Entangled

Surrounded by the likes of men

without one thought pursues another

she waits if only in a memory

and strengthens him once more.

In silence scarce a whistle blow

alert to some but not complete

recurring thought disturbs sweet sleep

no fault of him mid pleasant dream.

The sun bathes part, the light burns dim

a sketch of solitude confines

the origin of demented thought

leads him closer to the dark.

And goes she with the angels shift

moves to and fro and back

explores the reaches of his mind

and waits for his sustained embrace.

Majestic scenes decorate the ground

with hope of one so stark and real

the sluggish resting casts a pall

to fuel desires deep within.

The quiet shapes cast shadows deep

to feed the soul and spike the notion

come quickly here be still and see

or lend a voice that echoes strong.

Fill his mind with open sky,

with smooth resolve and calm repose

and spark the fire fanned within

to nourish his imaged world.

Then he will seek the meadow green,

the sky of blue, the amber glow

and watch and wait with heart entombed

no claim save hers allowed to dwell.

Her wistful gaze a dagger makes

her eye a saber, hands as thorns

or pedals both continuous

and yet admired each alike.

The hellish sound the cutting crack

of distant, violent, unquiet men

disturbs the setting in his mind,

distracts from blossoms and warm wind.

He waits unable not unwilling

for his time creeps without end

wanting to his core attempt

a sculpture of life to shape and mold.

Weak and torn his being tried

far such goes beyond compare

to try resolve to bend or rupture

ignorant of driven love.

The ocean shallow the desert narrow

the universe space is filled

the morning brings another tryst

of sane and insanity.

So love contained that gnaws like hunger

unplanned spills and takes a shape,

a form anew bathed in pale light

reflected off a thousand tears.

Imagined union chides his pain

one moment from the next

and stills the speechless babe once more

his sentence to longing dream.

And twilight finds this broken man

withdrawn into the echoes grim

who hates the cage, who scarce awaits

her phantom healing dreams.

You Smell Good

Before it jumped the shark, Boston Legal used this line (Spader to Rhona Mitra) in place of something meaningful a boy would say to a girl. She muses that when boys are smitten they often say something really sharp like, "you smell good." Yes, they do smell good. That’s how they get you. Or at least that is what I heard on a TV show last night. A little boy had a little girl over at his house and then later when he was talking to his dad about it he said, “…she smells good,” to which his father replied, “...that’s how they get you.”

 

I remember Uncle Doug telling me that he likes waking up in the middle of the night so he can smell Lynnetta – look, I don’t make this stuff up to creep you people out. But when he told me that he didn’t have to explain to me. I get it. My wife smells good. Really good. She is clean and smells fresh and good and yummy. This is the truth: when we were dating and often even now, my wife’s breath smells like peaches. I used to tell her that but she didn’t believe me. It is still true. I should probably study why this phenomenon occurs.

 

I had a girlfriend when I was 19 years old named Ruthie Jones. A year later, while in Japan, I was in a drug store and SMELLED her. I was walking down an aisle and was so convinced she was there that I actually looked over a few aisles just to verify that I was still in Japan and that she was not there.

 

Nothing has a more mind-altering affect on humans than music. Smells, like the cherry-almond smell of lotion or the un-duplicatable smell of Prell, can make you think of something or somebody, but a song can take you somewhere. When talking to a non-drug-impaired adult about an old song they happen to hear on the radio or in a store, they usually use words like, “…this takes me right back to the back seat of the 1973 Country Squire station wagon with my brother playing head-punch...” or something like that. The emotions surrounding music are strong. The song that everyone else seems to dislike but that you rock out to probably brings you back to your bedroom, in your underwear, gazing at the mirror with a Coke bottle mic in your hand screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs and hoping that you both would and would not get caught while dreaming of being David Lee Roth rocking out on a stage and wishing your hair were longer/chest were harrier/voice were lower/voice were higher/fame would catch on.

 

To put a finer point on it, I was whisked back to the locker room annex at Westwood High School the other day by a rousing and too-loud version of Tommy Bolin’s Post Toastie. What caught me off guard was not the memory of the annex: the sights of the tackling dummies, locker room, powder footprints leading from the shower box, the stacked high-jump pits awaiting a different season, the team and personal record plaques posted on the walls, the orange slump-block construction, the concrete floor worn smooth by cleats, the cage filled with pads and helmets, or the navy blue Volkswagen parked in the carpark in front. It was the smells I actually smelled. I actually identified two smells. One was the smell generated by the sweat so prevalent that it could be wrung from the gray shirt worn under the shoulder pads. The other smell was the musty, sort of old smell of the equipment storage. This smell was not bad to me, but it was nostalgic. This is not the first time nor will it be the last that a song brings back many senses at once. Sight and smell seem to be triggered by sound. Interesting.

The Pancreas Truck

I tread lightly on the pancreas issue...Dave had pancreatitis and didn’t particularly enjoy it. He was what you call sick. And not that kind of sick. Oh, no, I feel a divergence coming on. I can’t fight it – I have to follow it…ah, I just figured out how to tie them both in – buckle up and give me a little latitude. When I was in high school I had a girlfriend named Jeri. Jeri was a All-American and NCAA Title-winning gymnast. Have you seen gymnast’s bodies? I have. They are great. She actually had a body exactly like Shawn Johnson. I picked this picture to illustrate the legs – those extremely powerful legs. About 10 years ago Jeri was inducted into the ASU Hall of Fame for Gymnastics. So, we were driving near the place where I worked – a small meat locker/butcher shop owned by my dad’s friend Bill. I should set aside a day and blog nothing but that. Anyway, as we drove by I proudly pointed out where I worked and commented that it was the “…baddest place to work,” to which she replied, “…you don’t like it?” So the ‘sick’ comment above (frequently used by my daughters when describing something great) spawned that. I digress. Anyway, back to the pancreas. At that very same meat locker business they owned a powder/baby/sky/oxidized/light blue truck. The braking system on this truck was suspect – only functional when you had plenty of road and plenty of patience to eventually stop. This truck was called the pancreas truck. It was used for other functions and deliveries occasionally but its main function was to make a 20-30 mile trip to various meat processing plants around the greater Phoenix area to pick up cow pancreas glands harvested from the day’s meat source to be processed and used as medicine – insulin to be specific – for diabetics. Twice a week we would make a pancreas run. This was not, however, a trivial task. I remember distinctly the first time I went with Dennis on the pancreas run. Somewhere in the middle of Phoenix, we went through a light and there was a vehicle stopped just after the intersection awaiting other cars so they could turn left. Remember the part about the brakes? Well, looking out the front windshield of the pancreas truck was much like a dream sequence of a violent ride – kinda blurred (probably from the goo transferred from our hands after handling pancreas) and very surreal. I remember Dennis telling me that there was no way to stop and then he just veered left into the middle suicide lane and kept going as if he had planned it. Thinking back on it, I really wonder how we survived those trips. I can tell you that if we had gotten in an accident it would not have hurt the pancreas truck at all. Just hose the blood off the dashboard and move on. No sense worrying about that. I think an accident would not have reduced the resale value of the truck, either. The rotting bovine pieces took care of that. Sort of a sweet, pungent, sour, decaying smell that resembles what a tyrannosaurus’s breath must have smelled like because he didn’t have the dental formula kibble available to him for good oral hygene. Much like the choices you have for soup and sauces at a Chinese restaurant. I think we should have died a few times but then again looking back on my life, there are MANY times when dying was a possibility. I hate death.

It's made of people

It’s about people.

 

The movie is Soylent Green. No, I haven’t seen it. I hear Heston is great in it. I thought of this because recently I have been thinking of the people in my life and wondering if I am a good enough people in someones life to make a difference. People make all the difference. My father thought that. He was ALL about people. If he was talking to people he was happy. I believe this too. I have many people in my life that dramatically affect me. My friend Richard got me carrying a knife and cleaning my new gun. My wife is an ever-changing influence on me. I love her and when I contemplate all that she is I am in awe of her. I really appreciate her talents, intellect, and wit. I try to be worthy of her. This continually shapes my actions.

 

I was thinking about the dedication prayer offered last Sunday by Pre s. O st ler for the new building on McDowell. It was one of those things you hear that changes you. He is a great man and one that has influenced my life. I think of him or his words or his actions in various facets of my life and am once again pleased and honored to know him. This example is legendary. I’ll give you one example this: In passing during a meeting, Pre s. O st ler mentioned that he often has difficulty getting out of bed in the morning. He is 100% successful, though, using a trick he learned and has now passed on to me. He says he counts to three. 3. One, two, three. On three he gets up. Why? Because he has told himself that he, “…doesn’t want to be one of those people who doesn’t get up on 3.” Simple, effective. I love this. I have often thought of this when waiting to arise. I guess I don’t want to be one of those people who doesn’t get up on three.

