Silly Fighting

I have to mention something, even with the likelihood I will offend the easily offended. A few days back I was at a restaurant and I heard a commotion behind me. I turned to find an older man punching another patron who responded with some heavy shoving that ended up turning a dining table over and spilling a bucket full of beer over the floor.

Two burly security guards separated the two, although it took a bit of doing and seemed more like the half-hearted attempts by NHL referees to break up a hockey fight before enough blood hits the ice. As a quick aside, the security business in the country I was visiting may be the fastest growing job sector with security at most restaurants, shops, malls, clubs, parking lots, office buildings, even private security guards. Despite the number of beef at most places I go, I don’t feel much safer.

Once the fighters calmed down, the security guards turned the table back over and rearranged the chairs. The combatants each sat down at the same table and began talking to each other with very little anger, it appeared. So the fighters were actually friends – maybe even relatives – and must have figured a point needed to be made with fists rather than a tough talk. As far as fights go, it wasn’t much of a thing to watch and was more reminiscent of the break-dance fighting from the movie Zoolander than a heavyweight championship bout. Still, it was a head-scrather….

Burning Issues

I have a friend who just can’t sit still. In the past year, he’s been to Afghanistan several times and stayed for a good period of time in South Sudan, living in conditions that even he thought were a bit too austere. A few months ago he contacted me from Kabul at a time that hostilities had increased, including the blowing up of his favorite store to buy his Diet Coke. He’d missed the bombing by about an hour, but seemed more miffed by the loss of his Diet Coke supplier than he was unnerved by the violence. (I’ve always told him his Diet Coke addiction will kill him). In fact, during a chat that day, he admitted to being bored.

He arrived back in Kabul the very day the Afghan “street” was in full mob mode because a goofy pastor had burned a Quran a week or so earlier. The first message he received upon his arrival was from the American security mission in Kabul that read:

Currently ongoing incident:

Shooting - Massoud Cirle/Abdul Haq Circle 0925hrs

Shooting currently ongoing believed to be involving ISAF and Insurgents.

Shooting ongoing. I’m not sure you want to be in a city with that message, but he just laughed it off. So I wrote him asking if we should find more pastors to burn more Qurans so he could have a bit more excitement in his life. He responded with an interesting viewpoint. He suggested the pastor come to Kabul to burn a Quran and become an instant martyr. He made a good point. It’s easy to tweak a religion from a distance and not worry about the consequences for the actions.

However there are two conflicting thoughts, despite the fact that Pastor Jones really had no need to burn anything and if he wanted to do something productive, he should shave that silly mustache! But by burning the Quran, two things come to mind: 1. He claimed Islam is not a religion of peace and, coincidently, they proved the pastor right by killing 20 people in brutal ways, and 2., If a group of Muslims were to come to the most Southern Baptist town and burn a box full of bibles, it’s highly doubtful anyone would have been beheaded and probably the worst that would have occurred would have been a strong letter to the local newspaper and a lot of noise on talk radio.

We seem to be in a war of jingoism coupled with politically correct responses to the obvious: we’re engaged in a clash of cultures, and all it takes to whip up a mob in the Middle East are a few good community organizers and CNN journalists for the mob to mug for the cameras. My opinion is we need to shut down the entire operation, leave the region and leave them stumped to find reasons to join a mob instead of working on creating a country that isn’t among the world’s biggest basket cases.

Random Thinking....

Obama gets to play with his military toys: Due to the ever-changing situation in Libya, this thought may have a shelf-life of a few hours, but I find it humorous that our Nobel Peace Prize winning president decided to lob Trident missiles into Libya to save the Libyan people. It made me turn to me DVD library to watch a few clips of Team America: World Police when they destroyed Paris to save the city.

Most presidents who take us into war (what else can you call it – certainly not a “kinetic military action"?) give Americans a bit of a pep talk before the bombing begins. They’ll make a case to the American people about why we’re blowing up things, the goals and who is supposed to die for messing with us, or our “vital national security interests,” before they give it a mission name like Operation Wag The Dog. The Libyan attacks by a coalition of the unwilling seems more like letting a few Europeans show off their new combined EU defense industry products, ready for sale. Although it’s a sad day indeed when you throw a war with European countries and the Germans decide to sit it out.

Our historic president decided to be historic once again, giving his unwatched speech to America in what, in the end, seemed more like a justification than a call to arms, and did so nine days after the first missiles were launched. Perhaps future presidents will take the 20/20 hindsight approach in addresses to the nation on all sorts of matters. A president is more apt to appear he made all the right moves when you get to back into your remarks rather than try to back out later, as George W. Bush discovered in declaring Mission Accomplished about eight years too early in Iraq.

The president even took the opportunity to slap himself on the back a few times, comparing how long it took him to order the missiles compared to the time that passed for President Clinton to kill civilians to stop the killing in the Balkans – either a slap in Ms. Clinton’s face for getting him into this mess, or he somehow thought the press forgot where the Balkans are (most did, likely). In all fairness, President Clinton was hiding under his Oval Office desk while Madeline Albright got the Balkan War up to a fever pitch, and it appears President Obama was also cornered by his Secretary of State to stir up some desert dust – so much for feminist talk that only men create wars.

While he was given less of a pass by the press than normal on his tardy talk, I don’t think anyone with the courage to watch his non-fireside chat found a greater understanding of our mission in Libya. Key questions left unanswered: Are we out to kill Gaddafi, or just trying to send a message by blowing up his palace? Who are the rebels and why were they only mentioned in passing? Are we arming the rebels with Stinger missiles so they can take out Libyan air force jets and the occasional commercial 747? Why did we hand off command and control to NATO when the top two commanders of NATO are American, we are the major funder, and they still need our advanced weaponry to enforce a no-fly zone and to make big holes in the ground where once strategic targets were? And, finally, it’s quite worldly of us to jump into such a fray to spare innocents, it’s just sort of puzzling why innocents in South Sudan, Congo, Syria, Ivory Coast, Bahrain and the protestors in Iran in 2009 don’t warrant the same compassion. Look, the president is just too damn smart for us regular folk to understand such nuance – even with 20/20 hindsight. Let’s just hope he picks his battles better than he does his Final Four picks.

The facts are in: California sucks. There was an interesting article by Forbes naming the Top 15 cities where things are getting worse. The major criteria were unemployment rate, the expectation for future job growth, and percentage of homes in foreclosure. Of the top seven cities, six are in California. This little tidbit coupled with a $26 billion deficit and bond rating that just slipped below Louisiana to come in at number 50, can lead one to wonder about the effectiveness of our elected leaders.

While we’ve had our boneheaded governors in the Golden State, there have been two constants in California politics since 1995: a huge left-wing democrat majority in the legislature beholden to special interest and a small and right wing minority of republicans beholden to the voices in their heads. The theory of “never the twain shall meet” is alive and kicking among our politicians and no amount of gunplay is apt to change things.

There was a day in California when the majority of legislators were lawyers prior to entry into public service. Say what you will about lawyers, but they know how to draft laws, take their one-third, and get out of town. Now the majority of legislators’ previous employment was the staff of former legislators, thanks in no small part to term limits and the idiots who put it on the ballot (me!). As a result, the main form of legislating is towing the company line and, presto, all problems over the past 15 years have been kicked down the road so far that we’ve finally found the dead end. I say give them all a year’s paid vacation just so they’ll leave us alone for a year and maybe things won’t get any worse. We’ve tried everything else, let’s get innovative.

Why one shouldn’t fly with Russian passengers: You’ve all heard that flight attendant’s speech prior to take off; that one that mentions 30 times to shut off all electronic devices, check to make sure your seat belt is fastened, and how much the various meats on a stick will cost. There are certain sounds only dogs can hear, but I’m guessing there are other sounds that only Russians can’t hear. One of them is to shut off all electronic devices.

