Gato reflects on affect and the company you keep...
hang around happy people, get happy; hang around depressed people, get depressed; hang around goofy people?
April 09, 2009
March 29, 2009
Forget Prozac and psychotherapy...what you really need is apple pie!
You can drug, you can theapeut, you can worry, you can meditate...but when push comes to shove, the best thing you can do is make an apple pie with someone you love...ha...right!
As the recession eases into depression...what are you thinking?
So too are the people getting depressed. What do or did we expect? Something external to provide the stimulus to make things better again?
Go out into the streets and strike up a conversation with anyone that will speak with you. It sounds like a broken record -- "I'm disappointed, stressed and depressed." What do we expect?
Don't let the external stimuli get you down...take a cue from the Buddhist's "gatekeeper" philosophy: you can't control the external but you can control what you let in from the external. Good advice in trying times...
March 11, 2009
Brain patterns in Internet users...
In development, you know, we have good evidence that things do wire differently depending upon environmental influences, and definitely there's evidence now against the old theory that adult's brains don't change, but definitely after brain injury there's been evidence of re-wiring or re-mapping brain regions to overcome deficits. We don't know what's happening here. This is a very preliminary study, but one interpretation could be that there was a re-wiring, as people practice on the internet that these areas become more active. But all we can really say is that the pattern of activity is different. --Teena Moody
February 10, 2009
Why experiences are more rewarding than possessions...
"The initial joy of acquiring a new object, such as a new car, fades over time as people become accustomed to seeing it every day, experts said. Experiences, on the other hand, continue to provide happiness through memories long after the event occurred." Elizabeth Landau
February 07, 2009
Doris Lessing's Comment on Thinking
Think wrongly,if you please, but in all cases think for yourself. --Doris Lessing
January 28, 2009
video clips, zip/nada, self inflicted inappropriate depression, collective depression, happyfolk, Bay Area Doom and Gloom, anarchist alternative and more notes for client...
on the 5th I can start with some simple steps to get you going...simple stuff, don't worry. as for the video, don't worry...I'll shoot a bunch of them and just take some short clips so if you flub it'll be fine...the best of the best...ha...and it's not like it's Hollywood...ha...these simple little videos are more powerful than my articles as to getting on the search engines...google "Jack D. Deal" or "Deal Business Consulting" in quotes to see what I mean...pix worth thousands of words...ha...
as for a,b,c and d and what matters remember we all leave as we came...with zip/nada. have a sign by my desk that says "Do not take life too seriously; you will never get out of it alive." Good common sense. There is depression and angst all around but most of it is self inflicted and groundless...inappropriate as the shrinks call it.
Somewhere I saw where 90% of our worrying we can't do anything about...so that's 90% wasted energy...all we have is our story so we best not waste energy in not making the story happen...if you get too down, do a walkabout for an hour or two to recenter...as the Santa Cruzies say...ha...line up those chakras,no? ha...it makes us happier and more creative and productive and that's good,no?
and try now and then to mingle with happyfolk...not easy in the land of Bay Area Doom and Gloom or that collective depression. What me worry? be happy...
...if the weather is warm we can go to ubrosa cafe...an uplifting, humorous anarchist alternative community coffee shop...if snowing maybe the Saturn Cafe? those anarchist youngsters always lift my spirits...ha...
Looking forward to chatting...
September 05, 2008
Forward Choices and Backward Choices and is Harry Reid Really Senile?
 | jackddeal Burton must have felt the country is just like us in Santa Cruz...has he ever been to Ohio? groan... |   |
| | jackddeal somehow the argument that Sarah is George Bush is sounding hollow... | |
| | jackddeal Rudy Guliani said McCain made a choice forward with Sarah and Obama a step backward with Joe... | |
| | jackddeal Hillary would have neutralized this mess but where is Hillary, Chairman Burton? | |
| | jackddeal Demo after Demo saying 'it's just her first speech'...duh...she hit a home run and then a grand slam...can Joe do that? groan... | |
| | jackddeal Chris Matthews of MSNBC said Sarah can give a better speech than anyone in Congress...but we have Good Ole Boy Joe on our side...groan... | |
| | jackddeal even CNN blasting Harry Reid's 'shrill' remark; Harry's getting senile and gets confused easily...time to head out to the lower 40 Harry... | |
| | jackddeal now they are charging we Demos are sexist because we don't criticize Joe for having a family but we are criticizing Sarah...groan...stupid.. | |
| | jackddeal Gallup states 12% of Hillary's supporters are voting for McCain and that might jump after Sarah's speech tonite...eh, Chairman Burton? | |
| | let's fire Harry Reid too for making stupid comments like Sarah's speech was 'shrill'; a sexist term used for women only...stupid... | |
| | hattrick for hockey mom Sarah...whassup Chairman Billy Burton? sitting around scratching your head on how to attack a girl? groan... |
Why Kings Shouldn't Fight with Princes and What Happens When One Simply Cannot do the Job?
| jackddeal even the CNN online survey is showing Sarah was a hit...whassup Joe? is that the best you can do? maybe you should call Hillary...groan... | | |
| | jackddeal can't fire Burton? hmmmm...it might be perceived as Obama can't run a campaign and this week he stated his campaign was his experience | |
| | jackddeal and remember that picking on girls is a no-no in Redneck country...groan...how will this look? | |
| | jackddeal Obama simply cannot be required to do all the heavy mental work or he will get more worn out than he already is...groan... | |
| | jackddeal If Obama has to go in to work on this mess, what is Joe doing? looking at the hotties? still trying to figure out what hit him? | |
| | jackddeal by stooping to attack Sarah, Obama is confirming our suspicions that Joe Biden is not up to the job...groan...why? groan twice... | |
| | jackddeal What happened to the Obama that was 'above politics as usual?' And just how will it play in Ohio and Pennsylvania? what is Burton thinking? | |
| | jackddeal by attacking Sarah more, even Obama himself will fall prey to the Repubs strategy...where are our advisors? | |
| | jackddeal obviously somebody is scared stiff to require our Presidential candidate to respond to a VP candidate...what's wrong with this scenario? | |
| | jackddeal so now we hear Obama is going to counter Sarah with his own ad...great strategy guys...why not let Sarah write it too? who's in charge? | |
| | jackddeal it's not that the strategy was so great because the Repubs never could have imagined our total cooperation...groan...or could they? |
January 15, 2008
Is Total Abstinence a Sure Indicator that Somebody Fell Way Off the Addictions Cliff?
You know the type...they can't have a sip of wine or even be around someone smoking a cigarette. They know that if they have that first sip or puff they are right back in the same box they had such a hard time getting out of. And they keep reminding you of the fact.