 

I was channel-surfing the other day and stumbled, digitally speaking, upon a man preaching the gospel of success. He was directing a success seminar in which he stood in the middle of a crowd and taught them wearing a beard, a bald head, and a shirt that can only be described as hick-fire. As the red, orange,and yellow flames shot up his black corduroy sleeves, he told the crowd that they were in charge of whether they were successful or not based on what they were thinking and doing. He then ridiculed a guy for writing that down as if it were a new concept. He did, however, teach one concept that stuck with me. He said that to become successful we had to do something. Anything. Don’t tell me what it is. Shut up and do it. He said he was tired of *hearing* all the things people were going to do to become successful. He asked the audience to stop talking about it and do it. Anything. Sleep on the wrong side of the bed. Anything. You are at your current level of success because of your current actions. So, change them. This change may lead to other things that will influence your behavior and the outcome could be success. Or cancer. You choose.

 

My son, Max, is on a mission. I’m sure he is having an impact on people in his sphere. There was a missionary here from Japan who had a sudden and dramatic impact on me. He arrived a couple of months ago and told me he was from Tokyo. Cool. So, I took him and his companion to sushi a couple of times and chatted with him. He left Tuesday (yesterday) for home but not before coming over to our home to visit and teach us a little bit. He and his companion, Silski, were very grateful for the rides and food I have provided them but they were all business at first when they arrived. I busted out the pictures of Japan and softened them up a bit. Utagawa was interested in the pix of home so I took a second to show him what was there.

 

Funny, in a country of 127.5 million people, I asked Utagawa if he knew three people. One was my first companion Watabe Masasue, one was a greenbean I knew named Koyama Norio, and one was Ikeuchi Eiji. The odds were about 42 million to one that he would not know these guys but I took a shot. Let’s ignore the focal effect of church affiliation – it sounds better. He knew two of them. Get that? Two of the three people I asked about he knew – one of whom would be his relative soon as a member of his family is to marry a member of Koyama’s family. Cool, right? He knew two of them and had heard of the other one. We had a funny discussion about this. After identifying that Watabe lived in Orem and had a son named Leo, Silski piped up and said, “Wait, I know him, he was in a class with me at BYU.” Tiny, tiny world.

 

 

Japan — Population: 127,433,494 (July 2007 est.)

According to https://www.cia.gov/library/publications/the-world-factbook/print/ja.html

 

 The following is from Wikipedia - so there's nobody to credit but the last line is funny.

Soylent Green is a 1973 dystopian science fiction movie depicting a future in which overpopulation leads to depleted resources on earth. This leads to widespread unemployment and poverty. Real fruit, vegetables, and meat are rare, commodities are expensive, and much of the population survives on processed food rations, including "soylent green" wafers.

 

The term "soylent green" and the last line "Soylent Green is people!" became catch phrases in English, in part due to a Saturday Night Live parody where comedian Phil Hartman mocked Heston's acting in the final scene of the movie.^[4]

Soylent Green is referred to in a number of television series and other media, either for dramatic or comedic effect. The film was referenced in an episode of the US television sitcomBarney Miller (1975-1982), which was set in a New York City police station in Greenwich Village. The animated American sitcom Futurama, which is set in the year 3000, makes a number of references to fictional "soylent"-based foods. The show, created by Matt Groening, depicts billboards that advertise a variety of "soylent" foods, including "soylent cola" (the taste of which, according to Leela, "varies from person to person").

Dig Bean Town

So there I was. Teaching a software class. You know I used to teach 30-80 member classes for two days on how to run their software. And they loved it. Well, the first day we always wore suits. I wore a suit to teach the class at Boston. Boston was a great experience. I remember having baked beans and seeing the Green Monster at Fenway. I remember meeting a dealer and having him show me around – to where Cheers (exterior) was filmed. The interior, I discovered, was NOTHING like the interior of Sam's famous bar from the television show. However, I could say that I had been to Cheers, really called Bull & Finch Pub, had eaten there in the really cramped, underwhelming atmosphere, and lived to tell about it.

The day of the class, I dawned my suit and made my way to the training room, which was customary for classes we all taught. In the very front row was the dealer who had been so kind as to show me a good time the night before. She (just kidding) He waited until a few minutes into the class to call me over to where he was sitting and inform me that my fly was down. On my suit. I said, "You're kidding!" I mean I whispered. Then I stood and casually walked to the back of the room and out the door ostensibly checking for late-arriving pupils and gently but firmly and carefully zipped it back up. I really don't understand the stigma surrounding the down-zipper other than it is like I didn't fully get dressed. It's not like my winkie was in free-dangle danger. But it is still funny even for old guys.

One thing I learned in Boston was about the Big Dig. This was supposed to be an $800 million project to dig under the city and run a freeway to alleviate the growing congestion in Boston. When I was there they had completed some of the dig and were talking about cost overruns topping $1.2 billion dollars. I thought this extreme. I couldn't imagine a road being worth such a whopping figure. I was reminded of the Big Dig today for some reason so I looked it up to see if it had been completed and to see if the tally had escalated. Wow.

So the total for the Big Dig will reach $22 billion dollars. 38% of the transportation funds expended by the state of Massachusetts pay debt only. There's not money to fix roads and bridges left.
I have a solution. Or, um, a retrolution. How about instead of paying this much money until 2038, you just pay EVERY HOUSEHOLD in Boston $90,000 not to drive so much. Just telecommute one day, ride the bus one day, or walk, or carpool or do something and cash this check from the government. You could take a couple of years off. You could invest it. You can do with it what you want. No tax on it. We don't want it back. Just stay off the streets. We will be checking. If you don’t stay off the streets, give the money back and we will distribute it to those who will.

Do YOU know what to do?

My darling wife told a friend of mine this and he told me. No, I don’t know why she didn't tell me. She said that I am a complete optimist. I've written about this before. I will probably write again. But one thing she said that he repeated to me was that, *…because Jeff Crandall is such an optimist, he always has options.* Interesting to me. I agree, by the way. I have been given the ability to think outside – sometimes WAY outside – the box. I have a few stories to demonstrate this:

 

When I worked for DHI, which stands for – ehem - Dairy Herd Improvement, I was stationed in the computer room. This was a very large room in the center of the building in which were several mainframe computers and various disc and tape drives and a few card-punch machines. Yes! Card-punch machines! Age-ist! I was an operator. This job entailed sitting at the consoles of the mainframe computers and making sure the jobs and processing happening on these machines, um, happened. There were two things about that job that were the best: the climate in the computer room was VERY controlled so the temperature was always a comfortable 68 degrees, and, of course, Debi regularly brought me steak and cheese sandwiches from The Italian Place. Mmmmm. What memories! Anyway, the DHI experience was good, and fodder for another day. But, while there, there were a couple of times that I was called upon to save or save or save or save the brilliant programming staff from their blunders.

 

Mainframes run jobs. These jobs are submitted by programmers. They execute instructions and product output – usually in printed form. Because they could process many jobs at once, the printers could not keep up with the output. So, the print jobs went into queues. These queues held the print jobs until it was time to print. If there were a job that someone did not want printed, they could ask the operators to access the queues and, using a command, remove or delete the print job from the queue. You can see this one coming down 5^th Avenue, can't you? One time, an egotistical operator issued a command to the mainframe to delete all the print jobs in the queue. Not a job, ALL jobs. The mainframe supported wildcard commands and he issued one that would clean out EVERYTHING. He typed it in just to look at it and then instead of deleting what he had typed, he accidentally pressed the equivalent of GO! He immediately pressed a big red button on the keyboard that is labeled STOP. Everyone knew that this button is NEVER to be pressed. It would interrupt so many processes as to cause pain to users and more pain to the person who pushed STOP in the first place.

 

He came scurrying to me and asked what he should do. I went over and saw the command he had typed and he told me that as soon as he hit enter he hit stop. So, I thought I may have a chance. I remembered that when all goes terribly wrong in mainframe world, you can do the equivalent of REBOOT. It is called IPL – Initial Program Load. I also remembered that IPL'ing also restored the queues as part of its function. The only way to stop the deleting was to IPL. So, I said, "Watch this, jellyman," and I IPL'ed the machine. Wow, it reloaded, and restored the queues and only a few of the A's were deleted from the queue. I had saved the day. Nobody else could think of any options to overcome what had happened.