I was on a flight to Moscow the other day and all Americans dutifully turned off everything they were required to, including the flight attendants. I kept my phone on a bit longer than normal because AT&T’s service is so incredibly awful, I had to wait five minutes for an e-mail to clear my outbox. I was reminded three times to shut off my phone and, with a feeling of lawlessness, I even chose to hide my phone to avoid further scolding. The Russians sitting in the row across from me? One woman had two mobile phones switched on and was showing her seatmate something on her computer while we were taking off. She also wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Not a single flight attendant said anything to her – likely because they knew it would do no good.

There is an old joke about an America, a Frenchman, and a Russian. The task is to get each one to jump off a bridge into the river. To the American, he’s told he’s lost all his money and, with nothing to live for, he jumps off the bridge. To get the Frenchman to jump, he’s told he’s lost all his lovers. To convince the Russian, a sign is placed on the bridge that reads, It’s forbidden to jump off the bridge. Now I’ve been on a lot of flights inside Russia and I can’t recall a single instance of a Russian turning off anything electrical, which makes one believe there’s nothing to this canard of electronic interference in the first place. But on the remote chance there is, my suggestion is flight attendants change their pre-flight announcements to say, It is forbidden to keep your electrical devices turned on.

Where Have You Gone Woodward and Bernstein?

My friend who goes by the moniker Agent 69 thinks I’m an interesting person. If anyone thinks I’m interesting I tend to want to hang out a bit more with them because, well, I don’t get that reaction very often. Although I must say it does bring to mind the Groucho Marx line of not wanting to be part of any club that would have him as a member. Nevertheless, I had a lunch with him today and, as often is the case, we grumbled about various political banalities. To our mutual credit, very few swear words were used in this session.

The subject came up about the political class and the media that write about them. Specifically, about the strange relationship of media and how it is billed as our guardians of truth and yet have a cozy relationship with the people we need guarding from. It was in evidence this weekend when President Obama was having a going-away party for administration hatchet man David Axelrod who was leaving to run the reelection campaign for the president. First, let me state my bias and pray that Mr. Axelrod is a complete and utter failure in his revised role. At any rate, as Egypt and much of the Middle East was burning, our tirelessly-working president was goofing off with his staff and a number of invited elite journalists.

It makes one scratch the balding side of the head to get around the idea that supposedly objective journalists could maintain that objectivity and still make the A List for future parties and sleepovers at the White House. If a reporter were to write a slightly critical story about the president, would he or she be taken off the invite list? The worry of losing the status – and the access – in this manner could make any reporter give pause about what they’d write.

When I was a lowly paid sportswriter, there was a definite dividing line about consorting with the athletes we were writing about. It was almost a point of professional pride that we could care less about hanging out with the athletes, invited or not. And, the bigger the name, the less we wanted to seem star-struck. The reporters who cover the White House these days seem to feel just the opposite and can’t wait to write in their diary about how the president remembered their name. In fact, there is a big snit going on from the reporters who weren’t invited to the White House soiree.

Back when it was cool to be an aloof sportswriter, I had a story lead that went, “The Texas Rangers stink, and Mike Hargrove was the stinkee.” I was proud of that line and proud that I had called out the Rangers’ only all-star player. With my chest puffed up, I proudly went to the Rangers’ practice field the next day and was talking to manager Bobby Valentine. As we were discussing what Valentine might do when he became a former manager, a baseball whizzed by my head and I could feel the wind of the ball as it missed my nose by an inch. Valentine looked down and tried to hold off a chuckle. I looked around and couldn’t tell who had thrown the ball, although my great deductive skills had narrowed the field to Hargrove, who was about 50 yards away. A moment later another ball zipped by my head and, putting two and two together, I figured Hargove was throwing the ball at me. So I said, “Skip, I think Hargrove is trying to hit me on the head with a baseball!” Valentine said, “Naw, if he was trying to hit you, he would have.” The next day, Hargrove went 0-4 in an 8-0 loss and I wrote of the Ranger’s star player, “Hargrove looked about as sharp as white sox and a black tuxedo, but he sure can throw the ball with great accuracy.” The 6'-4" Hargrove grabbed me in the clubhouse the next day and asked me to autograph my article. So much seems to have changed in the relationship with reporters and the people they report on. It’s also true that much has changed in the expectations placed on the reporters by those they’re covering. And that’s sad.

Years ago, I was traveling with a few old political hands and they were having fun telling me about all the dirty little secrets of California’s elected legislators. Republicans and democrats both had skeletons that needed to be nailed shut in the closet. One maintained a collection of child pornography in his office and another once punched his wife in the nose because she met the pizza guy half naked. Another was found in a hammock with a 16-year-old babysitter, another was considered the cocaine dealer for the Senate and its staff. Most were alcoholics and few had anything resembling scruples. But they had one thing in common: they were protected from any of this information coming out by the Capitol dome.

While we are led to believe that republicans hate democrats and vice versa, the simple truth is that they don’t hate each other enough to engage in mutually assured destruction. So the details of the frailties of our elected mortals stays in the family; in part because they are aware of their own frailties and in part because they are protecting the image of our elected officials as servants of the public and the essence of truth and justice. The real story couldn’t be farther from the truth.

And this is where we have to give the stink-eye to the media. If I know these stories, imagine what the seasoned journalists know. I once asked undoubtedly the most important political reporter why he didn’t write about the dirty secrets in the Capitol. He told me if he did, it would be the last story he’d write and he’d be out of job. While I know politicians have stirred us into a rough employment environment, I wonder what happened to the days when an editor would give a reporter the boot for sitting on a story that was far more in the interest of the public than remaining on the A list for party invites. Woodward and Bernstein, where are you when we need you?

Taking A Leak

Five months ago, a waif named Julian Assange unloaded 250,000 secret documents that disclosed, among other things, the names of Afghan citizens outing Al Qaeda miscreants in their neighborhood, names of CIA operatives in Afghanistan and Iraq, details of the U.S. rendition program, U.S. helicopter fire on a group of civilians and reporters (interspersed with combatants, a common tactic), and revealed some of our more gruesome ways to squeeze information out of captured bad guys such as waterboarding.

With the first dump, one could sense a chuckle coming from the press and the White House as most of the leaks were thought to be embarrassing to the previous administration. On the surface of things, nothing was done to stop Assange or his WikiLeaks group from further publication of national secrets. The New York Times, which refused to reveal the name of the already revealed Valerie Plame for fear harm could come to her, had no journalistic concerns about revealing hundreds of names of individuals involved in covert activities from and for the U.S. As the point news source for WikiLeaks in the U.S., no doubt the New York Times was more busy dusting off a spot on the mantle for its next Pulitzer Prize that it always seems to receive when it publishes secret material than it was considering the ethics of the news reporting profession.

Assange vowed more would come and there was a second, smaller dump of classified information, most of which dealt with our dust-up in the dust bowls that are Afghanistan and Iraq pre-2009 – or pre- coronation of Barack Obama’s taking control as Commander-In-Chief. Again, on the surface of things, nothing appeared to be done by our intelligence services, our Defense Department, our Justice Department, Congress or the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I have to believe if people were foolish enough to elect me president I would have done anything possible to disrupt future leaks. Hell, I would have hired the Vienna Boys Choir to sing him in from his not so secret hiding places if that would help.

Shortly after the second dump, Assange promised the largest dump yet of secret documents that apparently came from a 21-year-old private with a tad too much access to our national security secrets and an odd view of his oath to protect his country. This latest dump, however, struck a raw nerve. No longer was it about embarrassing George W. Bush and the neo-cons. This new dump revealed not so glamorous things about the Obama Administration and his Secretary of State’s not so diplomatic way of handling diplomacy (what can be expected from someone whose main job was to dig up dirt on her political enemies and her husband’s harem?)