Maybe it's 'Hi, my name is Fred and I'm an alcoholic.' Alcoholics are the worst as it is the most insidious addiction, barring the nicotine frenzy. Fred then begins to tell you all his tales of woe and how he ended up face down in the street, lost his family by beating his kids and after seven stints in rehab finally found Jesus. And shouldn't we all join hands in a circle and rejoice with the New Fred?
Actually no. Fred is sending off warning signs that he is not so much an alcoholic or recovering alcoholic as he is a dysfunctional human being. And Fred can go on for hours telling you all about the gruesome details of his fragile recovery and its importance to spread the word because that's what he has learned in his therapy and rehab. He was told that if he repeated anything long enough, he would begin to believe it were true. And Fred truly believes he cannot cross that line ever again. Ever.
The liquor industry says it's not their fault because they say in their ads to 'enjoy our inebriating products in moderation if you have self control'. Note how they still will sell to Fred even if he's not in control. Fred is their gross margin. All alcoholics drink responsibly, no?
If rummies are bad, cigarette smokers are worse. Cigarettes are a strange drug in that they only create dependence. One doesn't get high or a buzz by smoking coffin nails; just an addiction that is considered by many experts the hardest to break. Certainly makes sense no? Why not smoke something that blackens teeth, stinks, poisons the air through second hand smoke and lays a death pall everywhere it's lit? Oh, and it is a leading cause of cancer...says so right on the package, right under the heading "For Losers and Stupids Only".
Druggies are another fun bunch. Their argument is at least the high is worth it. Asked why they do drugs they will quickly say to get loaded, stoned, high, zonked, blitzed, blottoed, binged, blipped and wrecked. It all starts out in good, clean fun when one of their pals or girlfriends says 'hey, try a little bit of this fairy dust and it'll take the edge off your rotten, collectively depressed life'. Right. After all, what are good friends for?
They snort heroin and revel in the fact no one at work knows. Or pop the painkillers thinking their glassy eyes are not really that obvious anyway. Or slip crank into their morning coffee to start the motor running,you know, 'get your motor running, head out on the highway to work...'
The coke users think their red and dripping noses will be perceived as allergies or a lingering cold. They think that because they appear nervous and are sweating that all will think it's job related stress related and let it go. They also insist they are 'recreational users' even though they spend more with their dealer than they do on food, housing or their children.
The potheads are actually funny in that they think no one will notice because they are just naturally upbeat anyway. A few eye drops will wash out the bloodshot eyes and some high powered perfume will cover up the smell. They forget that it's hard to cover up a skunk's odor no matter with what...it just seems to radiate out more.
It's not that these folks don't have serious problems because many do. They can't have a glass of wine or cigar after dinner. It's all or nothing and they are well trained by their counselors and therapists. Which is OK and understandable; as compassionate human beings, we should be sensitive to the needs of others.
But real recovering rummies, smokers and druggies should think a minute before going out and interacting with families, friends and the public at large. Maybe if they could put their addictions aside for five minutes they might actually find out they have real interests that might help them relate and rehabilitate.
If they would find something of interest besides themselves and their addictions; others wouldn't shun them or find them so incredibly boring. How do you react when the first thing someone tells you is they 'are recovering'?
The easiest solution is to develop a free and inquiring mind that shifts the focus to the outside. As the saying goes, 'the world is so full of such wondrous things, I'm sure we should all be happy as kings.' Maybe it's not 'all about me' and especially me and my addictions.
Because if one can find their true interests and pursue them, maybe they wouldn't feel the need to get ripped and wrecked on a continual basis. And maybe start to find a bit of joy with an unclouded and open mind even if it's not totally free and inquiring.
And perhaps in the process not find their sole joy in life from a needle, smoke, bottle or pill.
December 24, 2007
Streets and People Sense: What It Takes to Cross the Street and Get Along with Others
I didn't personally know any of these three people. I did speak on occasion to two of them but it was never any sort of conversation; simply a statement in passing. One of them I never spoke to. Yet each in his own way taught me something that I did not know...and for that, I am grateful.
Supposedly Oscar was a college student before something snapped. Several people said his parents were rich and he could afford to buy whatever he needed. Oscar used to push his train up and down Mission Street. One day I was walking out of the bakery and I offered him a pastry but he said he preferred his beer.
I suppose there is some psychiatric term for Oscar's condition but I'm not sure what it is. He is certainly not unique as many communities have 'residents' that push carts and collect paper, especially plastic. Oscar would pick up trash and objects along the street and save them. He somehow got wagons and formed a 'train'; I saw him with up to three different wagons he was pulling. He always had a big smile.
Oscar used to pull his train over at night and sleep in the center divide on Bay Street going up to the University. I would always marvel at how he could pull such a weight up a hill. Oscar was a big man. It must have taken him hours to get back to his campsite but I guess time is relative and Oscar lived on his own time. And except for his wagons, time was all he needed.
One day returning from San Francisco down Highway 1 we saw him just below Half Moon Bay...some forty plus miles outside of town. How did he get there and what was he doing? Who knows...I'm not sure if he knows. I haven't seen him on Mission Street for over a year...maybe he snapped back into our everyday reality and is working in a bank. Wonder what his apartment looks like...
The next young man I never met. I only saw him from the curb as I was waiting at a traffic light. I think this was the time they were trying to figure out just how severely disabled residents could be at the halfway house near my office.
I had just missed the light and stopped for the red. This young man was among a group of obviously challenged adults that was waiting to cross the street. He could tell the light had changed and he stepped anxiously onto the street and then back up on the curb. In the minute I was stopped he did it probably ten times. His counselor or aide was letting him try. He kept smiling and shaking his head as he would back up to the curb.
He never made it across on his own. At least on that try. I assume he finally crossed the street with the help of his counselor but it appeared he could not do it on his own. He wanted to...and I could see it in his eyes. His smile was one of frustration and I could see the look of anguish as he regrouped psychologically and made another attempt. I wonder if his whole life was spent trying to regroup.
He caused me to wonder. I wondered how I would feel if he were my son. I wondered what set of skills and aptitudes are required to walk down the street; something most of us do without giving it any thought. My conclusion is that something simple like crossing the street is really an incredible array of mental processes. Some of us don't have it and probably most of us that do certainly take it for granted.
The third person was known around town simply as Granma. She stayed at the halfway house on the next block and I would see her walk by my office window many times a day. I guess she had a set path she walked as I only saw her going in one direction.
I spoke to her twice on the street and then no more. She was probably in her early sixties and walked briskly. She always had a frown and never did I see her smile. When spoken to she would raise her voice and curse like a sailor. It was somewhat surprising to see this grandmotherly looking woman cursing at everything and everyone that came across her path.