 

Story 2: There were two mainframes. They were connected to each other. One was significantly more powerful than the other. Programmers submitted test programs or jobs on the weak machine and production jobs on the mighty one. One day, two programmers came running in with a panicked look on their faces. They explained that they were experimenting on the mighty mainframe with a wildcard program that would lock all the records on the whole machine. You lock a record when it is being updated so the same record is not being accessed and changed by two different sources. Anyway, they sent a job that locked EVERYTHING. Can't unlock it because it is locked. Can't send a job in because it is locked. Can't access it through the console because it was locked. Can't do anything but come running into my environmentally controlled heaven and cry to me and admit what you did. Waaaah! I thought for a moment and then proposed that they instead submit an unlock program reversing the effects of their lock program through the weak mainframe. They were connected together and I had seen jobs come over from weak to mighty all the time. It NEVER occurred to them that they could do this. I, the optimist with options, was the only one who thought of it or suggested it.

 

I could go on with this riveting dialog about mainframes and jellymen but I'm afraid the reader hasn't even made it this far. Suffice it to say that I have been blessed with the vastness of options. I also like it that I realize that it is a blessing. I see others about me who are unable to do this. The jellymen were completely incapable of these sorts of solutions. I often take it for granted that I can try other things. When I help my kids with math and they struggle with my first explanation I have 8-10 other ways I can explain until they get it. I'm just wired that way.

...another puke story

It's been too long since my last puke story – so I think it is time to spew one out for you today. OK, this one involves a young and testosterone-laden me on a date. I must set the stage:

 

It was my junior year in high school. That means 1978 – disco was just crowning in the birth canal and I was only too proud to be wearing my Angel Flight triple-knit polyester pants and tight fitting hook shirt. We quadruple-dated this night so there were eight of us waiting in line to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I recommend it. Before leaving the house, I took some medicine for my pizza-face. I was on an antibiotic – probably tetracycline prescribed by Dr. Ponitch, a tiny dermatologist (visualization: two thumbs up high over the head air-squeezing a zit). This medication is not to be taken on an empty stomach. No problem had we followed our original plans to eat first but we decided instead to see the movie and then eat.

 

While standing in line, I began to feel queasy. Green. Nauseous. Vomitous. OK, it wasn't that bad, but I decided to calm my stomach down before things got out of hand. I left the rather long line and found a kiosk selling food and snacks and drinks and such. They had one of those machines that is a big tank on top that fountains inside itself to mix the beverage that it contains. Grape juice. Perfect. I ordered a large grape juice and began to sip it before we went into the theater (or is it theatre?). It made me feel, um, different. Better? Maybe. But at least different. As we neared the door to enter the theatere I noticed the sign that read, *No food or drinks allowed.* So, I hurriedly finished my juice so as not to waste it.

 

We sat together in one row and I was close to the aisle. During the credits I heaved. No, not once, not twice, but I emptied. On the lady in the row in front of me. On the floor. On my Angel Flights. Purple wheeze squirting out of me – I swear I should have looked at my eyes to see if any leaked into them. I didn't know what to do so I just got up and ran to the bathroom. I think my date hailed an usher, or a cab, I'm not sure which.

 

In the bathroom, I saw the rather large, purple stain on my pants and so I did what every red-blooded American, 17-year-old boy does – I dropped trou and washed them in the sink. I found it liberating to be standing in the men's room in my tight-whites with my pants in the make-shift laundry sink. They felt cool if not cold slipping back on my body and I returned to my seat to find the usher swearing and finishing up the mop job he was doing. Everyone else on my row was laughing.

 

The lady in front of me never turned around. I pointed out the chunks in her beehive hair to my date. We couldn't pay attention to the movie because of the tears of laughter...

My Girlfriend

Can I first say that I hate election years? 

OK, so there was this guy who graduated with me in college - very intelligent. We found each other early on in our major. And by found, I mean, used. In several classes, within the first few days, teams were formed for a major project which would be due at the end of the semester. I was fortunate enough to get him on my team in one of my first classes and he was different than most of the other participants - he worked, lead, criticized, improved, and contributed. I really don't know why it was, but until that point I was always the one who was working, leading, criticizing, improving and contributing to the teams I was on. He and I realized that we both had similar talents, work-ethic, etc. and decided that we needed to arrange for classes together so we could have a better time conquering same. 

Our strategy was simple: we took the same classes. On the first day we split up on opposite sides of the class and covertly began interviewing other unsuspecting students in an attempt to determine if they would be good team members and if they could comply with our demands: get an A, pull your weight, don't whine when we correct your writing or thinking, work hard, have fun, dominate, claim superiority, and eventually rule the world. 

Our strategy worked. Well! The student/victims were easy to spot. The best ones always looked ready to start and their informal interview would reveal their GPA and an elicited complaint about having to carry previous groups or teams of which they had been a part. BINGO – you're hired, er, um, yes, you should join our group. See my blog April 27, 2007. This is not why I started this jag. 

I wanted to tell you about my girlfriend. That is what Betsy and Debi started calling him. He was the really smart guy. So, he wasn't terribly good with the ladies and so he would ask me to coach him. Also, he called often. Oh, and he wondered what I was doing. And, um, what I was doing. And, could I come over and eat. And, we need to get together and work this project out. And stuff like that. He was hetero but that did not mean he was not, um, attentive. 

I remember running into him years later at a restaurant Debi and I love in north Phoenix. He was on a date – with his soon-to-be-second wife. The first one disappeared in the night when he was on a business trip some years earlier. Anyway, when I walked up to his table, he abruptly reached out his hand to shake my hand and I instinctively matched his jerky motion reaching for his hand. The trouble was, his full water glass was twixt the two of us. I hit it and it didn't just topple, it slammed to the table and doused him. 

He jumped up and slipped off his loafers to reveal the powder in them then sheepishly commented that I was trying to sabotage his date. I wasn't. Even though he was my girlfriend.

Light Ning

No, it's not an advertisement for my expressio.ning.com website. Although I think it would have been fun to put that together and actually have it work...

No, this is a commentary on an eventful storm we had last night. Aug 28, 2K8 is the date, and WOW, never in my many years on the earth have I seen such a display of raw power. Hurricanes? Phooey! Tornados - you're getting warm. This thing was raucous, rowdy, unruly, and other ancient words describing utter violent chaos. It started around 8:00pm as many other monsoon-type storms. I looked to the south to see a very, VERY active cell approaching us. I didn't think it would get here as most of the storms we see off in the distance rarely get all the way to northeast Mesa. I think it was one of those storms that was destined to hit the populated parts of our state after gathering strength from the heat.

As the storm approached, the wind began to blow - much like most monsoon storms. No note taken. Then the lightning started - again, nothing too strange here. Then about 15 minutes into the storm I realized that it had begun to *flash* outside. No, not that kind of flashing. It looked more like the kind of flashing where Dianna runs to the car shielding her eyes and then speeds off in the Mercedes only to smash into the tunnel or where Brittany ensures that the angle is right before conspicuously flashes her cooch while stepping out of or into the car.

The flashing was so dramatic that I went outside to witness what was going on. The news today said that we experienced about 9,600 lightning strikes per hour - FOR TWO HOURS. It was spectacular. I promptly gathered my kids and a chair and went out on the porch and sat to watch God's fireworks. The lightning was almost exclusively cloud-to-cloud and the thunder was absolutely continuous. Not the earth shattering, bone-rattling, grandma's-marinated-pinto-and-green-chili-bean-casserole-fart rumbling, but certainly a constant 747 run-up engine roar that blanketed the night for two solid hours.

The weather-bot stuffed suit on Channel 10 explained that the clouds extended up some 40,000-50,000 feet above the ground. The amount of damage caused by the 85 mph winds was well-documented by the news media as they scoured the city proclaiming, “…see this construction sign, (that resembles a large metal flag on a large metal pole and acts in wind much like a windmill would) it was blown over, and it’s heavy…” Today must have been a slow news day. Senator McCain chose a VP running mate (Sarah Palin, mother of 5 and Alaskan governor) and it rained in Phoenix. What an unbelievable display, though. The VP and the lightning.