Now we have action. Attorney General Eric Holder vowed to “look into” laws that Assange could be prosecuted against. (Here's a hint, he can try this one: 18 U.S.C. 793(e), which provides: "Whoever having unauthorized possession of, access to, or control over any document, writing, code book, signal book, sketch, photograph, (etc. etc.) relating to the national defense, ... (which) the possessor has reason to believe could be used to the injury of the United States or to the advantage of any foreign nation, willfully communicates (etc. etc) the same to any person not entitled to receive it, or willfully retains the same (etc) ...

Pressure was also placed on Amazon.com to no longer carry the servers for WikiLeaks and E-Bay’s Pay Pal was given a bit of a strong lecture that they should no longer serve as a means for WikiLeak fans to send in donations. A noose has been drawn tighter around Assange as he faces rape charges that numerous countries are upholding and his colleagues tell of stories of Assange feeling nervous to sleep in the same five star hotel on London’s East Side more than one night in a row (even cutting back on his room service!).

While it can be said it’s better late than never to the slow-motion reaction of our fearless leaders, it’s much easier – and more fun – to ask, where were they five months ago? Since that time, nearly every journalist seemed able to track him down at a “secret location” for an interview. If our crack intelligence community is unsure of his whereabouts, just follow a few reporters around and eventually they’ll be led to him. It’s not exactly like he’s hiding in a cave in Pakistan, so what’s the trouble?

When Dan Rather was able to locate Saddam Hussein and sit down with him for an interview, former pro basketball star Charles Barkley wondered on a broadcast why Rather didn’t stab Hussein with a fork and save the world a lot of trouble and a lot of lives. Sure, we would have lost Rather, but he would have ultimately been remembered more fondly than he is today. The same should be true for Assange. Isn’t there a reporter with a fork and access to Assange willing to take one for the team?

Re-Post For My Grandma

Four years ago December 3, my grandmother died at age 97. By anyone’s measure she lived a full and useful life and was greatly loved by four generations of my family. I also loved her dearly.

Following my mother’s death in 1995, my grandmother and I gravitated toward each other, I suspect because I wanted to be near the part of her that was my mother and she wanted the same from me. We talked nearly every week for the rest of her life and I discovered even more in common with her and relished our talks. She especially liked to talk about my mother and often repeated the wonderful deathbed conversation she and my mother had when they closed the books on a lifetime of misunderstanding. Since I liked to talk about my mother too, I was always there to oblige. She buried a husband, three children and countless friends and relatives before she died and each time you thought this would be too much for her, she dug deep to find more strength to carry on. She would just tell me it’s what happens when you live so long. The fact is, she loved life and never wanted to leave.

She had a project going all the time, which I think was partially responsible for her longevity (along with a sip of whiskey more often than she would admit). One year she would plan to paint the house, the next year to put in new carpet, and perhaps the next year it would be new window treatments. She always had something to look forward too.

When her husband died in December 1983 she visited my parents for Christmas. She looked so frail when she arrived, we all believed she wouldn’t last long. It was a bittersweet Christmas as it felt like we would lose both grandparents in the span of a few months. She surprised us all. My aunt bought her a puppy a short while later, believing she would get it back in a few years, but my grandmother stubbornly outlived the dog.

When we would visit, she would show off a ring or a bracelet. She would tell us it was a birthday present from her husband, the same one who had been gone for a decade. She actually went out and picked out the piece of jewelry she suspected he would buy for her, wrapped it up and gave it to herself on her birthday or Christmas, always with a wry smile and telling us "look what Bill bought me."

She also always felt and acted younger than her age. She was an avid bridge player and sharp as a tack so she always kept score (regrettably not allowing me to cheat). She knew what cards you were holding and was the first to tell you if you were leading from your hand or the dummy. When playing with her local bridge club, she complained that the people were just too old; despite the fact most were 10-20 years younger.

Once she told me the reason her husband was bald on the top of his head was because he kept hitting his head on the backboard of their bed (you youngins may have to think about that one for a bit). Never one to care what people thought of her, she also went out and bought what she called “stretchy pants” with stirrups that were meant for teens and proudly had her picture taken in them.

She had a lot of money but you would never know it. She and her best friend, the wife of the founder of K-Mart, used to go shopping every Wednesday. Too often they came back with nothing, complaining they would never spend more than $1 for a good pair of underwear. She actually was so cheap that she had a dual headstone made for her and her husband. Because she got a better deal for each letter, she had the cemetery chisel in her lifespan as 1904 -19_ _, not thinking she would make it into the 21st Century. I used to love to tease her about the fact she would live beyond her expectations and it would cost her more to knock off the 19 part. I’m happy to say she had that problem.

Because she had lived such a long life, I once asked her what she thought was the greatest invention or achievement in her lifetime. Now I would have said Saran Wrap and given a thought to the airplane, computer, or landing on the moon, but she quickly answered “penicillin” because she knew how many lives it saved. Her generation was never about collecting new toys and technological inventions, but about making the life of others more comfortable and better.

Most people who live that long have some slip in mental acuity. She never did. I once asked her why and she told me it was because she read five or six hours every day and it kept her mind sharp. Her mental alertness may have ultimately made her death more frustrating.

She fell one day in late November of 2001 and broke her hip. Five days later she died from being in the hospital, hooked up to tubes and well-aware of what was happening around her. She didn’t fear death, but as with all things in her life, I think she wanted a say in how she died. I doubt she was ready to go that day and was probably pretty ticked-off that she wasn’t home baking pies. My relatives never told me she was in the hospital and I never had a chance to tell her good-bye or say how much I loved her and what she meant to me. Alice Brosier, if you’re looking over my shoulder today, I want you to know I love you so much and miss you every day.

Can I Get A Witness?

Well, the reality is, I’m at work and should be doing work-related things – especially on those items I’ve fallen behind on. But lately I’ve been thinking how much I miss writing on my blog and sharing with you the weirdness that is my life. I’ve also missed writing in general. Besides e-mails and the occasional proposal, about all I write out is a grocery list (although I do try to make those as creative as possible).

A few days ago, I was looking at an old e-mail account that I hadn’t opened up in years. I had a pen-pal relationship with a friend named Katrin from Romania who now has her own blog (linked here, but maybe closed down). The back and forth e-mails covered daily events to deeper, more meaningful things, but I was mostly struck by what a damn good writer she was and is. (Katrin, if you happen by my blog after all these months of dormancy, please start writing again!). Reading our exchanges made me want to write again and so here I am avoiding work and, as likely, missing out on making some money.

The blog idea started as a whim while I was enjoying my time immensely with The Boy in New Zealand. It was partially inspired by a friend John who gave me his theory that blogs such as this are the new town square for sharing ideas and perspectives. I was also pushed by Anna, a young campaign worker, who wrote a hell of a blog and made me think, Well, if she can do this, then certainly I can.

My blog inspired others to create their own and it was one of the things that made me most proud. On the other hand, as I took my sabbatical from the blog, most of my fellow bloggers began to fall off as I did. The Boy created his own and, strangely enough, quietly began to begin writing again last week, so I noticed. Sladed stopped his very entertaining blog and now writes more about triathlon training. The Girl began a blog about American Idol and Alan Iverson and she stopped her writing – although I suppose that has as much to do about the decline of both her subjects. Katrin may or may not have continued since it now takes an invitation to read her blog (how rude!), and even Anna had to end her blog shortly after it began because of the vagaries of politics.

Much has transpired since I began my blog and it seems as though a lifetime has transpired since it went dormant. I reconnected with some old friends through the blog, including the lurking Molly and a few “anonymous” respondents who are perhaps less anonymous to me than they think. But mostly I connected to my past and the things I remember so fondly. It was an honor to write about Bill, not only about his last years, but the years we spent goofing off as kids on Lake Drive and as adults as business partners.

