AIGA

The saying goes that “hope springs eternal.”   I suppose it does, at least until you’re fifty.

Fifty brings the realization that hope is an adolescent expectation.

Hope in what?  Hope for what?

Fifty is the watershed moment of life; the point of no return.  The Rubicon so to speak. But the crossing of this river is involuntary.  

(Involuntary unless one opts to check out before reaching fifty)  

At fifty your future is largely determined.  Cast in quickly setting concrete.  

No matter what you do between now and your death, your legacy is already more than half written.

At fifty you can’t go back and pretend that you are 25 or 30.  Maybe you could have pulled that off at forty but not at fifty. You can dye your hair but you aren’t fooling anyone.

Hitting fifty is like hitting a flooded road at 75 mph.  When it happens it changes everything.

I reached fifty years of age yesterday.

Today I am reflecting on the wreckage behind me; the destroyed relationships, hurts, anger, emotional injuries. Looking back I see the sort of barren landscape that selfish living produces.

Such reminiscence greys the horizon, and creates a fog of the present.  The future’s bright light dims to the glow of an exit sign.

Exit stage left.  Does the audience care?  Do they even know you’ve left?  Do they applaud because you’ve performed well or because you are leaving?

These questions take on new significance at fifty.

My parent's generation is at the threshold.  I care, but I don’t really.  

Perhaps I’ll care when they actually shuffle off the end of the pier. But for now I am only thinking of being fifty.

That thought consumes me.  I have no time for thinking of anything else right now.

Perhaps that is why I am who I am today.  

At fifty.

Incommunicado Flagrante

Pssst!!  Hey, you.....

I read a quote by Charles Futrell somewhere.  Maybe it was in a schoolbook in one of my marketing classes, I don’t know.  Anyway, it goes like this:

“In conversation, keep in mind that you are more interested in what you have to say than anyone else is.”

I probably would have said it more like this, “Hey moron! No wants to hear what you have to say more than you do….moron.”  But then, I’m an asshat like that sometimes.   Mr. Futrell is probably a whole lot kinder and gentler. 

Anyway, I guess the point is this; we have all sorts of communication problems, like rambling on aimlessly, all the while clueless that our perceived audience has tuned out, and mentally wandered off in pursuit of more interesting entertainment.  

Actually the "problems" are more like defects.  These communication defects often keep us from ever really connecting on a deeper level than just “how ‘bout dem Cowboys?!” or “Doesn’t this rain suck?!?”

Not that I necessarily want to connect on a deeper level but it sounds Zen-ish and cool.

Communication defects like fingerprints, are unique to each individual but have common qualities.  

I don’t know how accurate that is or if it’s even useful information.  I’m not a psychiatrist, and this isn’t a self-help article so if you want something accurate and useful, go somewhere else. 

I’m just sharing my 2¢ worth of observations about my own communication defects……glaringly obvious defects.

The first, and biggest communication defect I have is a total lack of empathy for other people.  (see the “hey moron” comment above)  Usually I couldn’t care less (or could barely care less) what anyone has to say so I “listen” with only a small portion of one frontal lobe engaged…..or whatever the communication part of the brain is. 

There are times when I do care like when my boss says, “Hey! Good job, I’m giving you a raise.”  I have a LOT of interest in that kind of communication.  My whole brain instantly becomes engaged, thinking of how I’m going to spend the money, whether I can now afford to begin living a little, whether I can now save enough to finally say “stick it!” to the man, etc…  So at times like that I am really empathetic to what he has to say, I'm just not listening anymore.

But when someone says, “I’m really stressed about…..(fill in the blank).”  I kind of give them that vacant stare.  My brain begins this internal buzz-humming thing.  Pithy rejoinders begin vying for my tongue.  Things like, "Hey, don't sweat it.  Everything happens for a reason."  Crap like that.

What I’d really like to do is immediately reply with a loud, “Yeah, so what?!"  maybe with a "moron" thrown it for punctuation (I like punctuation) but I usually don't do that. 

What I do is enter the little hideout inside my head and start thinking about “dem Cowboys” or my motorcycle project, or my on-again-off-again middle-aged crush on P!nk.

I really need to work on that whole empathy thing......soon maybe.

The second biggest defect I have in communication is a short attention span.  I just can’t maintain a high level of engagement for more than a minute or two……usually a minute at the most. 