When I lived in Utah, going to school, I was awakened by a rather unique lightning storm. It was different than the storm described above – it was almost exclusively cloud to ground. This storm was interesting – not because it chose 3:00am to occur, but because it was so violent in nature. Unlike the constant rumbling, the thunder generated by this storm was every 2-3 seconds and would crackle like Eldon Tyrell’s head under the pressure of Roy Batty’s (Rutger Hauer) crushing force. Each strike would stab to the ground from relatively low clouds and the thunder would immediately pierce the night like fart in a hyperbaric chamber. Hmmm, another fart analogy. And analogy has anal right in it...

I kinda want to get back in the blogging mode. I think I will. This way I can dump out some more of my experiences and put a checkmark in the personal history column of my pathetic list of achievements. That checkmark will be lonely for a while since I am not doing much else. Opening day of Sun Devil football 2008 starts tomorrow. I look forward to it.

Facebook me – search Jeff Crandall. I'll be your friend. Good to be back.

Mom's Surgery

As promised, I am on letter duty (I said doodie) today as the mother is still in the hospital with a serious leg gash. OK, this one has gone much better for her. She is really recovering better than she did last time. I think it is a combination of 1) the knowledge of what will transpire, 2) the fact that she has one good (recently surgeried) hip, and 3) she is being blessed as a missionary mom.

She was given a blessing before she went in for surgery and there were some great things promised her. She has referred to this blessing often. One specific thing was that she would be calm and peaceful prior to the surgery. Strangely enough, she repeated over and over how noticeably calm she was and that she felt the spirit helping her along. She was grateful for this. Her surgery was Wednesday, as you know, and you should have receive a little note from me letting you know that she was in good shape. The doctor, I think, forgot to come out and tell me that she was done and that the procedure had gone well.

We arrived at the hospital at 5:30am and after checking in, they took her back to prepare her for surgery. After about 45 minutes, they came and got me and I went back to wish her well. She doesn’t remember that because she was so drugged up by then. She said goodbye and then I went to the surgery waiting area. And waited. And waited. I fell asleep in the chair while watching Anchorman on the iPod. I woke up and wiped the drool off myself and played it off to the other waiters who were trying not to stare. I pretended that I was retarded and began softly moaning and chanting incoherently. They felt bad. It worked, I win. Just kidding. The hospital staff finally alerted me at 12:30pm that she was headed up to recovery and would arrive in about 10 minutes.

Had I been mom I would have been freaking out. But since I am me and since I’m retarded, I wasn’t bothered. I was a little annoyed but not enough to grab the hospital administrator and strangle her like a Trek Chicken. We got to mom’s room and she wasn’t alone. Last time, she paid to be in a private room. This time, I tried to pay for a private room but there were too many patients and surgeries so there was no room. Not even in the Inn. So, she bunked with a great lady named Helen Charlene XXXXXX. I’m not sure what their last name was but her husband was Paul and they were in their 60’s with a slight chance of rain. I give you her whole name because she goes by either Charlene or Char. That is what mom called her. The hospital staff, on the other hand, called her Helen – EVERY TIME THEY DEALT WITH HER.

It seems that if you want to win somebody over, the lease you could do is get their name straight. Oh well, the comedy of errors that surrounded the staff at this hospital is a letter in itself. She comes home tomorrow (Monday) after spending 5 glorious days in culinary purgatory. That’s the politically correct way of indicating that the food sucked. Tonight we even had to get her some chicken to replace the fish and mashed potatoes she was served.

She comes home tomorrow and we are all excited for her return.

Did I Blog that?

OK, I've reached 75 blogs so my mind naturally starts to lose track of those topics or stories I have already told and those I haven't. Not that I can't go back and check them, and search for key word like tits, winkle, and vibraphone to jog my memory. And by memory, I mean...dicktation.

I have a weird tendency to think of a blog topic and even write the first paragraph or so in my mind so when I get down to actually typing it, the exercise is more like dictation -- at least for the first paragraph. This makes it difficult to remember whether or not it has actually been published. I would love to explore the blurred line between experienced memory and imagined memory. The 'memory' itself is stored the same way in either case. Weird.

My wife is NO help. Honey, did I already blog the time when I was walking on the fence at the Phoenix house and accidentally slipped off straddling the fence and simultaneously endangering the very existence of Max, Caitie, Abby, and Olivia? To which she replies, "I don't know."

Its not that she doesn't read my uninspired works. It is that she has selective amnesia. And these days she selects much of her life to forget. Once in a while there are glimmers of memory and once in a while a very vivid memory will be triggered by something as trivial as a popcorn ceiling.

Most of the time, when she doesn't remember things, they have to do with me, or a present I gave her, or someplace we have been together. This is frustrating because possibly the main or ONLY reason to bring somebody along with you to any event is so you can share a common experience about which you can later reminisce and co-exaggerate. The world is in harmony when both of you conveniently embellish and corroborate each other’s stories.

The problem is, if you are married to an Alzheimer’s patient it loses a little in the credibility department when she gives you the confused look after a bloated tale. Oh well, the burden of proof just becomes a little more onerous on me…no big deal.

I have taken to writing the ideas I need to blog down in a hidden, unpublished blog. My problem is, the list keeps growing and the opportunity to take dictation on them seems rare. At some point I will have to accept defeat and just pound them all out at once. Not likely…

Newness Colony

You can't spell nudist colony without a healthy colon.

We explore today the very nature of exploring. I was reminded the other day that new is great. In virtually every aspect of life, newness is appealing, exciting, and stimulating. I think everyone knows this. In every industry I can think of newness is the key to success. Certainly in the computer industry, newer, bigger, better, faster is better. But even in software, using a new application is great. Using a old application that has been revised and upgraded to have new features is great.

New wife? I think it is possible that affairs start as a result of our pursuit of newness. Have you ever met somebody you think is great, funny, entertaining, and witty - then you meet her husband. He treats her like crap because to him, she is old, used-up, and pruny. Her jokes are re-hashed, hackneyed junk she tries out on anybody who hasn't heard them yet. Her stories? Just as worn. But the new girl? Fresh and alive and charming and delightful with fun stories and a charismatic way of telling them.

Car companies know this all too well. Used cars are new to somebody. And new cars have that smell that feeds the need for newness. My car isn't new. But there is something missing - ah, yes, the Duramax with the Allison transmission. I will pull this trigger soon because I want a new truck. New sometimes pulls a trailer better too.

I have seen people fix up things and make them new again. I tried this with Debi. One hip down, one to go. I did this with my house. One hip down and one to go. Ba dum, ch! I’ll be here all night. Try the veal. It is like living in a new house that is really familiar. I can't describe it but I somehow really LOVE it because it is new. Remodels are a good way to make something old, new again. I have seen people jack their cars up, put new tires on, and put on a fuzzy steering wheel cover to bend the newness curve up again.

Then there's old that is so old it becomes new again. Classic cars are always a sight on the road. We look at them and remember the good old days when things were made better. Back then when you got in an accident in your steel-on-steel Chevy you just hosed off the dashboard and kept on driving it. It is only after you pass the classic Rambler that you realize that it is 115 degrees outside and he had his windows down because he had no air conditioning. Oh, and push button transmission and crappy shocks. And the whole thing could catch fire at any moment. Thank goodness I don’t like old cars.

Sometimes, just to keep things new, I avoid asking my wife for sex - just to change things up a bit. Keeps the relationship alive...

Good Dreams and Brad Dreams

OK, I admit it. Lately the blog has kinda been a train wreck. OK, more like a train with its wheels locked so sparks shooting from the track as it smashes into a busload of retarded children headed for summer camp with their special guest star Lionel Richie singing ‘Hello’ and leading them in the chorus. (thx Adam) Sorry. There have been few posts and the ones that made it really blow. I think it is a mood thing and a time thing. Enough excuses.

Today’s topic: dreams. I am worried. Most of the time my dreams are benign and confusing with highlights of sexual content. I can cope with them. But sometimes I dream things that cannot possibly have originated in my brain. I mean, I know my brain. I live in it. It often generates the most random and unexpected things. I call that creativity. I like that aspect of my brain. But when I am faced with the realization that the dreams I have expose thoughts that are actually lurking in my mind…I entertain the thought of just accepting the psychosis and beginning the shock treatment.