There were so many wonderful events that landed on the Lazlo dime. The Girl graduated, captured so well by the artful eye of a friendly photographer, The Boy and The Ber got hitched, elections happened, screwing with my delicate sense of a reasonable world order, friendships came and went, new people entered my life, and I got to look around for photos of Diane.

The biggest change and probably the most central reason for putting the brakes on the blogging, was with Mrs. Laz. You all know the story so no reason trying to write myself into a happier ending. I always tried to be open with the readers – some would say too open – and it never felt appropriate to continue as though nothing was different. If I blogged about something with an attempt at humor, it would appear to most observers I was being glib about too much, too soon. It was also true I was in too dark of a space to even remember how to write in a humorous tone. If I wrote more openly about what was going on with my head and my heart, it could have left deeper wounds and been, well, insensitive. That left only politics to comment on and, frankly, I didn’t want to write about our dear leader out of fear of ending up on a list that various security forces review on a regular basis.

Despite having a lack of topics to write about, I’ve decided to find a way to post again here and there. I feel a need to get the cobwebs off my creative side and the blog, like an old friend, has just been patiently waiting for me to come visit it again. Good to see you again, Laz….

Another Year Later

Throughout your life you have your heroes. Some come and go for various reasons. I remember The Boy was a huge Jose Conseco fan, but Conseco lost a number of his fans when he turned out to be a juiced-up screw-up. The Boy, always being mature beyond his years, noted he was still a fan of the player but distinguished the difference between holding him to a higher standard and liking the way he could smack a baseball.

It was tougher for me to make that distinction and most of the heroes I held so dear ended up being a surprising disappointment. Often we forget that the people we elevate to hero status are merely mortal and share all the frailties we all share. At least I forget it too often.

There was a period in my life when I elevated a number of people to hero status, blindly accepting they were worthy. I did all this while ignoring there was a person in the office next door who was far more deserving of this status than the people I had chosen. That person was my brother Bill who, as it is, passed away five years ago today.

It’s difficult to look at your brother as a hero, especially your younger brother. How can we when he was the kid we made hike the ball when we older kids played football? But there he was sitting down the hall for nearly 20 years doing the sorts of things heroes do everyday. Mind you it wasn’t done with huge fanfare or by saving little Timmy from falling down the well. I don’t think he ever saved a cat stuck in a tree. What he did that made him a hero was live his life in an honest and moral way and he did so every day of his life.

Naturally I didn’t recognize any of this until after he was gone. Like many people, I believed you had to do something remarkable to be a hero. But I know now, the real hero is the person who lives the life of a respectable husband, father, brother, friend and business partner. Bill embodied all of this and because he did it so effortlessly and without any fanfare, it was far too easy to miss. But I can say five years later, I miss it now.

Bill had a number of bad habits as my business partner. Most notably he kept in check my unbridled enthusiasm to spend money on my latest scheme and always told our clients the unvarnished truth -- something even the clients didn’t want to hear. But his tongue would have fallen out if he tried to tell a fib.

This isn’t to say he was perfect because that was reserved for only one mortal, but he tried to live his life in a quiet dignity where his words could be counted on and his inner truths were formed with high moral standards (not withstanding his youth).

To say I miss him is the mother of all understatement. To say I didn’t recognize or learn from his qualities is an equal understatement. He was decent and straight and so much of the world has forgotten the value of those traits. It’s so easy for us to remember what turns out to be the best of those who have passed and I have considered that about Bill. But the truth about him is still the truth; he was the kind of person you couldn’t help but look up to (his height observations notwithstanding).

I know Sue knows this about Bill. I hope Cass and Janee remember enough of him to realize the valuable lessons he taught them about honesty and integrity. When they miss him, and I’m assured that is quite often, I hope they will think of his overlooked character and give a knowing smile.

I’ve been a bit frightened about how I think of Bill these days. My memory has become a bit fuzzy and I’m forgetting the little things about him. I know this is part of what we do to move on and protect ourselves from such great grief. It’s still disconcerting to me as time slides a few memories of him gently under the rug. I hate losing even a fleeting feeling or observation about him. I still shed the odd tear about his loss and wonder where I would be if he were still around. I know I would have a lot more bad jokes to tell, but I also hope I would have learned from his example over these past five years. But since we must find value in a death, maybe learning this now will be his ever-lasting message to all he left behind.

Just the same, I wish you never left us, Bill……

On Success And Routine

A quick observation on life and successful people. The boy and I attended a meeting in Washington, DC and the host of the meeting, a highly successful and very wealthy man, was a few minutes late. He apologized for his three-minute late arrival and said he had been out running five miles and was a bit too sore to get dressed in his suit and tie quickly.

It hit me, as someone who has physically and, yes, mentally gone downhill of late, that this guy’s success was directly related to his organized and regimented schedule. He runs, he sits on the board of several international organizations and corporations, he writes non-fiction books, is undertaking an enormous new project that I hope we will be involved with and, to top it off, is one of the most respected investment advisors in the U.S. Oh, and it should be noted he is 64 years old and also has a Ph.D in international relations. Not just an average guy, mind you.

So I mention to The Boy about my theory on the correlation of success and a full life. He agreed whole-heartedly. There was a day, long gone by, when I also juggled a more full life and, I have to say, I was much more successful at many things during that time. It’s no secret, mind you, that one needs to be organized and focused in order to achieve things. I admitted to The Boy that I had been neither of late; in part because of a more scattered life and in part because of a lot of travel that has knocked me off any semblance of a routine.

One of the routines that may appear to be quite obvious is my lack of writing. The blog – newly designed now – is a monument to a lack of writing. Worse than this, I handed my manuscript over to a very good editor and successful novelist about six months ago. It was a major coup to get her to agree to edit for me. A few days later I was looking over my work and noticed it was a jumbled mess and I called her up and asked her not to read it quite yet. I told her I wanted to make some edits so the manuscript would make some sense. I wrote a bit and modified a bit, but basically put it away since then.

I guess the point of all of this is, if a 64-year-old guy can run five miles, make a few billion for himelf and his friends, chair a few organizations and write a few books, then certainly I can get off the dime and re-write a book that’s acceptable enough for the editor. And, in the meantime, if this gets me back to a more efficient and organized life, well, I just may reacquaint myself with some of that elusive success. Hopefully this quick note will lead me in the right direction.

A Weather Conversation

In my self-imposed exile from endangering all of you to my written ramblings, I have missed a number of good opportunities to ramble about.

The curse that has been put upon our once great nation in the form of something called an Obama has produced rich material – but has been ignored because it’s just too damn depressing to point out the obvious.

Those of you who are close to me are all too aware of the changes in my personal life. Mark Twain had a habit of writing letter to friends when he was in need of sharing very personal and often sad events. Published in his book Letters From The Earth, there were particularly heart-wrenching accounts of watching his wife Olivia slowly die in Italy and, the toughest, the accidental drowning death of his daughter a few months later when he thought, at his age, he had buried his last loved one. I too hope to be able to write about my long and twisting journey, but I’m not sure the timing is right or the mix of words and thought are developed well enough to do the moment justice. So, I’ll let some of Twain’s musings from the book give a little spice to this post:

“Man is a marvelous curiosity. When he is at his very, very best he is a sort of low grade nickel-plated angel; at his worst he is unspeakable, unimaginable; and first and last and all the time he is a sarcasm.”

All said, I want to post on something. I was encouraged to write again by an odd clash of history and modern technology. Two years ago, I wrote in passing about a snowball aimed at a particular 10-year-old girl. I had written a Christmas post that included the theory that boys will be boys and whack a young girl on the head with a rock-filed snowball out of affection. I stand by that theory, too. Anyway, the victim – as she still sees herself, lord knows why – did a Google search on her name and my re-telling of history had an interloper. She read the drivel on these pages for a while and when she eventually saw me on another new medium, Facebook, she decided to let me know she had not forgotten the incident and maybe had also not forgiven.