Seriously, if you are going to make a point, make it!  I’ve got better things to think about.  

Well, at least I have more interesting things to think about, like…..almost anything.  I mean, if I am thinking about it it’s because I obviously think it’s interesting, or I have to think about it; like work…. or something mind-numbing like that.  

Of course I usually do my work while thinking about other things anyway.  That explains why my career hasn’t rocketed to the top of the corporate world.  I can’t find much enthusiasm thinking about the stuff that goes into earning my paycheck. (there goes that raise)

Wait, what was I talking about??  Oh yeah, a “short attention span” and its’ detrimental impact on (real) communication.  That’s number two I suppose.

Right up there near the top of my communication defect list is my tendency toward didactic blathering in everything I say.  Yeah, I’m an asshat and always think I know more about whatever subject is coming out of my mouth than most other people.  The truth is, I can be a pedantic fool.

The other day my daughter told me that this barista dude in the Starbucks drive through asked her what kind of car she was driving.  She told him, and he proceeded to tell her that her serpentine belt was squealing and needed more tension or needed to be replaced.  In a rather pedantic tone of voice, he asked her if she “ever looked at the engine. There are things that need to be checked you know.” 

He droned on about things he obviously thought he knew a great deal about……….like auto mechanics.  His expansive knowledge about serpentine belts is probably why he works at Starbucks.  Manning the drive through gives him ample opportunity to expound the virtues of proper belt tension and general auto maintenance to hapless patrons.

What I can’t figure out is how such an erudite auto guru could have failed to recognize that a ’93 Accord doesn’t have a serpentine belt.  And you know what else Starbucks dude?  My daughter changes her own oil and performs other maintenance checks and services. 

And, honestly, I’ve tasted your coffee, I’m pretty sure she could do that better as well.

But truth be told, I see a lot of myself in the egotistical barista-cum-armchair auto mechanic.  I read an article or two about something and I get all full of myself.  I start dragging my soapbox everywhere so I can metaphorically jump up on it and spout my knowledge to the universe.  I tend to think everyone should benefit from what I have to say so I go all preachy and stuff like Mr. Starbucks.

By the way, it was the van in line behind her that had the noisy belt …….. or squealing pig in the back seat or something.

Lastly, I tend to drone on and on.  Yeah it’s true, you’ve probably already noticed. 

For someone with a short attention span, I can get pretty damned long-winded myself.  It’s probably because (like that Starbucks dude) I think I have important things to say, and the world should stop spinning for as long as it takes to say them. 

Now, I’m not as bad as someone (un-named person) who takes four hours to give a synopsis of a two hour movie; or my boss who leaves voice mails (who leaves those anymore??) that go on and on till the phone company cuts him off because they’re losing money.  But I can be rather verbose.

Along with the droning on and on, come the rabbit trails.  I can wander all over the conversational map and leave a web of rabbit trails that would confuse the most persistent investigative reporter.  Hey, wait a minute, is that what I'm doing now?  Sheesh.

I suppose the moral of the story is; don’t deceive yourself into thinking you’re a blazing genius of verbal repartee.  It’s possible to be blind to your own communication defects and leave people even more confused (pissed off, ignorant, etc...) when you finally shut up.  Take some time to think about your communication defects and FIX THEM!!

George Bernard Shaw said it very well (and succinctly) when he stated that “the single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”  

Let’s expose ourselves (metaphorically of course) and have some real Zen style connection.

Or not.

Meniers Disease, Change and The Coming Apocalypse

A lot of times it feels like I’m going nuts.  It’s nothing definite, just a feeling I have.

I’m not alone in thinking that, because the people I work around and interact with all think I’m going nuts too.

The reason I think I’m going crazy is because of Menieres disease.  I’ve got it…..or at least that’s what the ENT guy said, but he wouldn’t give a 100% certainty rating.  

Doctors rarely ever do.  Anytime there’s even the slightest doubt, they always seem to prevaricate, or provide a few caveats.

“Well Mr. Gaunt, it looks almost certain that you have Menieres disease.  I can’t be 100% certain, but I’m about 99% sure.  We could run a few more tests at several thousand dollars a pop, or……”

I usually opt for the “or” part and avoid paying scads more money out of pocket for that extra 1% certainty.  Either way, I know I’ve got crazy ringing/roaring in my ears, occasional episodes of vertigo and rare (so far) bouts of nausea.  I’m 100% sure of that, no further testing necessary.