We locals knew her and didn't think much about her after a while. She never did anything but walk and curse. From my office window I could see the crosswalk she used as she made her rounds. She would just walk right out into the street which is not very safe where I live because there are a lot of folks whose focus is not on the street when they drive. At any rate she would walk out into the crosswalk and suddenly stop and let out an invective at some poor tourist who had stopped and was left wondering what the heck he did to tick her off. We used to laugh because it was funny.
So what is my point here? I'm not sure, even though I've thought a lot about it. I still think of the young man going from the curb to the street and back again; not being able to pull all his faculties together to cross. I think of Oscar and wonder if he'll ever come back or is he pulling his train across the country.
And I think of the Granma that can't have a conversation without cursing vehemently at whoever speaks to her. Can't have many friends that way...what a living hell, no?
I'm reminded of the saying 'and there but for the grace of God, go I'. Well, I'm not sure if it's God's grace or what but there is probably only a thin line between me and the three characters in my story. And as I get older I could at obviously end up at some point in my life like any of these three.
Actually come to think of it, you could too. It's actually a thin line for all of us...
December 22, 2007
How Excessive Greed Can Bleed Your Business and Ruin Your Life
The Buddhists believe that greed is the primary obstacle to enlightenment. I've come to the conclusion there is a greed gene. There simply can be no other explanation. Greed is the evolutionary consequence of the 'hoarding instinct'; a dynamic in the social evolution of greedy humans. In the very old days those that hoarded for the winter did not starve as readily as those that did not. This hoarding instinct is a species trait even though most of us don't face daily starvation.
My friend Jerry was smart and very ambitious. I had known him through work at another company and Jerry asked me if I could take a look at his start up venture. A quick assessment showed that the business model was OK but as usual the devil is in the details of execution. And all the finer points that go with it.
After our initial meeting Jerry pointed to his array of cubicles and said this was his future fortune. He wanted to build a 12 story 20,000 square foot house with the middle stories used as a showroom for all his vintage cars; sort of a Jay Leno copycat.
To launch this, he was using his own start up money and was pursuing venture capital. This is a common strategy but Jerry thought his model was so good he could do an end run and not abide by all the usual and customary venture capital rules. What intrigued Jerry the most was he could raise and use someone else's capital to drive his own company. Or at least that was how Jerry saw it.
Jerry showed me his proposal through a venture capital broker and it turned out the guy really wasn't a broker per se. He was a scam artist and a lot like greedy Jerry. Jerry got his initial investors to pony up more cash to funnel to the broker who kept stringing Jerry along.
'Funding and riches are right around the corner' the broker would always say. Right. Greedy Jerry wanted to believe it so much that he ended up convincing himself. But it didn't happen.
At some point the smoke screen finally blew away and the ugly truth was seen in the raw. Jerry had exploited his employees and cut costs wherever he could so he could stretch the cash flow out until the injection of the first round venture capital funding his broker promised would soon be in the bank. It never came.
Three months after I had seen Jerry he called to tell me the gig was up. He had lost everything and was going through a painful bankruptcy. He didn't say if his cutesy wife was part of that too and I didn't ask.
Patricia was a hardworking business woman that had built a successful company with her ex-husband whom I had gotten to know while working on a start up project. As part of the divorce settlement, she got one of the companies. Patricia asked me to look at her books and do some projections for a rapid expansion into six southwestern states.
At first I thought it might be her resentment of her ex's new flame; a 'hottie' in today's vernacular. But later I determined that Patricia's problem wasn't so much emotional baggage from a failed marriage but a matter of her own uncontrolled greed. This greed obviously had contributed to the break up of her marriage.
Patricia is one of those people that feel they never actually get what they truly deserve. They are always coming up on the short end of the stick. Justice was needed and business was the great equalizer. And the fastest way to get something was to take it. And for Patricia, the easiest and fastest place to take it from was her own company.
As I got to working on the growth strategy I came to realize that growth would be impossible. There were big problems in the Riverside and San Diego offices and the regional manager in Sacramento just walked off the job one night. All fingers were pointing to Patricia.
When I brought this to her attention she asked me to sit down and she started going over all the ways her ex screwed her over and how she had to make the necessary adjustments. Some of this involved a remake of her and the company's image and that is why she bought the Lexus instead of paying the payroll taxes.
She then admitted she was a bit overdrawn and had gone through the entire credit line. Would I please help her and go to San Diego and Sacramento and talk to the creditors? She had no money but would give me a nice share of the company in due time. Maybe two percent over a ten year period. Two percent of what? I respectfully declined.
I lost track of Patricia. Jerry called me several months later and wanted to sell me some sort of MLM utility bill plan. What is odd is that both Patricia and Jerry were very bright and had a lot of skills and capabilities. They had a vision and the drive.
But like the tight fisted stock they carried down with the ship, their dreams sputtered before having a chance to develop. Their greed doomed them from the start. From miscalculating employee loyalty to over optimistic projections it was one white lie after another as they continually convinced themselves all was well. In retrospect it wasn't any one of the little lies that did them in; it was the accumulation.
A lesson for us all in there somewhere, no?
December 16, 2007
What do You, Me and Mr. Paul K. Miller have in Common?
You might know Paul. I do not. But through fate I came to know some things about him; enough to have some questions. But interestingly I found out that Mr. Miller and you and I have something very much in common. But first a bit of background on Paul.
Paul grew up on a farm. He had an older brother and a younger sister. His father was a generic farmer doing a bit of this and a bit of that. He had some cows and several horses. And a big tractor. Paul knew about the farm and how to work it. He grew up on one.
Mama came from a German family and was tough as nails. But had a laugh that would not quit. Not the one to shy away, she would mount her horse in her dress. Like most German mothers she grew in girth as she aged. She managed to work all day on her farm and eat lots of her very delicious country cooking.
Paul's favorite aunt was Sallie. Sallie most likely was born around 1890 and dressed it. She had the clearest of German eyes and a face showing a heart of gold.
Ma and pa prospered and eventually bought a brick house in town; probably sold the farm to a subdivision. Paul's dad traded in his horse for a bicycle and when Old Spot died they bought a French poodle. The family grew but older brother and younger sister mysteriously faded from Paul's life.
Paul was a piano player and moved to the big city. San Francisco? One can only imagine what it must have been like. Country Mouse going to the Big City. Paul was young and Paul was handsome and Paul could play that piano. Paul was not going back to any farm.
And Paul was charismatic. Customers loved his charm and funny hats that he wore with his tuxedo. And he was good looking. He had a series of promo portraits taken; some were composites of his portrait with his hands on the piano keys.