As punishment to you all, she has encouraged me to write more, and so I will. This time about my current adventures on the frozen tundra that is Russia. Most of the days I’ve awaken to 17 degrees below zero. A few days, the high reached a balmy -8 degrees. They use the Celsius format here because they just want to make it seem colder. Under that system, the temperature is -30. As cold as the actual temperature is, the current cold is influenced by a weather pattern from the northwest. That would be the direction of Siberia. So, if you’re facing a certain way, the windchill could be -50 and, at that point, it doesn’t matter if we’re using Fahrenheit or Celsius.

As strange as it sounds, I like taking walks in this weather. How often can one face the fury of Mother Nature? I get bundled up and look something like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story to walk five minutes to get to the grocery store. It isn’t enough. My fashionable jacket – purchased at a discount at an outlet store – holds up, but there are areas where the cold finds its way. Short of wearing a burqa, there is no way the face doesn’t take a frozen beating. And, since I didn’t pack a pair of warm, wooly long johns, there are no pants made to withstand an icy blast. Yesterday, I walked about 25 minutes and didn’t realize how cold my body was until I entered a building and began to thaw. I think my legs suffered some frostbite.

Speaking of Mother Nature, the mayor of Moscow decided to go to war with Her this year. Theorizing that snow removal was costing the city too damn much money, he had the clouds seeded this year to reduce the snowfall. Well, it’s snowed some every day I’ve been here and there are some places where the drifts are 10-feet high. He fought the Mother and the Mother won. Might be a message in there for global warming acolytes.

Regulating the appropriate temperature in my flat is quite a challenge. There isn’t a thermostat in the flat so I have to keep the multiple heaters set by a non-numbered dial next to each individual heater. They are great heaters, but it can turn into a sauna if the valves are open too far. Then, if I try to cool things by dialing the valves down, icicles will grow out of my nostrils. I’ve finally found the right setting by keeping the heaters on full blast with a window left open. Of course the warmth coming from my heaters mixed with the cold blasting through the windows has caused a weather front to form in my room and the thunder and lightening does tend to keep me awake.

I look forward to heading back to Southern California where it takes very little consideration on what to wear when venturing outside. The choice of long-sleeve or short-sleeve is all that faces me. Yeah, I know California had a bucket-full of rain last week and it even got a little cold, but it’s more the exception than the rule. And, as they always say in So Cal, we need the rain.

Well, I guess this is something of a wasted post since it mostly talked about the weather. I’m often told that I engage in too many “weather” conversations; i.e. talking about things without serious depth. It’s a fair observation. I’m at a point where I don’t know how to have an in depth conversation, especially with the people I care about the most. They’re getting impatient with me, I know, but it almost seems I am watching a movie about my life rather than living it. I’d probably give it two thumbs down, so I’ll stick to the weather for now.

Close The Wound, Hide The Scar

As a tribute to the restless minds of people who are never satisfied with their accomplishments, the great inventor Thomas Edison never stopped trying to solve impediments toward a modern world. Late in his life he became obsessed with trying to build a storage battery but was never able to get around some of the physical and conditional difficulties to really transform society the way he wanted. He did invent a battery that became known as the Alkaline battery, but not without much frustration and cost.

It became known that Edison had attempted more than 2,000 variations of building the storage battery and all failed to live up to expectations. A reporter, and naturally this would come from a reporter, asked the aging Edison how it felt to be such a great man and to have failed 2,000 times. He responded by saying something like, “I don’t believe I’ve failed. I know 2,000 ways not to make a storage battery. How many ways do you know?”

And I guess the point is that unless you try to do something and put in the energy, there is no chance of success.

I’ve just encountered something of the same nature in Russia and perhaps it equals 2,000 ways not to work here. I’ve tried, put in the work, been obsessed and all I have left is for a reporter to ask me the big failure question. So on this coming Monday, I more or less wave the white flag as I leave Russia with little to show for my extensive time here other than the collateral damage left by being absent for so long.

Someone once told me that they viewed my approach to Russia as someone chipping away at a steel door with a tack hammer. I made a dent, but was never going to break the door down. The reasons for my lack of success are myriad and probably mostly beside the point. I wish I could blame the Russians for the way they carry out business but the sad truth is, just as many Americans and other foreigners broke apart deals that appeared headed for success. Yes, I’ve learned my ways not to work here; not to be the consummate middleman, not to agree to everything everyone wants done, not to do something for nothing less you want a reputation of the go-to guy who does something for nothing. There are less charitable reasons but I’ll leave that up to therapy sessions.

In between all the million dollar deals that never became, I had my moments. I learned to live in and adapt to different cultures, met a lot of really nice people who I will miss and I’ve learned to better trust my instincts, even if I didn’t follow them. My gut even tells me that all is not lost now and there will be a pot of gold at the end of some rainbow. Of course this kind of thinking is equal rub as it is a fit of optimism. How to say No to the next promise of the next big project? The gut knows well how to manipulate the brain so who knows what will occur.

What I do know is I return feeling betrayed again by the world after asking it to find a good use for me in exchange for giving back something better. I return knowing, and this is the difficult part, that I had the answers for the correct questions, knew the solutions to the right problems and had the ideas that should have merited more consideration. In the end, however, knowing all of this does not salve the wounded spirit or the feeling that I was always outside the inside joke. These scars will last as will the scars I inflicted on others as I brought them with me on my Quixotic journey of self-indulgence.

It would be easiest to leave here with the memory of a bitter taste, but that wouldn’t be right in the long run. Better just to say I know 2,000 ways not to work in Russia and leave it at that.

The Grand Delusion

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven months since my last post. I have had plenty of things to post on, but the mood just hasn’t pushed me into writing anything. Most of my posting ideas have had to do with what I believe is a tragic direction our country has taken since last February, and I just can’t bear to write about it or even use up badly needed brain cells on something I can do nothing about save expressing my complaints into the thin air of nothingness.

As most of my very few readers know, I have been behind the Iron Curtain for much of the year. A few things happened that are worth at least a small post, so here goes:

I was in Kiev recently and saw several small groups of protestors carrying Ukrainian flags with hand-written signs. There was even one group camped out in tents surrounding by flags and banners just across the street from the presidential administration building. So, finally, I asked my translator what they were protesting. He told me, “Whatever they are paid to protest for the day.”

Well, this was a surprise. Paid protestors who, if asked, don’t know why they are protesting other than earning the equivalent of $12 per day. Even the supposed Orange Revolution that swept the current president into office was, for the most part, a huge rent-a-mob project. Sure, there were some true believers, but most were there for the money along with a free pass to litter and add to the Ukrainian population nine months later.

As disillusioning as this was, it made me wonder if any of this takes place in the U.S. Are all our protests legitimate, or are they paid for? We know that, despite accusations of the opposite, supporters of Obama’s health care reform have been paid to attend Town Hall meetings to demonstrate support. What else has been paid for? Makes you wonder.

The other disillusioning event took place in Moscow. There are these underground walkways that go under major streets in Moscow. Some are so big that there are literally mall-like shops that sell almost anything you can think of. These underground walkways are also a good place to keep out of the weather and, as a result, attract people with their hats out for a donation. Some sing (often poorly) for a payment, others sell flowers and still more, mostly the elderly, just have a can out, hoping for any charity.

There is a woman I have passed by many times who looks at least 80 years old. She always has her eyes closed with a small can partially filled with change. Since the largest denomination of change is 5 rubles (approximately 17 cents), it seems she really doesn’t do very well.

The other day I was walking by her and was thinking of my daughter. I know, as the weather is beginning to turn cold here, Em would be sick over the prospect of this poor old woman fighting the weather and hoping to raise enough money for a loaf of bread. I had just gone to the ATM and so, in the spirit of my daughter, gave her 500 rubles (about $17). She was very surprised to feel something other than the metal of coin and looked down at the paper bill placed in her can. She opened her eyes, looked at me and said a prayer (for me, I suspect).