And why is it that I am not free in my dreams. In the midst of the most disjointed, dysfunctional, delusional extravaganza, I am strangely aware of my boundaries. That doesn’t mean that I don’t go to the mall naked. It means that when I go to the mall naked I am always shamefully hiding behind a garbage can (and fashioning a suit of armor out of it) instead jogging round from store to store asking them if they want to participate in the ‘Name the Pee-Pee’ contest. Instead, I am wondering why it took me until I was in the mall upstairs outside the Mrs. Fields to REALIZE THAT I WAS NAKED! It must be the dough. Or the smell. And let’s just say that she wasn’t the only one handing out free samples…

I would never cheat on my wife. That said, I can’t even cheat in my dreams. I often find myself in compromising situations only to be thwarted by my morals and ethics. I don’t advocate explaining these dreams in great detail to the Mrs. because even if your explanation includes the disclaimer that your love for her and devotion to her transcended the subconscious so as to restrict your catatonic bone dancing you will still be sentenced to sofa-sleep. (Davenport dalliance dreams are delicious)

Why is nudity such a part of dreams? I see naked people. Usually I don’t know them. Often I am naked. Nearly always, my wife is naked. I will probably study this phenomenon a little more closely to see what the expert wacknoids who think they know but are really guessing have to say about it. My own pre-researched conclusion that I jump to is that the forbidden nature of nudity is socialized into us to the extent that it is only in dreams that we can dip our toe into these illicit waters.

Now, a dream. Last night I had a strangely disjointed dream about my friend Brad. Brad owns a successful advertising company but in my dream he was a plastic surgeon living and practicing out of his house in Hawaii. My dream picks up the story when I go in to visit him for an indescribable procedure. I can describe WHAT he did but not WHY he did it. I was lying on a table and he came up to my left arm and sank his scalpel deep into the shoulder and cut a line from it to the inside of my elbow right alongside my bicep. I remember feeling nothing. Not painful, no cutting. I do remember thinking that as he cut I was growing more delirious as if he had some sort of elixir on his knife that caused an anesthetic response (both local and general). As he cut, he complained about how hard it was to cut through a piece of fat near the shoulder/bicep division. He had to cut that a few times to get a deep as he somehow needed to cut. He left the room and my wife came in, naked, and slipped under the covers of the bed diagonal from me. He came back in and went to her bed, pulled down the covers, and used his scalpel on her hip, I believe, perhaps to revise her scar. But he must have forgotten the anesthetic because his first cut made her SCREAM so loudly that it woke me up.

This dream was not particularly troubling but I always have to ask myself...Why in Hawaii? Why Brad? Why wasn't the bed next to mine? I know why not my bed. She wouldn't want to disturb the large gash in my arm...

Serenity

Am I told what to think?

What a funny notion but on the other hand, it happens. I was talking to a person I used to work with who stayed in the hell hole that was NDCHealth after I left. In a passing conversation sometime after I left I asked him if he liked working there. He said, "It's a great place to work. At least that is what I am told..."

How telling. Can't you hear the corporate rah, rah in that? Instead of actually making it a great place to work, they just tell people how much better it is. The problem is that employees who have been there and seen both worlds think the new working environment sucks. And they are right - except they are continuously told how much better things are now.

I wonder how often this happens in life. How often do we bother to gather empirical data versus being fed information via the media spoonful. How often have I used facts and data from unverified, plastic-haired commentator source versus my own research. I'm afraid I do this often. I don't have time, for example, to disect the federal register report on HIPAA legislation so I rely on shortcuts to bring me to a level of understanding that allows me to emphatically rant about regulations and requirements with minimal knowledge. Now that's convenience. This is not to say that I don't have my crap-detector finely tuned on every piece of information I receive, its just that if it sounds good and matches my core beliefs, it's readily added to the arsenal.

I was talking to a friend the other day and at the risk of sounding cryptic, we were talking about a subject that is controversial. I realized that I didn't have a stand on this issue. Now, in my many years of life that doesn't mean that I haven't ever thought about it but if I had to state my stance on the subject, I would have to defer until I had thought enough about it to make a statement. Either that or catch a documentary on Discovery that swayed my thinking and filled my arguement quiver with undocumented, unverifyable, unsubstantiated weapons.

I concluded at the end of our discussion that I wasn't affected by the topic and therefore didn't have a strong opinion - meaning that I would be able to argue either side effectively. This was a mistake. His take was that I should see the world as he sees it. There should be no middle ground and there certainly should be no such thing as a flexible opinion.

As I gather more information and change my mind as a result, I'm smarter, right? As I more deeply contemplate a topic and gather my own information, I should be better informed to make a decision, re-align my thinking, and fight to the death to make sure everyone sees it my way -- at least until I change my mind again...

Thin Line

First, some lyrics:

It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s five o’clock in the morning
And you’re just getting in
You knock on the front door
And a voice sweet and low says
Who is it? She opens up the door and lets you in
Never once asks where have you been
She says are you hungry?
Did you eat yet?
Let me hang up your coat
Pass me your hat
All the time she’s smiling
Never once raises her voice
Its five o’clock in the morning
You don’t give it a second thought
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
The sweetest woman in the world
Could be the meanest woman in the world
If you make her that way
You keep hurting her
She'll keep being quiet
She might be holding something inside
That’ll really, really hurt you one day
I see her in the hospital
Bandaged from foot to head
In a state of shock
Just that much from being dead
You couldn’t believe the girl
Would do something like this, ha
You didn’t think the girl had the nerve
But here you are
I guess action speaks louder than words
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)

We were talking about a couple, let’s call them R and E, who really don’t deserve the two beautiful children they have because they are so busy being angry and hateful and vengeful with each other that they can’t see past their differences to be civil – even for their kids.

Poor little T is only 9 years old and feeling the brunt of it. A new chapter was written this weekend involving a late visitation, a power-hungry, hypocritical mom, a butthole dad, and a couple of kids that basically got squashed in the middle of the drama.

At one point in the story, I turned to the storyteller and commented that A) I don’t know whose side I am on because I dislike both of them for different reasons, and B) it’s a thin line between love and hate. Only too recently have I been exposed to many folks who “don’t love each other anymore” and who are trying to move on in their rather advanced years. It seems to me there are fundamental prideful problems with each of them. How can they attempt to find love again? How can they try to sever deep ties with home and family and kids and lives without wrecking all? What makes them think their single offering is so desirable that others will want them?

So, I have decided to open a butthole-gone-single aging-meat-market (BGSAMM) dating service. I will list their real qualities –
1) Strong determination to walk away from responsibility
2) New-found desire to improve self and look good
3) Ability to forget past (accomplishments but not faults)

and their imagined qualities –
1) Thinks they are better off
2) Have more to offer to their pursued new relationship now that they are free

I think most of the BGSAMM participants think the opposite of love is hate. They could not be more wrong. The opposite of love is indifference. The opposite of love is ‘I do not care.’

It is the inability to think objectively and rationally that I don’t get. Why not fall in love with the person you were in love with before? Is that so hard? If you hate them now, you aren’t far away from loving them. Cut yourself a big slice of that humble pie you avoid so fervently and fold up the selfishness you hold so dear into a small wad and stick it under the table of reconciliation. If you look under there you find that many others in your situation have already done that. Gross, isn’t it?

Plus, you know what they look like naked so there won't be a 'third-nipple surprise.'

A Fish Story

I searched my blog and found that I haven’t used the word puke nearly enough. So, I have another puke story – this one from sophomore year at Westwood High. Don’t worry, this one does not involve cows, it involves fish. I also can’t tell this story without you seeing it coming down Broadway so I apologize in advance if your anticipation exceeds the payoff. I am reminded of this story because I just ran into a friend of mine at a restaurant and had a lovely chat with him. He has a cute daughter who is graduating this year – also a plus as I have a son.

Jim, whose real name is Jim, is 2 years older than I am – making him a lofty senior when I was a lowly sophomore. Steve, the other principal in this story, was also a senior. They were contemporaries of Dennis. Jim had a knack, a gift, or a talent which I did not discuss with his children while they were in the restaurant. He could puke on command. I’m not sure how this superpower helped him but somehow we were jealous of this ability when we were in high school. He assured us that when he really puked – that is when he was sick and retching – it was nasty, painful, uncomfortable, etc. much like the experiences we all can tell and re-tell before being shut down by the wimpy weak-stomached (WWS) in our midst. However, in daily life, he could reproduce a meal with great ease and no discomfort.

One day at Mc Don Al Ds, Micky dees, you get it, right, I am hiding this from the corporate name protection police, he actually ate a Begg Meck, regurgitated it back into the styro-container that used to house these burgers before we all turned green, and tried to return it. He claimed it was ‘undercooked.’ Gross, I know. But it gets better (or worse if you are a WWS). Jim often reproduced meals, which became boring after three to four years.