I could do drugs to (supposedly) limit the symptoms, but……nah.  Not yet, let’s see how things go; if it gets worse than…..maybe.  Of course, if the constant ringing “feedback” I have finally does drive me completely crazy, I may not need the meds anyway.

If I was really fed up, I could change my eating habits, and cut out salt too.  Supposedly that helps.  But I hate changing things.  I’m not real good with change.  In fact, change for change’s sake sucks…..or could suck.

Change could also be okay, but more than likely it’s going to suck, at least for someone…..probably me.

Did I say I don’t like change?  I don’t like change.  It’s not that I am boring (okay, I probably am), but I just like things to be where, when, how, I want them and expect them to be.  Like this morning.

This morning I stopped at my usual morning coffee pit stop; the local QT convenience store, and ran face first into some change.

The first problem was that someone had parked in MY parking spot.  The audacity!  I mean, I don’t have a sign, but since I stop there EVERY Monday – Friday at about the SAME time each morning, then everyone should know that it’s MY spot right?  Easy in, easy out.  That’s one reason I chose it, and now some assface was using it.

Grumbling about the rudeness of it all (and it was even an ugly stupid car) I walked inside to get my joe.

When I reached for a 20oz. cup from the dispenser, the colors were wrong.  The middle cup (16oz, 20oz. 24oz.) was some weird, different shade of tangerine or something.  For a second I thought they had loaded the wrong cups in the middle dispenser but no, it was a new cup.

A thick, styro-fucking-foam cup.

The old ones were Styrofoam too, but they were thin, and had nice dimples on the bottom that felt right holding it while I drank.  These were big, fat, ugly cups with the the QT label wrapped around them and no cute dimples.

Unnecessary change.  Aaaarrrrgh!!

So I try to do my coffee routine, except it isn’t routine now.  Now I have to find a new mark on the cup to judge my sugar pouring by.  You see, I also used the little dimples on the old cup to make sure my sugar input was accurate and consistent every day.  It’s going to take a few trial and error attempts to get the right amount of sugar.  I don’t like trial and error either.

After dispensing the cream / flavor shit from the automatic machines (which never work right) I stirred with the new thicker straws they had changed out a couple months back and grabbed a lid.  Wrong size.  The old lids don’t work with the new styro-fucking-foam cups so now I have to use a different lid.

Sheesh!

Well, at least the lids seem to be a design improvement over the old ones.  They have the little flip over tab to close up the sippy hole.  For a chronic spill-fool like me, closing the sippy hole is always a good idea if you aren’t actively drinking.  So you see, some change is okay, but the lousy usually outweighs the good.  And all change upsets my routine.

The reason I like routine is that I can let my mind wander to pleasant thoughts while I go through the motions of living.  I probably look like a mouth-breather while I mentally wander, but I don’t care, it’s my happy time inside my head.  But change?.....change makes me think of strange things.

I start reminiscing about childhood, bad parenting, grade school failure, disastrous relationships and shit like that.

Which then makes me realize that I’m getting older, and if the apocalypse is going to come, it had better get here soon or I won’t have the energy, strength, or…….whatever…… left over to kick ass and kill zombies.

Because kicking ass and killing zombies is what the apocalypse is all about right?

I think the apocalypse will happen when a huge asteroid or comet impact (remember Shoemaker-Levy 9?) causes an almost extinction level event and brings in alien viruses from outer space.  We’ll all die eventually, but in the meantime there will be plenty of ass kicking and zombie killing to do.

If it’s going to happen, I hope it does before I need to use a walker and hearing aid.  No one can kill zombies if they have to hold on to a walker and can’t hear ‘em coming.  Have you ever seen a hero in a zombie flick that scootches around using a walker?  I haven’t, and judging from the rate of deterioration I feel like is happening with my body, I’ve got a couple years left before I am just zombie food.

Which brings up this thought; apocalypse happens to every person at some point.  Whether it’s death dealing cancer, heart attack, bear mauling, garbage truck smack down, or being eaten by sharks, everyone suffers their own personal apocalypse at some point eh?

Usually it’s totally unexpected, and often happens when the person is old and decrepit.  