I felt good for the entire day and decided to share my charitable moment with some locals. They laughed at my naïveté. I wondered why these Muscovites were being so unkind about my act of kindness. Then they told me that nearly all these little old ladies stationed around the city work for an organized crime ring that takes the majority of the money from we foreign knaves who think we’re helping the elderly. In fact, I was told most of the money goes to the criminals and the old ladies get virtually nothing. Sort of takes the fun out of charity to know this.

OK, so life is a fulltime classroom and we get to learn something new everyday. Just wish the lifetime class syllabus didn’t come with more cynicism, because I’m pretty filled up with cynicism.

Porkulus

In President Obama’s uninspiring Inaugural address he made it a point to stress bi-partisanship and, in reference to gloomy economic prospects said this, “We have chosen hope over fear.”

Whenever any politician speaks (and, sorry to say I include Obama as just another politician), you’d be foolish to accept the words have any meaning until they’ve been run through the reality-grinder. Because the very next week, in explaining why we need to spend another $800 billion after the first $850 billion had no positive effect, Obama was quoted as saying, "A failure to act, and act now, will turn crisis into a catastrophe." So much for hope over fear.

Bi-partisanship? Republicans, except Northeast whackjobs, weren't even invited to discuss the content of the latest spending spree.

It’s words like "catastrophe" that actually turn crisis into a catastrophe. Is there any evidence out there that indicates successful problem-solving by Congress when in the midst of crisis? We end up with quick fixes, pork-barrel spending to move reluctant legislators and a lot of proud back-slapping that the Union has been saved by their thoughtful and quick action. The problem is, it’s doubtful any of the owners of the slapped backs completely read what in the 1,000 pages they voted for. God forbid anyone have a chance to read it in its entirety – especially those prone to leap from buildings from such bad news.

There is a delicious irony that there are hearings on financial Ponzi Schemes in one part of the Capitol while Congress creates the world’s largest scam a few hearing rooms down the hall. The difference in the hearings is the victims of the Congressional scheme will be future generations saddled with debt that will bury them in red ink their entire lives.

This isn’t to say Obama is solely to blame (although I want to remember all the headlines referring to this as Obama’s stimulus bill). The new president is just another political snake oil salesman peddling the same cure Bush and his team offered just six months ago. In case you’ve forgotten about the purpose of the first $700 billion – with the added $150 billion Congressional surcharge – was to stabilize the financial services industry. Anyone out there try to get a loan for anything lately? Anyone see any difference before and after the government threw our money at the problem with little debate and little open information?

When the two “stimulus” packages are added together the cost to benefit ratio to the taxpayer is criminal. Obama’s stimulus promises tax breaks that work out to $13 per week and drop to $8 per week next year. By contrast, if they just gave each and every American a share of both programs, we’d each receive almost $7,000. That’s $28,000 for my direct family alone. And, what would we do with that money? Who knows? Maybe spend it, creating jobs, maybe save it, making banks more liquid and secure, maybe invest it, taking foreclosed properties off the books or save sagging stock values, maybe give it to charity, creating opportunity to others less fortunate. Neither stimulus bill does anything close to what the average American would do if given that money.

Of course when you get to the bottom line, spending priorities is far from the main point. Congress, which has only one trained economist among members, needs to remember that the money they spend has to come from somewhere. They either have to print it, borrow it from China or take it from taxpayers. Either way, it sure looks like we lose.

Pelosi: Not The Brightest Speaker We've Had

Imagine if a republican had said this at a press conference. Now, try to find this comment in any major newspaper.

Pity The Girl

The Girl has a new blog that I have linked to on the right. It's about two of her favorite subjects, American Idol and Allen Iverson; both nicknamed AI and hence her blog's name, "All Things AI."

Her writing is quite good, especially considering a public school education and her reading list being limited to US Magazine. It's not as good as mine, but I set the bar pretty high and I think she knows that.

Anyway, she has this thing where she wants people to read her blog and comment often. I have no idea where she gets her "neediness." It certainly doesn't run in my family. I will ask Mrs. Laz about the milk man this evening. Anyway, show some pity and read her blog. For the love of God, please read her blog!

A Generation's Final Bow

A few weeks back, the missus and I went to a funeral. I didn’t know the man we had come to honor, but I know his daughter and her family very well. When listening to people talk about his life, one thing stood out; they were talking about a man who personified a generation that is slowly dying out.

His generation went through the Great Depression, proudly fought in World War II, was a part of building the greatest sustained economic growth in our country’s history and witnessed, but perhaps did not agree, with great social upheaval in the Sixties. His generation had its faults too. It was often a hard-drinking, heavy smoking and naïve generation, but it was also self-sufficient and strongly believed in family and cared about the community and the values it stood for.

During the funeral, I began to wonder what subsequent generations will stand for; how will we be remembered when we begin to die out? It’s difficult for me to imagine future generations will equate my generation with the same grit and can-do attitude.

What motivated me to write about this tonight was seeing the incredible movie Gran Torino, Clint Eastwood latest, and likely final movie. His movie was about many things, but the underlying and inescapable theme was about the generation Eastwood’s character represented. In the same way I’m told my friend’s father approached his life, Eastwood’s character was driven by a strong sense of right and wrong and the understanding that he needed to do what should be done. While he was crass and prejudiced, he also understood who he was and lived by a code that is singular to his generation. I will be sad to see it burn out.

Long Post On Music Appreciation

While I was having a late lunch at my favorite high-calorie diner in Sacramento I was listening to the music track the owner plays. Since it was all Sixties music, many of the songs brought back memories. So while breaking New Year’s resolution #1 by eating a French dip sandwich, I started to go over in my head the various songs that moved me from when I was a kid to today. It got to be an interesting list (in my head, anyway), so I thought I would share it with you. It would be nice if some of you would list the songs that you remember being a big part of your lives too.

Other than my grandfather loudly singing Onward Christian Soldier in church (in an unrecognizable key), the first song that really hit me as something special came on my first day at school on the second time though the second grade. I remember Jon Thoits running around the playground singing, She Loves You by the Beatles. Overnight it seemed everyone knew that song, so I guess that’s where the notion of becoming an “overnight sensation” comes from.

In the ensuing years I remember listening to my Japanese transistor radio and waiting for songs like Honey and Little Green Apples (I know, I was young) and any Beatles songs. About a year later, my parents took us to the music store and allowed us to buy one 45 rpm record (parents, please explain what a 45 is to your kids) and I chose Love Is Blue by Paul Mauriat and His Orchestra. I think Bill bought Sugar, Sugar by the Archies and Peter bought a Moody Blues song. We played those songs in order all day long back then.

My first album really blew me away. My parents, in an attempt to seem sophisticated, saw the movie The Graduate and then bought me Sounds Of Silence by Simon and Garfunkle (it was the only album you could buy some of the music from the movie at that theime). I wore the grooves out of that record and still listen to that music often.

Almost every week my family ate at Buddie’s Pizza Parlor in downtown Grand Rapids. My parents gave us a nickel to buy three songs from the jukebox, one song for each son. Bill always, and I mean always, played something from the Archies, Peter bought a few different songs like California Dreamin’ and Monday, Monday and I usually chose Build Me Up Buttercup by the Foundations. I think the pizza was good, but getting to choose our songs was the real treat.

My family used to drive to Florida every spring and my father’s Cadillac came equipped with an 8-track player (parents, explain 8-track to your kids). Each trip my dad bought new tapes so he could drown out our complaining about how far the drive to Florida from Michigan was. One of the tapes I remember wanting to listen to over and over was Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band, again by the Beatles. It seemed every track was a leap forward in modern music. I had the same feeling when he bought Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Simon and Garfunkle a few years later. I always link those two albums (and Juicy Fruit chewing gum) with those trips. And, thinking back now, my dad was pretty hip to be buying those albums back then – although he also bought 101 Strings Play The Beatles and When You’re In Love, The Whole World Is Jewish.