Senior year, there was a school-wide dance held in the gym for charity. There were several raffle-type activities yielding funds to be given to a worthy charity, I’m sure. One of the evening’s activities was goldfish swallowing. You can see it coming, can’t you? You could spend $1 on a goldfish that you would then have to swallow – all in the name of charity.

Not to be outdone, Jim and Steve teamed up in the name of charity as well. They cornered the DJ (from a local radio station who happened to be working our dance) and told him that between the two of them they would swallow the same goldfish. Pause. Really? How? Jim would eat the goldfish, blanch it back up, and Steve would eat it again. The DJ stopped the music and announced the offer these guys had made and began the bidding. I wish I could remember how high the bidding got – somewhere around $200 or so I think. Once the bidding stopped, a hush fell over the crowd as Jim ate a goldfish (and drank a little of the water from the fish tank for effect). A minute later, up came the fish back into a cup filled with other stomach contents. The DJ verified that indeed there was a little fish in the mixture so Steve grabbed the cup, hesitated slightly, and then drank it. Without peer pressure I don’t think he could have kept that concoction down. But he did. And we were all amazed at the combination of guts and stupidity. How does anyone survive high school?

Crabby Maui

I couldn’t resist another travel blog. This one involves in-flight turbulence. Picture yourself in the cockpit of a 4-seat Cessna with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean and Kahului, the airport you just left on the isthmus of Maui, Hawaii. This was me a few years ago. What a great trip. What a fabulous sight. I was the third passenger, the first two being Kioki, our instructor/pilot and Jeff Ward, my business partner who was copilot/in-training pilot trying to get a few more flight hours. Where better than in Hawaii to enjoy a little flight instruction?

After taking off, we flew toward the West Maui Mountains and on over to the sea cliffs on Molokai and Lanai before heading back to Maui. The flight was smooth and fun, not the least bit scary and there was really no concern for the wind or the weather. The pilots handled the ride differently: Kioki was calm and Jeff was, um, hyper-alert. As we made our way back around to Maui we could see Lahaina and then we circled around the West Maui Mountains toward the isthmus on the south side. Kioki, a VERY seasoned flyer, casually mentioned that we would be breaking free of the protection of the mountains and that the trade winds through the isthmus were significant. We noticed a definite line in the water ahead where the calm sea gave way to the waves churned up by the wind. On cue, Kioki said, “…we always feel the wind right about here when we come around this … [something indecipherable because of the sudden blender-like shuddering of the increasingly tiny gnat-plane we were wrapped in]”. I think he meant mountain. Wow, you think turbulence is bad in a big plane? This was eventful because A) I have never been shaken so violently in a tiny craft before and B) Kioki found our girl-like screams amusing.

Upon approach, Kioki told Jeff that the crosswind was about 30-40 knots with gusts. According to Kioki this is normal wind for the isthmus between two GIANT mountains with the trade winds, etc. According to Jeff, this was a reason to avoid takeoff – let alone attempting to land. In Arizona, these conditions cause private plane owners to divert. Kioki told Jeff to throttle back all the way to idle. Really, it looked like the propeller stopped spinning. We stayed in the air as a result of two forces: the wind and the audible prayers uttered from the back seat.

This landing reminded me of a short flight I took to Salt Lake City. I learned some new aviation terms during this flight – and not the ones used by other passengers who were puking in bags around me. We actually ran out of barf bags on that flight. Seriously, I didn’t think commercial planes could be bounced around the sky like this one was. When we got closer to landing, the wind, clouds, and, well, tornados were a little disconcerting. I was informed after we landed that they closed the airport. Our flight was evidently the experience that tipped the should-we-close-this-sucker-down scale. Upon approach, the plane’s nose pointed toward the mountains. We were flying at about a 45 degree angle relative to the runway. They call this ‘crabbing’ perhaps because crabs fly sideways. Crabbing allows the pilot to fly against crosswinds. I think I crabbed my pants.

as Big as Texas

Have you ever felt turbulence while on the ground that was so bad it made you want to toss your bagels? Almost as violent as when you were in the air? I have. Here’s the story:

When I was traveling extensively for the red menace, I had occasion to visit Dallas, Texas. I was headed for San Antonio but for some reason we were diverted to Dallas. I don’t remember if I was connecting through Dallas or if we landed there temporarily. All this was because of the weather there so we were delayed for some time waiting. The airline, in a heart-felt gesture, decided I deserved a $20 voucher for my delay and troubles to be used in the airport. So, I went to the closest airport kiosk and asked for a bagel and a juice. The total was $7. The girl behind the counter decided that she would let me in on a little secret. “You see”, she said, “you can’t get change for this. You might as well order $20 worth of food.” So, I did. I just got $13 worth of bagels. It filled a brown paper bag.

We were finally allowed to board the plane and I was relegated to the rear of the plane. We taxied to the runway and then the captain came on and told us that there was another nasty cell coming through so we would have to wait. Again. Here’s where the turbulence came in. I could see out my window that the sky was darkening and actually quite ominous. No big deal. Let’s wait for the storm. Wow! As the heart of the storm beat upon us that plane rocked, tipped, and yawed like a Mormon newlywed bed. Holy smokes, many of my fellow passengers were less than amused. An hour and a half later, the storm left. The pilot came on and informed us of the proverbial good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that we had been cleared to be able to take off. The storm was over. The bad news was that there were 27 other planes that had priority over our departure. We were queued up. They expected about a 90 minute delay before takeoff.

It was at this point that a rather ample hungry-looking black woman near me began to complain about her hunger. Asking her to wait for the storm was OK, but could we please cut in front of some of these other planes and get out of here so she could eat!? So, Samaritan that I am, I piped up with an offer of a poppy seed bagel. She declined sheepishly. I think she realized that she was the only one complaining. I then said, to everyone in my section, that the airline had been gracious enough to give me money for these bagels and that I couldn’t possibly eat them all. That did it. Oh, yes. She accepted my offer of a bagel, as did many others seated around me. I nearly emptied the bag. Can you believe it, after everyone had a bagel, she had the gall to ask, “…do you have cream cheese?” I had to laugh. The nerve. Me with free bagels but no cream cheese.

After distributing the bagels, eating them, suffering with no beverage (no, I didn’t ration my juice) and apparently suffering worse with no cream cheese, we took off. It seemed to me that they saw a crack in the sky, a break between storms, and went for it. The liftoff was spectacular. I expected to hear, “…and the Airbus A320 has cleared the tower for the first-ever multi-racial, multi-bagel, experimental land-speed record-setting flight…” We were freely batted about the sky headed for San Antonio – or so I thought. Remember that storm that we waited for? Well, apparently, it had made it most of the way to San Antonio by the time we waited for the 27 planes in front of us. So, we would have to ‘fly around’ for a while waiting for the same storm to leave the San Antonio area. So we did.

Then came the pilot with some more good news/bad news. The good news is that the storm was leaving the San Antonio area but the bad news was that FAA rules stated that our fuel levels had reached a point where we had to refuel wherever we were. This, happily, was in Abilene, Texas. Abilene, it seems, had never had a plane this big actually land in this airport so they had no facilities to allow us to disembark. A truck, with a long hose, came driving up to the plane and we waited while Otis squeezed the handle and the jet fuel trickled into our plane. I half expected Gomer and Goober to run out, wash the windshield, and run the pilot’s credit card out the window.

Who knew it would take me 7 hours to fly over Texas. Sure, all the Texans did, right.

Teach Me to Lead

I now accept leadership as a legitimate art form. I don’t know how I felt earlier in my life. I probably accepted leadership for what it was and engaged in the lame, pedestrian leadership myself that I see so often in others now. Back then I didn’t understand the real reason for leaders. I think I thought leadership was more the enforcer/cop keeping vigil on naturally occurring events. I thought things would get done just fine without leaders keeping tabs on everything. I assumed that leaders were nothing more than watchdogs ensuring that there were no violations. I never accepted the notion that because the team lost too many games the coach should be fired. He never played. He didn’t lose. He didn’t drop any passes or jump off sides. I get it now.

I was wrong about leadership. Unfortunately, I was often in leadership positions so there are plenty of witnesses to my pathetic leadership skills.

Why? Did I have such crappy leaders and bosses early on that I didn’t grasp the true nature of great leadership? Or did I have such excellent leaders that their supremacy was seamless and undetectable? Many years ago when I learned that leaders can make or break something. I have seen inept leadership first-hand and heard of it second-hand and talked about it extensively third-hand.