Maybe that’s why zombie apocalypse stuff appeals to people because you can see it coming.  That gives you the opportunity to scream a lot and kill the undead in the process, but eventually you’ll be zombie food, or worm food, or something.

I’m okay with that, I’ll be crazy by then anyway; wandering around, listening to the loud ringing in my ears, mouth-breathing and grumbling about how things have changed so damn much.

Task "A:" Every Ten Years (or so)

Every spring, something makes me decide, against all better judgment to do some yard work.  

Mount Leaverest

There are two times of year when I have that urge, autumn, and spring.  Usually I resist the urge until it goes away. 

Occasionally I succumb and do something stupid like prune bushes or try to fertilize stuff.  It never ends well and I usually only succeed in spending money in a totally unnoticeable way.

This year, the weather started warming up and on a particularly beguiling Saturday morning I decided to clean out the accretion of leaves from the azalea beds.  

Not being a complete bone head, I stopped to evaluate my mental health, and assess the amount of work needed to complete the task. All this preparation prior to even putting on my work clothes.  I was going to KILL awesomeness today!!!

It seemed like a simple enough task; rake out the old leaves from under and around the azaleas, and spread some fertilizer.

Simple enough.

I glanced at the sun beginning its climb up the eastern slope of the sky, and smiled to myself.  With some enthusiasm, I could be finished by mid-afternoon, and have the rest of the glorious day to waste any way I wanted to.

This is the kind of thought I usually have right before some Armageddon like event.

It’s like when I go to the auto parts store to inquire about the likelihood that I can do some sort of Zen level repair.  The guy behind the counter that was born with a torque wrench in his hand says, “Sure! It’s easy!  All you gotta do is…..” 

Then he proceeds to tell me three easy steps to a new engine and I get all excited, jumping up and down and yell, “SOLD!”

Twelve hours later, after suffering defeat after humiliating defeat at the hands of an alternator, I’m convinced cars were built for the sole purpose of destroying my sense of manhood.

Anyway, that’s cars and this is just a bunch of leaves so……

A quick trip to the shed and I secured everything I needed. Or I would have if I had actually been able to make a quick trip to the shed and secure everything I needed. I can't do quick trips; my quick trips are punctuated with long, frustrating interludes.

I’m one of those people who can’t simply accomplish task “A.”  Task “A” usually requires that I finish task “M” which was started a month ago and never actually completed.  Task “M” didn’t get done because it required that task “F” be fixed again.  Task “F” was never properly accomplished the first time because while doing task “Q” I used the wrong part/chemical/bolt/beer. The subsequent effect was that task “X” (which task “F” relied upon) never actually got finished………. leaving all dependent tasks deficient.

By the time I get the backlog of tasks updated, I’ve often forgotten what the original task was that I was setting out to do. It’s okay though, the next time I try a new task, I’ll be reminded what I've forgotten to do and I can get it done then.  This is a messy system but effective given enough time.

But I digress as usual.

After repairing the shed door, setting a mouse trap, sharpening the pruning shears, rearranging paint cans, and washing the dog, I finally pulled out the rake, ground sheet and other miscellaneous tools and set to work.

A quick glance over my shoulder told me that the sun had somehow managed to get from the east to the west without ever once warning me the day was slipping away.  Stupid sun!  Of course, that realization made me also realize I had missed lunch.

Well, no time like the present to tuck into a good sandwich.

An hour later, after loading the dishwasher, putting in a load of laundry, and gobbling a banana while remembering I had failed to get sandwich fixin's the last time I was at the store, I was back outside to “get this bitch knocked out!”  I attacked the job of raking out the azalea beds (a loose euphemism for scads of azaleas gone wild)  with gusto.  

Later that “gusto” would become desperation punctuated with bursts of maniacal laughter, but for now I still had some positive enthusiasm.

One thing I failed to take into account before embarking on this ridiculous yard work project, was that I had never actually done it before; at least not in the last ten years or so.  The “build-up” of leaves was so deep, it would have taken a track hoe half a day to dig down to the bottom.  

By the time I had excavated down to the level of the early Pleistocene epoch, the sun was low in the sky and all I had managed to do was create several piles of moldering leaves large enough to be spotted from the ISS.

Obviously the neighbors must have been using my azalea beds to dump their own leaves.  They must have carted loads of them in bag by bag over the years at night while I slept.  Funny I had never caught the scoundrels doing this heinous deed, but clearly there had been mischief afoot.