Some songs have strong meaning to me because what they represent. I remember when the Beatles released Hey Jude. At that moment, music changed from something you danced to, to something you listened to. It also changed the way radio stations played music from the typical 2-3 minute song to the entire 7:09 of Hey Jude. It also meant that when the song was played at my local roller skating rink when I was 12, it was time to find Lynn Andrews and beg her to skate with me. I doubt she wanted to spend seven minutes with me, but I did with her.

A year later I went to my one and only junior high dance in Michigan at the end of the school year. Knowing that I was moving to California a month later I was feeling a bit sad at the dance. Then Lynn Andrews walked up to me! Finally my years of scheming for her had paid off, or at least it seemed that way. She asked me if I would do her a favor. Anything for Lynn, of course. She wondered if I would be willing to dance with Lynn Shackleford (not the basketball player) so she could dance with George Skiff, who was the other Lynn’s date. Damn George. Naturally I obliged and then had George killed that night and exchanged Lynns as the objects of my infatuation. Lynn and I danced to Touch Me by The Doors. Then I must have said something improper because it was our one and only dance.

When I came to California, there were certain songs that just seemed Californian. Joni Mitchell was big as was Melanie, Santana and Canned Heat. But the group that stood out in 1970 was Crosby, Stills and Nash and their great song Suite Judy Blue Eyes. It was very apparent then that CSN had replaced the Beatles and the Stones as the latest "super" group.

The first album I bought for myself was Who’s Next by, coincidentally, The Who. I’m not sure if I bought it because the group was photographed peeing on a monolith on the album cover or because it seemed kind of cool to be buying a record by The Who. Just the same, I played Behind Blue Eyes and Baba O’Riley until my dad threatened to turn the record into a Frisbee. A year later, my girlfriend at the time, Cindy, told me I had to visit her and listen to this new album that had just come out called Harvest by Neil Young after he left CSN&Y. Every song was a masterpiece, especially the very haunting A Man Needs A Maid, which is still one of my favorites. The title song of that album also carries some delightful meaning as I think it was the first song I stole lyrics from to impress a girl. And she even married me despite it!

When I was about 16, I used to go to morning swim practice at a huge pool at Miramar NAS. Each morning I mooched a ride to practice from either John Hagey or Stuart Henshall. With John I got Cat Stevens’ Tea For The Tillerman or Mona Bone Jakon, and with Stuart I got Best of Bread that Mrs. Laz forbids me to play now. No matter the mooched ride, the songs on those albums played in my head as I tried to wake up at 5:30 a.m. to get the nerve to dive into a freezing, dark pool.

For my 18th birthday I got albums from one new girlfriend, Beth and from the aforementioned Cindy (I was a playa!). Beth bought me Elton John’s Yellow Brick Road, an incredible musical breakthrough in my humble opinion, and Cindy bought me Band On The Run by Wings, which was the best album you could have when craving the Beatles.

During my college years (or the years people of that age are supposed to be in college) there were a number of songs that inspired a number of fond memories. I remember coming home with Phil after watching his brother’s band play an all-night party and, barely awake, hearing the song Miracles by Jefferson Starship on the radio. It was the first time I heard the song and, in a state of no sleep and the sun just rising, the song had a very strong impact on me. Phil and I also played Chicago 2 and the Doobie Brothers’ Captain and Me until the windows of his house shook.

About that time, I shacked up with Sladed and he turned me on to Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd (and man-love). Besides the obvious big name songs by those groups, the album-long song Thick As a Brick by Tull and Obscured By Clouds by Floyd were the most memorable. Other albums coming out at that time that shook my music world were Breezin’ by George Benson, Silk Degrees by Boz Scaggs, Rumours (by Fleetwood Mac) and the very remarkable Songs In The Key Of Life by Stevie Wonder -- maybe one of the best albums of all time. All were playing on my turntable at all hours.

There was a special song from Neil Diamond that meant a lot to me personally (and one other person) and shall remain, well, personal for personal reason, and that was his song Lady-Oh. I guess Mondern English’s I Melt With You falls into the same “Bolero” category as a song I have a personal relationship with. On the heels of these songs came a few artists Mrs. Laz introduced me to; Jackson Browne and Joni Mitchell. The standouts were For A Dancer and The Late Show by Jackson and River and Little Green by Joni.

There were two songs from Texas that have a special place in my heart. While exiled to Tyler, TX, I was a two-bit reporter for the local two-bit newspaper and knew all the two-bit radio and TV people since we were the only people in town in the “entertainment” business. I mentioned to a radio DJ that I liked the song Lou Rawls had just recorded, Wind Beneath My Wings (sadly no link), still the best rendition of that song, I think. As I was driving for my final day at the paper before moving back to California, the DJ played that song and said it was for me and that I would be missed. So I was kinda important, in a small-town sort of way.

After the Boy was born, we bought a house that was near a very picturesque lake. I remember taking him down to the lake one day and I held his hand and watched the sun set across the lake. At that moment I could hear Willie Nelson’s Hands On The Wheel being played at the lake’s clubhouse. Because it is a song about simple times and fairy tales, I always associate the song with that very fond memory.

Speaking of the Boy, there were a couple of songs that we loved because he loved them and I associate them with his youth. Not particularly masterpieces, but he really liked Tequila by The Champs and I Just Called To Say I Love You by Stevie Wonder. The Girl was partial to the Shoop Shoop song from the movie Mermaids, Wolly Bully from the movie Splash, and Kiss The Girl from the Little Mermaid soundtrack (I am sensing a certain mermaid pattern here).

The kids inspired other music with me, too. I remember the Boy turned me on to Nirvana, and we used to listen to them when I drove him to school in Virginia, especially the David Bowie re-do of The Man Who Sold The World. I also remember playing Alanis Morrisette’s Jagged Little Pill and TLC’s CrazySexyCool with the Girl in Virginia. My musical range while driving into Washington, DC was fairly limited to U2’s Zooropa (I’ve since learned it was far from their best music), anything by Van Morrison and the Gin Blossom’s New Miserable Experience.

Disco killed a lot of music in the Eighties and Nineties and Rap finished it off in the Nineties and into this decade, so I am sorry that most of my best musical memories are from days gone by. But I do remember hearing Eva Cassidy singing Fields Of Gold for the first time and wondering, a decade later, why I had never heard of her before. I still get goosebumps hearing that song. Norah Jones had that same affect on me with Don’t Know Why and Natalie Merchant with Wonder, an ode to River Phoenix.

Recognizing this post has becoming excruciatingly long, I will just mention a few of my other favorite musical moments, many coming from movie soundtracks. In no particular order, I was deeply moved by a few opera songs when I first heard them, like Puccini’s Musetta’s Waltz first heard from the movie Moostruck, Nessum Dorma (also Puccini) that I heard in the movie the Witches of Eastwick, and O Mio Bambino Caro (also Puccini) just from general opera listening. I will also never forget the first time I heard Vladimir Ashkenazy playing piano on Beethoven’s Fifth Piano Concerto (Emperor); it made me want to learn the piano, something I fell well short on, but did a reasonably good job on part of the adagio. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that I once watched a man play Handel’s Ombra Mai Fu on his trumpet on a solitary street in Munich. The music bounced off the wall and draped over me. Simply wonderful.

Even though I may get giggles with some of this, I was really mesmerized by Tamyra Gray singing Bachrach’s A House Is Not A Home. I had heard the song before, but never the Luther Vandross version she performed on American Idol. The other sort of silly one was from Sister Act II, of all movies, when Lauryn Hill sang His Eye Is On The Sparrow; pure beauty.