On the other hand, because I have been both a good leader and an extremely poor one, I cannot in good conscience be critical of any leader. But I am anyway. Management styles differ vastly and effectiveness is often in the eye of the beholder – or the next manager up the poop chain. I tend, now, to manage as I like to be managed. I don’t really have any insight into great management. I guess that is why there are so many books on the subject – none of which agree with each other. I try to give direction and allow the ‘managed’ to control their own destiny. Sometimes I get into trouble because those who are managed need more direction. I don’t. I don’t like much direction. I invent. When I am given direction, it is often limiting, which is against what I should be about in my opinion.

I now stand in admiration of great leaders. I watch the tricks, tactics, and methods of leaders I see hoping to steal from them and incorporate some of their characteristics in my own leadership responsibilities.

A side note: my dad often brought home stray dogs to his house. His father would take them out the back door and behind the shed and 'teach them how to lead' which meant kill them. My dad never liked animals until much later in his life.

Teaming

Teams. It seems teams are a part of every facet of life. I have been on teams, coached teams, and been kicked off teams. The common thing about teams is that association with a team teaches a life lesson that is useful in many circumstances.

When I was young, I was on football teams, baseball teams, basketball teams, softball teams, track teams, etc. Although the term Track Team seems a little strange since track is an individual event. But now that I think about it, Tennis Teams, Swim Teams and other individual-like sports have a different definition of a team.

So, there are the kinds of teams that promote a sense of belonging to a larger organization, like the track team or, I suppose, being schizophrenic. These honor the individual effort but don’t rely on teamwork per se to accomplish their objective. Sure, one track team beats another by virtue of points accumulated, but let’s not split hairs. Teams like a football team or basketball team count on each other to be able to conquer opponents, douse each other with champagne and blame each other for extraneous misconduct. No team, no event, no rape.

Being old now, I coach teams more than I participate on teams. Sports teams, that is. I am on management teams and the like but they are usually called task forces, panels, or juries. I derive great joy from coaching my children on teams but I try to involve them on different teams for the experience. Caitie’s teams have been fun to coach and I have learned how to manipulate them so they gain a sense of teamwork and a subsequent desire to assist each other and do better because they feel they are a part of an entity they care about. I used to be suspect of leadership but have a whole new take on that topic – for another blog.

In college I was forced to assemble teams for group projects. This was particularly difficult because I was always the team captain and always did the bulk of the work. As my education progressed, I figured out that I was going to be put into teams in each of my upper-division classes. I was also fortunate to find another guy who was a leader and who worked/shouldered his share of the project load. He and I coordinated our schedules to have the same classes. We would purposefully sit on opposite sides of the room and ‘recruit’ team members. When it came time to assemble teams, the teacher would invariably leave the formulation of the teams up to the students. This was perfect for us. We knew we would be on the same team but would strike up casual interviews with the others in the class to see if there were others whom we deemed worthy to be on our team.

Our dialogues went something like this: “Oh, I hate teams. I always get stuck doing all the work…” (hoping for a ‘me too’) or “Do you know if this class is hard? My GPA needs a boost…” (hoping for a ‘none of these classes are hard’) or “If we pull an all-nighter, do you object to wearing see-thru pajamas?” (hoping for ‘that’s all I have and I don’t wear underware’) – the last one was for female candidates only.

We ended up assembling great teams that accomplished strong results because we recruited well. Was that cheating?

Extreme Optimism

OK, so I admit it, I'm an extreme optimist. I have been optimistic since I was a little tyke rolling down the driveway in Phoenix on my new bike that I didn't know how to ride yet and skinning my knees on the asphalt driveway. Oh, no, here comes a bifurcation – two blogs in one. Why was it OK for our parents to A) provide no visible means of protection for the little kamikaze bike riders, B) provide no medical assistance and little pharmaceutical assistance to our wounds, and C) HAVE AN ASPHALT DRIVEWAY WITH LOOSE GRAVEL TO CRASH ON AND IMBED INTO OUR WOUNDS IN THE FIRST PLACE? We had no knee pads, helmets, wrist guards, or other protective gear to help us bounce off the earth. And yet we survived. Strange, isn't it? It is perhaps this upbringing that contributed to my optimism. There, I knew it would be come back together.

I am afflicted by extreme optimism in so many ways. There are times when my optimism keeps me in the dark. There are times when my optimism gets me through tough times. But most of the time, optimism seems to be the way to most properly live my life. My wife says I am not realistic because I am optimistic. This seems misleading. The continuum is pessimism to optimism – not realism to optimism. I think optimism is a closer cousin to reality than pessimism because of three very important factors: optimists rule, pessimists suck and reality is conjured. No, really, the three things that I count on are 1) the goodness of people and their constant desire to continue to do the right thing regardless of their shortcomings, 2) events occur predictably for the most part, and 3) pessimists suck.

1) Carried to extremes, a pessimistic person would never drive on the freeway. Other drivers on the freeway may stop, or swerve, or try to cause trouble for the pessimistic driver who would constantly be on guard, stressed out, and pull over into the middle lane and creep along at 54 mph. I think this happens to old folks as they try with ever-increasing desperation to preserve their lives – either that or they don't trust their degenerated reflexes enough to avoid the driver who stops, swerves, or tries to cause trouble. Optimistic people travel the same freeway believing that all the other drivers will for the most part try not to crash into them, try to maintain the correct speed, and generally avoid trouble (or eye contact for that matter). Extreme optimists not only believe this but also look into every car thinking they for sure they will know someone and that person will want to have sex with them.

2) (The following example excludes many construction trades or the production of any software product) If I try to estimate the duration of a trip, the length of time to complete a project, or the time necessary to accomplish the tasks on my to-do list, I have to employ some sense of reason and logic and mix in some real time experience to prognosticate. Pessimistic folks plan extra time for a flat tire, a bomb scare in the store supplying materials to complete a project, or the inevitable multiplication of tasks on that to-do list. Pessimists will often remark that if they approach life in this negative frame of mind then they are never disappointed. That's too bad, because the majority of the time they aren't happy either. They constantly wait for the 'other shoe to drop' rather than enjoying the first shoe. And the saddest part is they wish everyone around them would join in their misery. Extreme optimists wish they had more on the to-do list to show just how much they can do – whether they can do it or not. The ability to achieve is irrelevant.

3) I am optimistic that I can change a pessimists mind. I can’t, but that doesn’t stop me from believing that I can. This is why pessimists suck. If they won’t bend to my constant, relentless optimism, then ‘rain on them.’

The other day, my brother-in-law Chris and I were in the basement cleaning and moving items up stairs when I began complaining about the fact that the giant hand-me-down TV would eventually have to make the trip down the stairs and try to turn the corner into the room. No room, no flexibility, and very heavy. So, in our discussion, Chris said, "…why don't you wrap the stairs around and open them up. You know the last 3 stairs don't have to have a banister…" He drew me a picture on the wall and I hastily agreed. He ran upstairs, grabbed his Skill saw and cut the end off the existing banister. Strangely enough, this began at 6:oopm and by midnight he and I (ok, mostly he) had the old stairs opened up and the new addition to wrap the stairs completed. At one point, during all the sweating and cutting, my sister pointed out, "…the problem is they are both optimists." She was right. We had no problem with this project. The timeline fit (Debi was coming home in 4 days) and the painter, carpet guy, and others had to be scheduled also. No problem. The thing is we did it. I did find out during the course of this that Chris is an extreme optimist like me. I explained my debilitating extreme optimism by telling them that each morning while in the shower, I wait for and wonder why my wife hasn't joined me. For 20 years I have had this thought EACH DAY with no reason to entertain such a thought! Chris confided that he has the same thoughts. His affliction is particularly acute since he gets up at 4:30am each day and still looks for these events to occur.

One more: Betsy and Trent visited one fine spring day and we decided to take the trailer out for a weekend campout. The place I selected was one that is great – except for two unanticipated drawbacks. One, mosquitoes. Two, getting down the ravine into the riverbed consisted of driving on roads not suitable for, um, trailers. So, I dragged the trailer to the edge and my extreme optimism kicked in. I was sure that I could make it down. Well, we did make it down, but we dragged the bottom of the trailer so badly that it tore off the plumbing (so no pooping) and bent up the bumper so badly that we couldn't get the back door open (so no quadding). I admit, in this instance, my extreme optimism cost me money. I could not, however, shut it off. I am currently looking for a 12 step program that helps me cope with over-happiness.