Paul loved to party but it was unclear if he liked the ladies. Therein lies part of his mystique. On scattered photos we searched for rings but it was unclear; Paul wore a ring on his wedding finger but it did not appear to be a common type of male wedding ring.
Paul became better known and was invited to play at swankier clubs and parties. Always a fun guy, Paul started to drink and was such fun when tipsy. He could play and drink all night. The party hosts loved him.
Financially times were good. There was the retreat house in the mountains...sort of a Mediterranean villa in the hills. A small river ran nearby and Paul loved to come and spend time relaxing and drinking. Hard to tell just how much a problem for him drinking was...he probably didn't admit to much.
As the years went buy he became more famous and took some updated promotional shots. The years were not so kind but then again Paul stayed up most nights working and drinking so what could one expect?
And then, it's as if time stopped. It abruptly ended right then and there. All that was left was the picture of a burnt piano in what looks like to be a burned out nightclub. Was Paul burned to death? Did he die at his piano? Where did his brother and sister go?
It most likely appears that Paul is now dead. I can't be sure and a Google of his name turned up nothing of significance other than there are lots of Paul Millers in the world. Perhaps I will never know if he died a natural death or burned up in a nightclub tragedy.
The man I bought the photo album from didn't know either. He said it was odd, especially the picture of the burnt piano. Five bucks. For five bucks I'll take a chance and see what I could find out. But it came to a dead end.
I doubt Paul would have ever imagined his faded blue photograph album would be bought by a total stranger at a swap meet for five bucks. Therein lies the connection between you, me and him.
One day you and I will die...or at least you will, ha. And when we do, what will become of our stuff? Will our descendents treasure the pictures from their ancestors or see them as junk? Will they take your pictures and your stuff down to the local swap meet and sell them to total strangers like many people do?
Probably so, is my conclusion. There's no guarantee what kind of progeny you will have if in fact you do have children. If you don't have kids, rest assured your stuff will end up at the flea market and thrift store.
So you might want to make some simple plans and simplify your stuff in advance. If you go suddenly odds are your surviving relatives will divvy up what they want and Goodwill what they don't.
And somebody like me will be going through your pictures trying to connect the dots...
December 12, 2007
Can Nations, States, Regions even Locales Develop Their Own Personality?
'Don't you ever say anything like that ever again,' the woman fumed, 'that's racist and we just don't appreciate such statements in front of this Board'. The Board, by the way, was a Community Development Corporation in a depressed Latino community. It could have been in any one of hundreds of similar communities in the U.S.
I had been addressing the Board laying out the problems that monolingual Spanish speaking immigrants have when setting up a business in the U.S. I had given a rather detailed analysis of agrarian Mexico, upward mobility and why business success was as much a personal and cultural perspective as finances, marketing and sales. I was somewhat knowledgeable being bilingual/bicultural and had just finished doing research on a farmworker project in Salinas, California.
I had made the statement that folks from the great Mexican state of Michoacan were more reserved, proud and self conscious than those of us from Veracruz. In my view this was certainly not a put down but something many Mexicans know. It's the same as asking where the best food is in Mexico...Veracruz of course.
I mentioned that we in Veracruz are known for singing, dancing, partying, drinking, eating, loving, laughing and in general having a good time regardless. We really don't care if someone laughs at us because we are laughing too.
I had actually done research with farmworkers from Michoacan showing that they felt self conscious and did not sign up for English as a Second Language (ESL) course or remedial courses in Adult Ed. I was able to demonstrate that if a group of these farmworkers went as a group and applied at Adult Ed for a course, their sense of self consciousness would relax enough for them to enter. Once they entered, all was fine. But like many things in life, the first steps are the hardest ones. Farmworkers from other Mexican states did not seem to have this problem.
The fact that all these farmworkers were from Michoacan was missed by this well meaning Latina business woman. What she heard was I was racially and ethnically stereotyping a group of people and that was a no-no since she had just attended a series of minority workshops and was told everybody and everything on the planet is equal. The same.
Thank goodness it isn't. Part of the reason I enjoy going to my jungle ranch in Quintana Roo is my Maya pals aren't depressed. Even though I am clearly a foreigner we can talk and carry on as if there were no differences between us. They may be poor but they are not collectively depressed. If they have money they buy chicken and if they don't they hunt. Simple. The fact is my friend Poot is a jungle man and about as far away culturally from California as he can be, yet we are pals. But to some if I make the statement we are different then that is construed as being racist.
Note that I did not say one or the other was better. In the jungle Poot can constantly point out things I can't see. He is in his element. But go with him to town and he quiets down and looks a bit nervous. I'm not sure how he would react in Mountain View or Cupertino but one thing is for sure he would be as lost as me in the jungle.
So what is a stereotype? If I meet 100 people from Michoacan, and 90 have a certain detectable character trait, is that stereotyping? If it were just me, I might wonder. But many other Mexicans say the very same things about Veracruzanos and Michoacanos. Are we all wrong? Or is perception reality...
In Northern California, especially the Bay Area, we are famous for being doom and gloomers. The sky is falling, Cheney sold us out, and tomorrow we all die from nasty toxins. The collective depression is clear and evident, even to those of us that live in it.
On a recent trip to San Diego my surfing, dirt biking son had an interesting comment. I asked him what differences he saw in Southern vs. Northern California. 'Dad', he replied immediately, 'the folks down south are so happy. They are so busy doing things...everyone is smiling and no one talked about how lousy the world is.'
See? Is it just me? You could say like father like son but is it just us? If everyone sees it and acknowledges it is it still a stereotype or simply the truth?
Maybe I'm all wet. But when I can speak with someone and tell by their demeanor or outward behavior where they are from...well, that's not stereotyping, it's good people skills. I've spent a lifetime working on those skills and don't need a narrow minded board member to tell me I'm racist how can I be racist with friends like Poot?
In the collective thinking world there are no differences...yet where we come from may in fact largely determine how we think, feel and act. It's called culture and perception.
And that, amigos, is no stereotype...
November 07, 2007
2.3 Million Reasons Why Mediocre Isn't Good Enough in Business (or Life) Anymore
- Mediocre takes the same amount of time in the long run
- No one sets mediocrity as a business goal (that's what jobs are for.)
