes was also veiled).

Carol Burnett was a favorite of my mother’s.  She had seen all the movies the show would do their spot on parodies about and got all the clever allusions.  I had not and did not.  Which also explains why later in life I would laugh out loud during classic movies for no apparent reason.  

When the Carol Burnett show had it’s final episode my mother couldn’t watch.  She suffered from what she called “sick headaches”.  These were migraines that knocked her flat.  The first day she’d be throwing up like a frat boy at 4:00 AM.  The next day she’d be exhausted and preferred staying in a darkened bedroom.  The final episode was on the second day of a sick headache.  I am sure she wanted to watch but a flickering screen was not a good idea.  This was before DVR and even before VCR.  If you missed it, you missed it.  

I remember watching the show.  The only thing I really remember about the show itself was when they surprised Carol by bringing Jimmy Stewart on stage.  I also remember sitting on the edge of Mom’s bed describing that moment to her.  I was nowhere near as accurate as a DVR but I wanted her to know what happened.  

My mother had sat on the edge of my bed for innumerable evenings reading to me.  She was constant in doing this for all of us.  She read things she chose (all the Mary Poppins books, all the Dr. Doolittle books, all the Freddy the Pig books etc. etc.) but when I got older I remember picking library books for her to read to me.  I am sure she got a huge kick out of reading “Mr. Clutch: The Jerry West Story”.

No matter how old I get my parents will always be missed.  I wish I was more like each of them.

Also, my mother would have flipped out with joy holding my daughter’s twins and my dad would have had a ball showing them a really cheesy computer game while having them sit on his lap.  

(There are hundreds of bonus points available to the gentle reader who can tell me what the orphan/often title of this post refers to.) 

An Old Favorite (re-publish from December 2006)

“Make the Snickers work” was scrawled on a piece of paper posted next to the candy machine in the lounge at work. The pain and suffering expressed by those four simple words was palpable. Novelists spend years of their lives trying to convey such emotion. They use thousands of words crafted, edited, and re-written with painstaking care in order to give the reader a sense of human longing, desire for the unattainable, striving for perfection. Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, even Danielle Steele (dated reference - maybe I should make it that 50 Shades lady now), come up short compared to this anonymous author’s reaching out to powers greater than himself to make life worth living. Maybe I am overstating things just a bit. Dante was successful a couple of times.

When the candy machine keeps your sixty cents and does not dispense the chocolate confection there is a sense of loss and frustration, and you see the struggle against the powers that be as something fruitless, or at least candy bar-less. Your will to continue is called into question. You are a poorer individual, at least sixty cents poorer (Wow, sixty cents? This is an old column). The reason you forced yourself out of your chair, trudged up two flights of stairs and poked through a fistful of loose change is taken from you. The goal is now unreachable because all you have left is pennies. The coin return of life just springs back into place without the friendly clink of coins dropping into the tray for retrieval.

The metaphor illustrated by this experience is downright stark. The act of rising up from your chair represents the energy exerted to pull yourself up from the simple and mundane and move towards something greater than oneself, something of nougat sweetness. Trudging up the stairs is emblematic of man’s continual climb towards perfection, something akin to the Eight-Fold Path described by the Enlightened One, also known as Buddha. (Have you seen pictures of Buddha? It appears that dude had access to a whole bunch of candy machines.) The loose change symbolizes the cultural and economic tokens of achievement which are tools to an end, but should not be the goal in and of themselves. Picking through the coins is like pulling the greater achievements out from amongst the lesser ones, the quarters from the pennies, so to speak. Then our “Everyman” takes those great achievements (the coins) and uses them in trade (deposits them into the slot and pushes button 22) in order to reach his ultimate goal (the Snickers bar). He stands there waiting for the corkscrew shaped holder of his heart’s desire to rotate and gently drop it a mere six inches. Then all he needs is the energy to push aside the door and grasp what he has been working for for his entire life. But no, the mechanism is still, the Snickers bar does not move. The goal is visible through the Plexiglas. It hangs there, mocking him, so close yet unattainable.

Now some people would not do what our friend did. A person of lesser character would grab hold of the machine and shake it in a craven attempt to aggressively take what was being kept from him. Others might pound on the glass protesting loudly the unfair and heartless treatment he was receiving like those earliest humans calling out to the moon as if it was a caring deity. The basest among us might have taken the nearest blunt object and burst through the boundary of glass and greedily grabbed not only the Snickers bar but also the mini chocolate donuts, the spicy barbeque chips…all the treasures in the machine without a single thought towards others. Others who, at this very moment, might be sitting in their office chairs dreaming of the time when their break will come and they can use their coins to purchase a little slice of heaven simply known as Funyuns.

Our hero did not care about his own achievements and dreams. He performed a selfless act. The call to powers greater than himself (the Candy Machine Guy) was not demanding repayment of his own lost coins. Nay, he used his energy to make a plea that the unsympathetic machine of life be repaired so others following in his footsteps would not suffer the ignoble pain of such horrible loss. This person did not place himself above others. He did not let his loss scar him and cause him to behave is a way which was beneath him. He simply and artfully wrote the words “Make the Snickers work” and left them for others to see. A sign of the danger one must face whenever one places too much worth upon a single goal.

Then again maybe he just hit button number eleven, got a bag of Skittles, and went back to work.

A Triumphant(?) Return

I stopped writing a blog ages ago.  Then I stopped writing columns for newspapers. Then I tried to quit Facebook. It sucked me back in.  I do tweet from time to time.


I decided today to work my way back into writing on purpose more often.  Writing things which do nothing but sit on my hard drive (the completed play, the partial plays, the oft revisited novel, etc.) is only part of the fun. So, I resurrected an old blog title and am going to give it a go.

There is hope that people read this and throw a comment my way once in a while but I am going to try to write stuff and toss it into the world for the sake of writing.

ENTRY #1
I don't think of myself as an emotional person but I get choked up often.  I cry at TV shows (yes, I like This is Us) and movies more easily than most people.

With the seeming exponential growth of anger and meanness in the world I have now taken to getting choked up when I see basic human kindness.  This should not be the case because being nice should be the norm not the exception.

The other day I was running a quick errand at the grocery store.  I heard a toddler crying.  It was not a "I want the candy fit throwing" sort of crying.  It was the "I pinched my finger something awful or I stubbed my toe wicked hard genuine tears" sort of crying.

I turned the corner of the aisle and the mom (I don't know she was the mom but if she was a kidnapper with evil intent it ruins the whole story) was squatting down next to the emotional little boy.  She was comforting him, not fussing at him to be quiet, dragging him behind the cart nor was she telling him to suck it up and get moving. She was speaking quietly to him, looking directly into his eyes with her hands on his shoulders.   She was being kind, realistic, honest, and empathetic.  I started crying. (Yes, I teared up a little writing that paragraph.)

I did not go to the woman to be comforted myself because in the current climate it could have been construed as harassment and I would have lost my job as the host of a network morning show.