Grin Grimace Stoop Hunch

Grin Grimace Stoop Hunch
I’ve been noticing lately a strange set of human behaviors that are not usually called to consciousness. However, everyone knows about these. There are two sets of idiosyncratic behaviors that are not so idiosyncratic. Common idiosyncrasies. Who’s the oxy and who’s the moron now, huh?
The first one is the half-grin. This is used in social behavior when two individuals meet who really don’t know each other. There could be some familiarity between them, or they could be in a social situation that commonly demands a smile – and reciprocal smile between the two parties. However, the smile, being a little too familiar, does not quite fit. So, and you can try this at home, the half-smile is employed. This is done by using some, but not all of the smiling muscles in your face. Employ mostly the muscles immediately adjacent your mouth without using the higher cheek “…turn it upside down and smile that frown away” muscles. Want extra style points? Purse the lips a bit too, in a knowing fashion – poised and ready to say hello to the stranger should they break the half-grin barrier.
It seems that committing the whole face to a real smile is somewhat too personal or not worth the effort but not smiling at all shows gives off a stoic chill akin to the look I get from my wife after a good fart joke. So, instead of just looking ahead, or looking away (preferred, but not an option if you have been spotted looking directly at somebody as if you were going to have to pick them out of a line-up later) you just glance, give them the halfer, and move on. Not an issue. I am amazed how often I see this. I get it most at fast food restaurants – except In-N-Out where full-face smiles are handed out like Clinton pardons.
The second is the hunch. This is the act of walking in front of something, somebody, or a group of somebodys and stooping over slightly in Cro-Magnon form to avoid being seen, blocking view, or disrupting an event.
I see this one in several places. Church – when somebody comes in late (even in the back, strangely enough) they will walk in hunched over slightly. Movies – see the guy that got here late? So does everyone else even though he is walking as if his spine has suddenly given way. Conversations – when two people are talking in a hallway and somebody has to pass between them, there is usually a hunker involved. This move is usually accompanied by a streamline body turn so as to avoid getting too close to the conversators. This makes no sense to me but somehow it excuses them even if they don’t say it. The fact that their body posture demonstrates an inferior position allows the hallway conversation to continue uninterrupted.
Poop. See?

Retrieval System

I now admit that there are retrievable memories stored in my head that, but for the sake of some trigger, will never be released. I went to a fireside meeting last night and the following chain of events triggered a memory from 1970 (when Eva Von Zeppelin, heiress of the airship designer, sues in an attempt to stop 'Led Zeppelin' from using the family name). Ok, here it goes...

Last week, Doug Waldie told me he was going to a fireside featuring renowned author and historian Richard Bushman (Gouverneur Morris Professor of History emeritus at Columbia University) - ((Gouverneur Morris was the guy who wrote the friggin constitution)) so naturally I asked if I could crash the party. The party, you see, was actually being held in Scottsdale/Phoenix where Doug's brother-in-law is the Stake President. Let's now rewind back about umpteen years from when I was 2 years old to 12 years old (6th grade) and living in the vicinity of 56th Street and Osborn. I went to Ingleside Elementary School (which is now Ingleside Middle School) which at the time was a K-8 school. When I was in 4th or 5th grade there was a new coach who started his teaching career/coaching career at Ingleside and was our new, crew-cut coach with an attitude.

Flash forward to the events following the amazing fireside with Dr. Bushman (Harvard BS, Harvard MS, Harvard PhD). After 'amen' we all stood and I saw a very familair older, crew-cut gentleman walking toward the refreshments. I said 'Bevel...' to which he reacted but didn't pursue as he continued walking toward the back. I followed him and eventually stopped him in the gym and asked him if he was Coach Bevel. He indicated that he was and I introduced myself. I said nothing about his hair. He remembered me, or at least pretended to, and I related the following story to him - thus proving that I used my head for more than just holding my ears apart as my father often said was its only purpose: "I remember when Coach Bevel first started at Ingleside and he was our new coach. We did and exercise called 'Six Inches' where the victim lies down on his back and raises his heels off the ground six inches. Then he waits. Not more than six inches. Not less than six inches. No bent knees. No feet apart. In fact, if he violates the prescribed leg position, Coach Bevel would throw the football he was holding at the victim - trying to hit him in the stomach - which by now contained a burning muscle straining against the ever-increasing weight of his legs. I was a victim once - I guess my feet weren't in the correct position and I heard Coach Bevel holler and then **BLAMM-O** a football hit right next to my head. You see, those who can't do, teach. And those who can't play quarterback coach in elementary school.

Fortunately, he laughed at my story. I told this story to his wife as he was listening and he actually began laughing when I started the story with "...we used to do this exercise called 'Six Inches'." I don't know why, but I have very fond memories of Coach Bevel. I also told him that when I was playing football for Westwood High School he was coaching at Scottsdale High School. I greeted him at the end of the game and he claims he sort-of remembered that brief meeting as well. He asked me who my contemporaries would have been that stayed around to play sports in later years. I named a few of my friends from Ingleside and he said he had actually received an email from one of them a week prior. Pretty cool.

After this encounter, I went back to the refreshment table and Debi was there - Coach Bevel came over and met her too. After he left, I saw another familiar face which was confirmed by Doug as John Driggs (former Chairman of Western Savings) so I went over and spoke with him. He was Wil's good friend and we spoke for a few minutes. I love it when I meet someone my dad knew because they invariably charished their friendship with Wil.

I'm amazed at the retrieval system we have. I can't imagine the memories stored there. I have taken to trying to remember these and start writing them down when I get a chance.

What a lovely evening.

Boy or Girl

Boy or Girl? This is the first question usually asked about a person. In the olden days (I always wanted to say that) there were no ultrascans and high-tech imaging devices to expose your pre-birth winkie so the does-the-apple-have-a-stem question was usually answered at birth. It has been a goal for most of my life to never have that question asked of me again. I'm sure when I was luggage my mom had to dress me in something blue so folks would not make the mistake of calling me a girl, thus incurring offended mother wrath. Still, I was born in the 60's so the 70's were during my formative years and all role-model boys around me had longer hair. Girl hair.

I bring this up because today my wife (who is a verified girl) and I were dining at Chevy's and she noticed a woman/man/thing sitting at a table near us. Debi pointed out that 'Pat' was wearing a white shirt, slacks and a necktie but had pierced earrings. Short, sticky-uppy gray hair, glasses, a bit corpulent (thus concealing boobs or man boobs) and had a high voice. I have 'Pat' tipping the female scale but Debi wasn't too sure. This got me to thinking: is it desirable to be misjudged as a girl?

Well, that depends on who you are and where you are. Our painter has a son named Page. May be Paige. May be Peij. Who knows. When I was introduced to Page, our painter went out of his way to say, "...this is my SON Page." Good thing, too. I saw a pretty, petite, young 12-year-old with shoulder-length, curly, strawberry-blonde hair and delicate features who looked up at me and said, "Hi." I thought, OK, first of all, cut that kid's hair off, get him to go outside and scream a lot to rough up his voice, and maybe even get a marker and fill in a little mustache to butch him up a little. Wow, what a sad situation for this kid. And there is no way he doesn't get butchered at school. Unless he goes to an all-girls Catholic school.

Which brings me to my next point...I remember wanting to dress and act as a girl to see if I would be detected in certain unmentionable social situations. The problem was I was 6'2" and 195 lbs. I don't think I could have pulled it off (so to speak) which accomplished my earlier-stated goal. I remember talking to a girl who wanted to try the same sort of reversal so we discussed binding her breasts (I volunteered, it was the least I could do...) and trying to talk lower and meatier but she just couldn't pull it off. I've decided that nearly none can. When I see a trannie I often identify them as having switched before it becomes aparent. I am not sure, however, if I am right all of the time.

There are several movies that do a poor job of passing the girl off as a boy that I have seen lately. It takes a great deal of suspended reality to get me even close to believing these movies. In each of these movies there is the obligatory 'let-me-see-your-junk' skinny dipping scene where she can't toss the laundry with the chums for fear of flashing the fronts. I guess that is what makes great cinema - I just never buy it. Perhaps this is because I was thwarted as a lad with my huge, um, muscles and bulging, um, pecks. No guys I know like their prom dates to sport stubble.

Oh well, the chick in the restaurant remains a mystery - not her gender, but why she would look that way in the first place...