- Less money
- More cash flow problems
- Less working capital
- More credit problems
- More morale problems
- Less pride
- Less honor
- Less interesting
- Fewer opportunities
- More missed opportunities
- More stress
- More stress related health problems
- More stress related relationship problems
- More mental problems
- Less Self-esteem
- Fewer Assets created
- More difficulty reaching personal goals (if at all)
- Less fun
- Less gross margin
- Less profit
- Less personally rewarding, satisfying, fulfilling
- Less cash
- Less vacation
- Less status
- Less free time
- More embarrassing
- More boring
- More problems
- Less total compensation
- Fewer bonuses
- Fewer benefits
- Less economic impact
- More employee problems
- Fewer good employees
- More theft
- More excuses
- Longer hours
- More rejects, returns and comebacks
- Reduced quality
- More personal financial problems
- Less personal development
- Less career development
- Less skills development
- More arrested development
- More depression
- Less attractive
- More layoffs
- More reprimands and write ups
- Less creativity and innovation
- More firings
- Less production
- Less productivity
- More alcohol and drugs
- More griping, complaining and whining
- More aggravated assaults
- More company related graffiti in the restrooms
- More hostile takeovers
- More employee turnover
- More management turnover
- More absenteeism
- More labor board cases
- Fewer company parties and picnics
- More suicides
- More business financing problems
- More losses
- No exit strategy (What is there to exit?)
- [2.29999 Million More Reasons Next Issue!]
October 17, 2007
How Loneliness, Faulty Logic and Convenience Destroyed Three Super Brains
Franklin was a lonely guy. He was reasonably handsome, very intelligent and witty. But lonely. He had a string of pedigree degrees and a never ending resume. People liked him and he was especially charming in a group. He had what many would call charisma. But lonely.
Poor Franklin had gone through a spirit crushing divorce that left him bruised and battered. The worst of it was she left him for another man. His ego was in a black hole and he felt the only way he could get back out was to find another woman. Some men really need women and Franklin was one of those men. He desperately needed a woman. Desperately.
Finally he had lunch with a colleague who tells Franklin he's just going about it all wrong. Odd that there always seems to be an overabundance of colleagues available to point out your faults.
Franklin abruptly sees the light. Franklin's friend tells him he shouldn't be thinking about American women as they are all jaded and hate men and are always starting arguments and are always keeping some silly scorecard. Franklin thought that sounded a lot like his ex.
Franklin's sure cure was to get a foreign woman that would do what he said, be loyal and end his agonizing loneliness. A good Latina, Indian or maybe Oriental woman would do nicely. How could Franklin lose? Besides, most men knew that Oriental and Latina women age very well.
Way over on the other side of the world a very pretty Maria de Jesus was waiting for our man Franklin. Well, maybe not exactly for Franklin but someone like Franklin. Actually, the truth was she was waiting for anyone like Franklin.
So when the Get Close Internet Dating Service called her she had already paid her fees and was ready to go. She had been packed for months. 10 days later Franklin shows up and it was love and desperation at first sight. Franklin was overwhelmed.
Maria de Jesus immediately agreed to follow him back to his lonely California. He was readily accepted into the family and Franklin was surprised at how quickly her parents approved of him and thought maybe it was his natural charm. Right.
Franklin's second biggest surprise came later when his new love invited him on a date to Bellagio in Las Vegas. The surprise came when she told him to dress up and they went to a wedding chapel and were married. What could Franklin say? It must be love, no? I do. I do. I sure the heck hope I do?
One week later Maria de Jesus began proceedings to bring her extended family to California one by one. That was nine relatives ago. Now she is on first name basis with everyone at the Consulate. And poor Franklin wishes he was lonely again.
I wonder what would have happened if Franklin had met Melinda.
I often think Melinda's goofiness came from hanging around too many of the criminally insane types she counseled; the 'I was bored so I killed ma and pa' types. Or the types 'She wouldn't shut up so I just duct taped her up real good.' All Melinda's patients were handcuffed for very good reasons.
In her early forties Melinda developed a 'lazy eye'; a condition where one eye isn't up to strength with the other. Melinda looked sort of goofy anyway so the lazy eye made her look even more so. The lazy eye had even started to droop a bit and she was beginning to look like some of her hard core patients.
The prescribed treatment was to wear an eye patch over the good eye so the lazy eye would get used more and consequently become stronger.
Melinda was astounded by the results. For months she went on and on about what a miracle this eye patch treatment was and how her lazy eye was so much stronger now.
In fact, Melinda felt so much better she decided to try the new therapy on the other eye. Made sense. Her reasoning was that since it had helped one of her eyes so much most likely it could help the other. In the end each eye would openly compete one on one to see which could get stronger.
So now goofy Melinda alternates the eye patch and still swears that she can see like an eagle even though with only one eye. After all, why waste good energy using both eyes at once? I thought she might get along with my brainy friend Gerald, but then with Gerald time just ran out.
Gerald and I were in language training together and became friends. He was an intellectual sort of guy with a vast knowledge of history, art, literature and fine foods. He was smart and worldly and I felt in many ways a lot smarter than me.
After finishing training I transferred to California and Gerald remained in Dallas. We spoke by phone every now and then and I was surprised when he called to say he had gotten married. He and his new wife would be in San Francisco over New Years and could we please join them?
We did and met the new lovebirds at an upscale dim sum restaurant in Chinatown. They were already seated and I nearly fell over when I saw them. Gerald was fifty pounds heavier with a double chin and he was seated next to a woman 30 or 40 years older than him. In fact, later I found out she had children older than Gerald. I was stunned.
On a loo break I ask Gerald 'what's up, man?'
"Aw, she's a great cook", he said patting his belly, "but best of all she has a condo off Westwood. That's only ten minutes from the office. I don't see the fact that she is 36 years older than me as an issue. Age doesn't matter. Her kids all like me and I use a lot less gas now." Good old Gerald always was a committed environmentalist.
Like my old pal Pat O'Leary used to say, 'Are we stupid or what?' Even though Pat was right it remains a rhetorically inane question.
Simply because everybody already knows stupid is us...
September 25, 2007
If We Can Think It, Do We Also Experience It?
I was eating in the dining hall and seated across from me was a pale, wiry guy eating his food methodically and with great precision. He looked like an eating machine.
'How's it going?' I asked.
'Fine', came his reply, 'except I almost missed dinner. That happened last week and I had to go out to Elsie's to get dinner. I can get distracted in the stacks and lose all concept of time.'
Stacks meaning library stacks and Widener being one of the world's largest libraries. He finished his meal and neatly crossed his knife and fork even though we were supposed to bus our own table. Even the blue bloods.
'I am a researcher and I spend all my time in the stacks. I go there when they open at 8:00 in the morning and when they close at midnight. The only time I'm not there is when I eat or go back to my apartment to sleep. And when they close for Christmas. I assume you are a student?'
'Freshman with the pretty usual stuff. Classes and study and parties on the weekend. Don't you go to any parties?'
'What for?' he laughed, 'I'm privy to all sorts of fascinating stories and histories and why go to a boring party?'
'Girls,' I laughed, 'that's the best reason I know.'