Now I had raked them all back out in a slightly scaled down version of the Himalayas sculpted from organic material.  It was going to take more than a little while to rake all these mountainous piles onto a ground sheet and cart them across the back-forty to dump them in the woods.  A task I didn’t relish doing another day, but light was fading almost as quickly as my will to continue.

For one brief, mad moment, I considered bringing out lights and working into the darkness.  If I could just make a hard push, and get it done…….. but pain, hunger, depression, and thirst drove me indoors for the night.

The next day, Sunday, dawned even brighter and more glorious than the day before.  Of course that was merely Mother Earth's way of mocking me, because she knew I had an assload of work to do and wouldn’t actually be able to enjoy such a gorgeous day.

Determined not to let incomplete task “W” side track me, I gulped a quick cup of coffee, downed a banana (while making a mental note to PLEASE remember to get some damn sandwich fixin’s soon) and headed out the door with substantially less good will than the day before.

To make a longer story long, I spent the entire day spreading the ground sheet, raking moldy leaves onto it, half-carrying-half-dragging load upon load (each load the approximate size of an adolescent elephant) across the yard and dumping it in a spot near the edge of the woods.  During that entire time, my dog Tinker spent her day alternating between galloping through the piles of leaves, lying in the sun / shade, or romping about.  The whole time she kept eyeing me with that “stupid human” look and telepathically suggesting we give up this madness and head to the park instead.

I had reached an out of body state by that time and could not be dissuaded.

By the end of day, with all the repetition (the mind numbing, back breaking repetition) of raking, cussing, grabbing, dragging, cussing, dumping, raking, dragging, cussing, etc…, I had gotten pretty efficient at moving the mountainous piles.  Such was my efficiency that before the sun had crashed on the second day, I had transported everything overland and had created one humongous pile of leaves. A mound of organic material substantial enough to eventually become a new feature on Google Earth.

Even though I had totally wasted one of Mother Nature’s best weekends on record, I had to admit that with all the fun stuff I could have been doing instead of cleaning out the azalea beds, nothing would have been nearly as satisfying.  At least that’s the lie I will keep telling myself in the hopes that one day I might believe it.

On the other hand, with all the experience I gained, it’s good to know that things should go far more quickly and efficiently the next time I have to do this……say in ten years or so.

Dull and Disrespected Tuesday

Tuesday is the most disrespected day of the week.  

Nobody gives a rip about Tuesday

People hate Monday.  They’re already thinking about Monday on Sunday.  It’s like, “Damn! Here it comes.”  They despise Monday and wake up in foul moods wishing it were not true.

Wednesday is hump day and….well….you know.  Wednesday kinda says….”hey, you can do this.  You made it this far, you can make it!”  It’s also hump day and…..well, that’s kinda fun to say.

Thursday is slightly disrespected itself, but at least Thursday has a little something going for it.  The next day is Friday so Thursday is kind of like the Christmas Eve of the week.   Actually Friday is the Christmas Eve, so that would make Thursday more of the Christmas Eve Eve….but you get what I mean.  

Everyone loves Friday so Thursday basks in a little of the pre-Friday glow.

Then of course you got Friday itself.  #TGIF and all that good stuff.  Actually I don’t know why people really get all that excited about Friday, you still got to get up and go to work.  Maybe it’s because at 5:00 when the whistle blows (does any place still use a whistle?) it’s the official beginning of the weekend.  Either way, Friday holds a position of admiration and respect.

Saturday and Sunday don’t need mentioned really.  Who doesn’t like Saturday and Sunday, except maybe sociopaths and workaholics.

But Tuesday?  Nah.  Nothing  to look at here, move along.  

It’s true.Look around on the interwebs.  The best Tuesday can hope for is a few memes of octopi, or kraken with the hashtag #TentacleTuesday or something.  Perhaps some risqué adventurer will post memes of women’s……er……..features along with the #TittyTuesday hashtag........

o.O

.......but that’s about all you get with Tuesday.

Well, I guess that’s not entirely true.  You can wake up on Tuesday and be relieved you got Monday over with.  WhoOOoot!  Eh?  But that’s more about Monday than Tuesday anyway.

Not much to say about Tuesday really, it's rather dull and tawdry.  It doesn’t really deserve respect I suppose.