There are songs from other movies that I will list, not because they are the best songs ever written, but because of the mood they set in a particular movie. In no particular order, they are: Hotel California by the Gipsy Kings in the Big Lebowski, Mrs. Robinson from the Graduate, Rhapsody In Blue by Gershwin in the movie Manhattan, Cat Steven’s Trouble from Harold and Maude, Joe Cocker’s version of Bye Bye Blackbird from Sleepless in Seattle, Down To The River To Pray from O Brother Where Art Thou, Dry The Rain from High Fidelity, Van Morrison’s Philosophers Stone from Wonder Boys, Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head from Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, Coal Miner’s Daughter from the movie of the same name, Springsteen’s Secret Garden from Jerry McGuire, Nina Simone’s Sinnerman from The Thomas Crown Affair, Silent Sigh by Badly Drawn Boy in the movie About A Boy and, finally, two from Garden State, Coldplay’s Don’t Panic and Simon and Garfunkle’s The Only Living Boy In New York as they are staring down into the infinite abyss.

As long as this post has become, I have a feeling I left many songs out. I know there are the easy ones like Over the Rainbow and almost anything from the Sound of Music, but I was just trying to limit the songs to the times I sat in awe listening to a song for the first time. Please think of what some songs meant in your lives and list them. Let’s have some fun with this.

New New Year's Resolutions

While I know it may not matter to you how well I did on last year’s New Year’s resolutions, it is possible that my successes and failures can serve as inspiration, or warning, depending on my ability to keep promises. All in all, I am pleased with achieving many of my resolutions, but I know I left a few on the table.

My favorite met resolution was something of a no-brainer since I had a good hunch. I resolved to attend a wedding of people that I cared about and, this June, that wedding turned out to be between the Boy and the Ber. Since I care deeply about them both, I think their wedding qualifies.

Despite predictions of coming up short on this one, I resolved to have five blog posts per month. Well, I didn’t do five every month, but I did a total of 62 posts for an average of five per month, and that’s good enough in my book – even if a few posts were neither interesting nor readable and I posted eight in December.

Over-promising on your resolutions is to New Year’s what Trevor Hoffman is to blown saves (sorry about that, Mrs. Sladed, but it’s the truth). I hoped to lose a total of 60 pounds, which seemed as reasonable as posting on my blog 60 times. When you break that down over 52 weeks, that’s less than one pound each week. Well, I didn’t make it, but I also knew when I wrote it a year ago, I had no expectation of losing any weight. Weight loss is something everyone resolves to do, but nobody seems to ever do it and that’s why all the gyms are so crowded until about the third week of January.

I did nothing to help my cause until April when I joined a club and got some nutritional and exercise advice and got a BodyBugg for my birthday from Mrs. Laz. From roughly May until mid-November, I lost a total of 36 pounds, but had a bad lap around travel, Thanksgiving and Christmas and ended the year losing 31 pounds. Just the same, I didn’t expect to lose any so I am very happy with the results and it gives me a more realistic goal for this year.

I came up disappointingly short in four areas: I didn’t keep my name from being dragged through the mud of newspapers and blogs last year and even had to watch negative stories written about my brother who, as we all know, is no longer with us. I also didn’t finish my novel and wrote very little on it; quite disappointing. My annual plea to earn money in a different ways turned out to be a mixed bag; I didn’t earn money in different ways, but came to terms with how I earned and will earn my living. This is a big step for me and leads me to my biggest disappointment. I offered an obscure resolution to be free of fear. I fell short on this for the first nine months of the year, but I think I finished strong by ridding myself of two pieces of trash. The “fear” thing is important for me because I think all failure in life comes from living in fear or making decisions on the basis of fear (even though the current economy isn’t helping my decision making).

So what follows are this year’s resolutions:

1. I resolve to lose the rest of my 60 pounds. This may be difficult as I think I lost the easiest part of the 60 this year. Off to good start as I am ready and focused to reach my goal and I feel so much better with the weight loss this year that I am giddy about losing more.
2. I resolve to finish my novel. Again. I really want to do this so this may have an impact on my random blogging, but you never know.
3. I resolve to rebuild my company not only in a financial way, but also to reestablish it as a market leader respected by my peers. We have the opportunity right now and I intend to start making our case.
4. And, finally, become more settled in everything.
5. The final one is not really about me, but I want it as much as anything I would want for myself. I resolve for the girl to get answers to her health concerns and get to feeling back to normal (not that she was ever normal to begin with).

That’s all I want to try to tackle this year. There are other things I hope for, but they are just part of living a good life and should be less a resolution and more a life mandate. If I can reach all five of these resolutions this year, I would be a happy camper. Thank you all for your support since I began this vanity blog in 2005 and hope to keep entertaining or infuriating you in the years to come.

Merry Christmas To All

It’s difficult to deny this Christmas is something of a bah-humbugish Christmas. With sorry financial news everywhere around us, jobs lost and the U.S. turning into Bailoutistan, there is little to persuade any of us to break into impromptu caroling around what’s left of our neighborhoods.

Despite bad news at seemingly every turn, Christmas endures as more than just an opportunity for retailers to fatten up for the slow times and for each of us to engage in mass gift giving and subsequent cash refunds to said retailers. Christmas is the placeholder for memories we all carry, the reminder of what is good in each of us and the promise of hope in the love we share when we gather ‘round the Christmas tree and complain we didn’t get what we want (at least that’s what I do, not sure about you all).

And I do have renewed hope and faith that times will be better in the New Year and that the memories we’ll make this year will be something to remember and cherish always. We’re doing very little gift buying this year, but we are spending this Christmas a bit differently from others. Because the Girl is working in San Francisco, the Boy, the Ber, Mrs. Laz and I decided to bring Christmas to her and are staying at a lovely hotel that has a living room and a dinning room so we can share a Christmas Eve dinner together. On Christmas Day we will head to Sacramento to join our new in-laws and my brother and his family for their Christmas celebrations.

Like most people, I have a Christmas gift wish list. It’s doubtful someone will answer my request since I want one of those Air Force Drones so I can smite my enemies from 15,000 feet anytime I want. It would be a most useful gift, too, because this year I have collected a few more enemies worth smiting. But I would even go without such a practical gift for an evening with my family (and I think that’s the right thing to say here).

Sometimes we get so caught up in making sure we find just the right gift for our loved ones that we forget that just being with them is a gift in itself. To that end, we will be overflowing with what we all want for Christmas: peace and love. Can’t wait to unwrap it. May all your Christmases and various holidays be filled with the ones you love close at hand.

I'm Full Of Gas

As difficult as it is to believe, it was my pleasure filing up my gas tank today. It truly was. My car gets about 20 miles per gallon, has an 18-gallon fuel tank and requires premium gasoline (so they tell me). So just a few months ago, when premium gas was more than $4 per gallon, it cost me more than $70 to fill up the tank. Today it only set me back $31.30. It was a weird feeling to see such a small number on the pump screen.

With oil prices continuing to drop, there are predictions that we’ll be paying less than $1 per gallon in the not so distant future. All this is good news to everyone except to two classes of people; loudmouth politicians who still don’t understand that commodity prices fluctuate and those people whose entire economy is based on petrol-dollars.

There are some concerns for such a sudden drop in oil prices. The oil producing countries are by-and-large populated by people on the fringe between sanity and blowing up Western cities and the only thing keeping them in line is the gift of their share of the oil revenue. Since our gain is there loss, we probably ought to be switching colors on our threat codes soon. And, really, I would be thinking about this problem more and worrying about the cost to oil producing countries and the loss in oil companies’ revenue if I just wasn’t so happy thinking about that much smaller number that was charged to my gas card today. Please pass along my regrets to the Sheiks and stockholders of Exxon-Mobil.