'And while you are out carousing or whatever you call it, I'll be buried in some ancient text that is spelling out the secrets of the universe. I don't really go out…'
'But don't you miss out…you know, with all the politics and activities and girls?'
'I get to look at a continuum throughout history and that is something your silly frat parties don't do for me. I get to see the best and worst and most interesting of human action and thought…what would I gain at a frat party?'
Obviously not a date, I thought.
The guy excused himself, stood up and left.
I sat there for a minute trying to collect my thoughts and concluded that cat had some crossed wires. Life was for living and it was not possible to live in a library. It was a great big world out there and one simply could not experience it vicariously through the writings of others.
It had to be hands on. There was no other way but to go out into the world and directly experience it. Besides, all the Beats said so, no? For many years that argument made sense.
And that's how I left it; the creepy researcher living out his life in dusty stacks of old books and papers when all around the world was teeming with life and excitement making stacks of paper look so very dreary.
I went my way and I'm sure he went his. I traveled the world and he most likely dug deeper into the stacks.
The years passed and I stopped going to frat parties and political demonstrations. Even girls became impractical when I picked up a wife. Whenever I would read about a frat party or demonstration my brain would automatically fire out the warning 'Been there, done that!' Besides, even if I wanted to go my wife wouldn't let me.
I've come to realize that people can have powerful experiences even though these experiences aren't what are typically known as hands on big-time adventure. Back in my traveling days I thought adventure meant exotic faces in exotic places. It still is but now I know it's more than that…
On the other hand, I've also come to the conclusion that some folks can delude themselves so well that their delusions become real. Reality is what you think it is. Or something like that.
And as the years went by my thinking that the researcher's reality was flawed began to be less certain.
Since then I've come full spectrum and concluded that neither of us was right on that Cambridge night so many years ago. Experience is what sticks in the head and craw and that can be what we think as well. Or read. It can be what we find in the jungles of Maya Mexico or in the archives of Widener Library.
But does it really matter? Can't the human brain adapt to almost any circumstance and condition?
The neuroscientists are now telling us that experience makes up 75-80% of our psyche. In other words, given a full deck of genes, we become what we experience. What they don't say is what kind of experience and if it matters, after all, they are only scientists.
It has to matter. Given that 'experience is us', several questions float immediately to the surface.
Can we program experience? What constitutes a good or development enhancing experience? If we have junk experiences do we become junk? Can I trade in some of my junk experience for some quality experience? Where do I hang my materialism and most importantly, what do I do with all my stuff?
And so on. For his sake I hope my dining room amigo got out into the world more and felt the great rush of energy and excitement that is to be found everywhere. For my sake I should probably find a good library and bury myself in research for a couple of years. My wife would approve as long as there are no dancing girls. It all seems to tend to a state of equilibrium. Ying and yang and what not…do the years even things out?
In the end I now realize we were both a lot more alike than different. Sadly, it took me a lifetime of experience to find that out, though better late than never.
I doubt neither of us would have traded places but that's OK too. To each his own and his own experience, and we should always be thankful when we are fortunate enough to gain a little insight into the psyche of others.
And we don’t' have to go to exotic places.
August 19, 2007
Suicide Bomber Letter from Battle at Okinawa May 4, 1945
Blogmaster Note:
(Suicide bombers were prevalent in World War II although in much different form than in today's Mid East. The following is an exact transcript of a letter written from the sea battle off Okinawa from Naval Gunnery Officer Lawrence Warneke to his mother and father in White City, Kansas. I found this in a stack of letters at a flea market including some from Warneke's time after the war as a government official on the South Pacific island of Yap. I paid $3.00 for the letters and did not see the suicide bomber letter until later -- what I saw was Warneke's jungle letter from the Island of Yap and I wanted to compare jungle stories. What is interesting to note is how many hundreds of times this battle scenario and others like it were played out in the Battle of the Pacific. This incident caught my attention because of Warneke's articulateness, accuracy, vantage point and the fact the letter was written during the battle period to his parents. I would especially like to thank Warneke himself and doubt he would ever have imagined his letter would later be posted on Internet for all the world to see. Also see the prior two posts regarding Ungrateful Americans. Jack D. Deal)
Dear Folks: May 4, 1945
We arrived in San Diego on the 30th of April and now are undergoing a short yard period. We will probably leave again on the 14th of this month so once more there isn't enough time to get much leave. We are getting the usual five days. That isn't much but it helps.
Julia was here when we got in and we are now living in Coronado. I am taking the second leave so don't get ashore much this week (every other day.) We have so much to do on the ship -- it makes pretty long days when you only have half of the ship's company aboard.
I received a bunch of the registers (ed.note: newspaper from White City, Kansas) when we got here but haven't been able to read them yet. We had a little action while on this trip and you will probably want to hear about it so I will start from the beginning of the cruise.
We left Pearl Harbor with 65 Marine pilots and planes who were to be land based at Okinawa as soon as an airfield was taken. The ground forces were expected to take a certain field 5 days after they landed at which time we were to be stationed 90 miles from this field so we could send planes in.
We arrived in Ulthia two days before the strike so expected to lay around for five days. The landing forces surprised everyone by taking the field intact the first day so naturally they began yelling for the planes. Here we were three days travel time from there and they needed the planes now. We oiled as soon as we could and left for the area. Just before we got there we received orders not to come in but to reverse our course as the area where we were to launch our planes in was infested with Jap planes. Also, the island was under constant attack.
For a day and a half we stayed clear but finally we received word the area had cleared somewhat. We steamed in to about 60 miles. With us was two destroyers and another carrier. About 1300 we started launching planes. All the time some of us were listening to the play by play account of the battle, just 40 to 60 miles away. For one hour I listened and heard the Navy splash 28 planes.
Several times we went to our battle stations because Radar kept picking up Jap planes which would close in to about 20 miles and then go out again.
At about 1500 we had just five planes left to launch when we went to our battle stations again. Radar had picked up two planes at about 25 miles on our port bow. They were tracked at that range around to the port quarter. One plane went on aft and Radar lost him at 50 miles but the other stayed at about 25 miles. We were about to secure from our stations when we received word he now had closed to 20 miles. Some of the planes we had launched were still flying around so we directed them to investigate. By this time he had closed to 11 miles and we could see it by eye but weren't sure what it was, friend or foe.
At five miles (coming in from the port quarter) we knew it was a Jap because he was heading for us, altitude about 1000 feet speed 420. At about three miles from the ship our own planes winged over and headed for him. We wanted to open fire but hesitated because our own planes were in the line of fire. When he reached two miles from the ship we knew we had to open up or he would get us. Our planes had hit one of his engines and it was smoking but it didn't slow him up any. When we opened up he was on the beam altitude about 80 feet speed about 450. All our guns on the port side put lead right in his nose (we were also clipping our own planes but they soon got out of the line of fire) but he kept coming on in headed for the bridge. At 500 yards we saw his whole forward section catch afire and at one hundred yards he blew up with a terrific explosion. People inside the ship thought we were hit. When the plane exploded cheers went up from the crew as if someone had scored a touchdown in football.
We now have seen a suicide plane and know they are very determined to get what they are after. No one cares to see any more. Several pieces of the wreckage hit the ship but no damage was done.
One hundred yards on land seems like quite a distance but on the sea you just don't get that close to each other -- then to something coming at you in excess of 400 miles per hour covers that distance in the flick of an eyelash.
My station is gunnery control officer on the Bridge so I could see it all. I always thought I would get very nervous but never at any time did I ever think of it. When he blew up I noticed how calm I had been in directing the fire and my hands were not shaking a bit. Everyone around me had no color in their faces, maybe I didn't either -- I don't know.
When the plane was real close I did get behind the shield in gunnery control -- which comes to my shoulder -- and ducked so that only my eyes were exposed, helmet covering my head. The reason was that I expected him to open up with his machine guns. He did but they went wild.
I hope I have made this clear so you can understand it. There are a lot incidents I failed to see as others saw it but as a whole there wasn't much I missed.
Lawrence
August 02, 2007
Modern Angst on the San Jose Burbank Shuttle
I try to fly early as a matter of convenience. If you wait until 8:00 AM the security line at San Jose can back out to the street. And Burbank on a Friday afternoon is a zoo...better get there ahead of time or you'll be stuck in the security line when your plane leaves.
For some reason I have always enjoyed watching America wake up...Dallas, LA, Chicago...a fresh new day as folks start their work. There is something hopeful about a new day that is not there when the day is over. This morning is still fresh and there is still plenty of hope...
We climb out of San Jose and I can see the Monterey Bay: Santa Cruz, Watsonville, Salinas, Monterey. Over the years I have come to know hundreds of people in these towns. Many still live there and many have left. It is a bit sad to think all those people -- some good friends -- that are no longer a part of my life. Being an adventurer has its price; not all is thrills and fond memories and a story. Part of it is having to leave people and places behind -- places and people one becomes very attached to.
I sometimes envy those that grow up in a town and live there all their lives. They may or may not have as much adventure, but they have the experience of long term relationships. And being from a small town does not mean one is necessarily a redneck; some of these people in small towns are the most sophisticated I have met with very advanced people skills. They tend to have very strong relationships and have a perspective that spans decades and lifespans with all the plusses and minuses of being part of a community, a family and knowing oneself and one's place. Yet for all that I would not trade one of my adventures...it's just not me.
I seem to have the good fortune of often sitting next to fashion models. They are always primping and checking their compact mirrors to see if their 'look' is right. After a while being beautiful must get boring. I get bored shaving the same face everyday. It's not that I dislike my face...I actually don't. I'm one of those not pretty/not ugly faces that do not stand out and one cannot recognize. Unlike the fashion model if you see me at a restaurant in San Francisco or on the beach in Tulum, you will see me but most likely not remember me. Like a chameleon, I just blend into the background.
And for that, I am eternally grateful. Not having to constantly primp and be recognized certainly makes for a more interesting life. I get to see all of life's gems; presented for my enjoyment in the unfiltered raw and I don't have to hide or show off. I feel sorry for those that are constantly putting on a show or running from one.
As I look down across coastal California I can see roads, houses and farms. I miss my jungle.
My day's assignment is to chat with the client CEO, pick up a check and work with the San Fernando Valley management team. All stuff I've done before; delegation, accountability, policies, write-ups, managing for productivity and customer service. I feel no stress whatsoever and will be back on the 3:15 to San Jose. What's not to like about this? I just miss my jungle.
My jungle friends think I am loco for even thinking of giving up such a dream job in a dream land. Maybe I am loco. They all say the paisanos are going through extreme measures to cross into the promised land of California...and here I am going the other way. Maybe it's contrarian -- but I don't think so. I need contrasts just as my Savannah Man Chungtzu ancestors needed contrasts. I, like them, are wired that way. If I don't get the contrasts I lose my edge and my neural systems begin to shut down. It's a lousy feeling being somewhere you really don't want to be. Krishnamurti called that fragmentation.
There is no place in the world as beautiful as coastal California. I raised a family here. And California has been good to me...I've developed as a person, businessman and family man. And in my own way developed into a more polished adventurer. There is no place on earth for opportunity like California.
I suppose I could sit back and settle down in my later years and do like everyone else; chit chat about the weather, sports and my kitchen remodel. But somehow I don't care very much about the weather and I've watched enough games for several lifetimes. And I certainly don't care much for cabinets, tile or grout. Maybe I'm under the illusion I'm too young and healthy to go out to pasture. I've seen what it does to folks...makes them goofy and soft in the brain. No edge. They walk around like robots; dyeing their hair the same color, wearing the same clothes, driving the same cars and even saying the same things. Spooky. I'll be ready to hang it up when I begin parroting those around me and the free and inquiring mind is gone. But until then...
One hot jungle morning around 2:00 or 3:00 I felt it in my bones. I knew the jungle was for me. The jungle was enchanting and I was enchanted and that was it. I keep going back and can't stay away...and I don't need a terrarium to see colored frogs. I don't need therapy, religion or a groupthink peer session. I don't need to sit around with a bunch of sensitive frustrated males and beat on drums. I don't need a drunken, lonely divorced forty something to boost my ego.
I've got love and my good sense still somewhat intact...at least for now. I've got a lifetime of experience and knowledge and can make it anywhere under any conditions. In fact, there really isn't much I need besides my wife and my head.
The only other thing I really need right now is my jungle.
July 31, 2007
Injustice and the Perpetual Grievance
Not so long ago it was our habit to pass by a certain small shop on our way to work, and we fell frequently into conversation with the owner of the place. On every such occaision we were regaled with stories of hard luck and of injustice. Our friend was oppressed by an ever-present sense of having been the object of unfair treatment. He was a man with a perpetual grievance. One day we found his door shut and bolted. A card on the door bore the unpleasant word that he had gone into bankruptcy and his premises were closed by creditors. We fancied that this unhappy event bore some relation to his tales of woe. Not that his complaints had actually driven customers away. We doubt that they did. The shopkeeper was not a wholly uninteresting man, else we should not so often have tarried at his store. The grudges he bore may not actively have caused his downfall, but they were evidences of a state of mind which rarely attends successful effort. Every man and woman runs up against injustice and unfairness at times, but the large minded person forgets them in his absorption with his own concerns. If one allows them to rankle, they distract his attention from his work and keep him from concentrating his efforts upon the big jobs he should be tackling. If one succeeds in convincing every hearer that his teachers, his friends, his associates, his competitors, have done badly by him, he has at best won an empty victory. Better far that he forget even legimitate grievances and turn an unfettered mind to constructive tasks. Weekly News Review
from The White City Register, White City, Kansas May 22, 1930
July 30, 2007
Mexico Road Trip: Zen and Chuletas de Puerco
I start imitating the accent of the young Mayan boys we met at Palenque. Angelica is surprised but I’m not. I’ve been in Mexico for almost three months now and my ear is really in tune – ever since we left Veracruz I have been picking up the regional accents with ease. I find accents one of the more interesting aspects of language acquisition and even though I am older – younger middle aged as I like to call it – after several days in an area I can reproduce the local intonations, cadence and accent.
It’s not that I am a great language learner because I certainly don’t consider that to be the case. But I do focus intensely on what is being said and in the conversations that I have. This should give hope to all that have miserable accents no matter what the language. If I can do it I feel certain that anyone can…
We leave Palenque mid-morning and start the climb into the Chiapas highlands. The road is curvy but good. Everything is a shade of green except for the juanacastre trees, some fifty plus meters high that are in a full yellow flower bloom. After an hour of slow driving I pull off the side road to Misol-Ha, an unexpected stop. This is the great thing about not going on a tour or having a planned itinerary; the beauty of this type of travel is one can do what one feels like doing or as we Mexicans say – lo que nos da la gana. We drive through the lush green countryside and can see the fields of green corn.
I park in the parking lot and can tell the French and Germans have already beaten us here today. They are coming by the dozens in tour busses. I actually admire them and don’t mean to belittle them but it’s a natural tendency for us to kid each other…it is natural for us to disagree. They are great travelers and are comfortable in other countries even where the language is different…I have been impressed how many of them speak credible Spanish. And of course English – particularly the Germans. But I have to say their Mayan stinks…ha.
We can hear the water pouring before we see it as we walk down the path to the falls. It is a most impressive site – some 35 meters of waterfall. I, along with the French and Germans, am snapping pictures like crazy. There are a few Mexicans today but no Americans…we are not are very adventuresome country I would guess. We take the walkway under the waterfalls and it is a most beautiful sight. Just as in Palenque, nature wins almost every time when competing for beauty with humans. If art imitates nature then we still have a long way to go…
Misol-Ha was the film set for the Predator, a bad movie I think I watched late one night once in Can Cun. The falls and surrounding area is administered by the Ejido Misol-Ha but I’m not sure if they actually own it or not…as if any person or organization can actually ‘own’ such a place. I won’t get into that Zen argument again…ha!
The Ejido runs the restaurant and cabins and my business developer funny brain quickly estimate the number of jobs created at 40-50. I am a proponent of eco-tourism -- another difference I have with the Zapatistas. The Germans will go anywhere that is attractive and not trashed. And there is a steady stream of German and French tour vans piling in and Angelica remarks that anyone could be successful running this place.
We order chuletas de puerco which comes with the tortillas, black beans and a tomato and lettuce salad. I also have a Corona. Delicious, especially as this is our breakfast and lunch. It would be easy to linger but it’s time to go…
The road climbs steadily and it gets curvier as well. We see some green corn fields planted on some very steep slopes…something I’ve never really figured out why. But corn does grow almost anywhere and I certainly am not a farmer…
I pull off at another sign called Agua Clara or clear water; another eco-park but obviously not as well kept as Misol-Ha. And very different as well. We park in the lot and 20 kids surround the car and start sticking their hands in the windows. Some carry trinkets, fruits and other items for sale. Others just beg. I roll the windows up and lock the car. I have not seen such forceful begging since way back in my Africa travels many years ago…I keep thinking this is not Africa.
They follow me down the path and one of the young girls pats my stomach…I’m not sure why other than it is perhaps larger after being filled by the good lunch. The kids are curious and hungry and most appear malnourished. Most live in an ejido across the river…
There are no waterfalls and maybe that is why there are no Germans here. The river is wide and deep and I can see the current is strong in the middle. I tell the kids it must be dangerous to swim in and they reply no…they swim in it every day. But they don’t go out into the middle…a sign warns bathers to not swim while drunk…good advice for this kind of river.
Angelica sits down for a chat with the kids and I take a walk up the river. I see a snake and a large iguana run from me – I’m sure I must look scary. Several Indians pass and turn away right as they approach…they are very shy. I’m not and say ‘buenas tardes’ to all. They reply back…some with a Spanish that is barely understandable. The kids speak broken Spanish with a heavy accent as well. Just as not knowing English is a barrier to upward mobility in the US, not knowing Spanish is a barrier in Mexico.
The river narrows and I can see a walk bridge maybe twenty feet above it and fifty meters long. It is built on thick cables and is an impressive work. There are a steady stream of users and I ask one what is on the other side…he answers a community or ejido. Everything that goes in or out of this community has to be carried across this bridge. I shoot some pictures and Angelica finally joins me. There are a few kids that are still persistently following her. She finally buys some bananas and sugar cane but that doesn’t stop them either – if anything that motivates them even more.
We cross the bridge but do not enter the ejido. The afternoon is wearing on and a number of folks have warned me about driving this particular road after dark. As we get back to the car the voices of the children are louder and more persistent. One little boy keeps asking me over and over for five pesos for a pen so he can write in school. We heard the same story yesterday and will hear it again. That must get the best results as people figure the poor kids cannot go to school without a pen.
As we drive away I feel saddened. Everything has failed these kids and many are forced into begging. Where are their parents, community leaders, government or Zapatistas?
We drive down out of the mountains and into our first Zapatista town. We can tell it is so because there is a large hand painted sign telling us so. We pull over and a young girl asks us for five pesos so she can buy a pen for school. I tell her I will if she will let me take her picture…I want to ask her questions about the Zapatistas but decide she is too young… Subcommandante Marcos is no where to be found either…where is his Revolution? How has his communist doctrines helped this young Indian girl who is begging me for money? How can this girl’s plight in this Zapatista town be blamed on global trade and capitalism? I don't get it.
The girl has a hole in her shirt and Angelica pulls it down for the picture. We give her ten pesos and I feel frustrated and angry…not just at Marcos or the government but with all the lousy factors that have created this girls misery. I can see the malnutrition on her face and yet all my first world wisdom fails me. I have no answers. If Marcos were debating me here he would say I have no solution either and he would be right. The Zapatistas aren’t a solution; they are a symptom. But neither can do anything about it…If it were only this town my logic might work; but there are tens of thousands of those just like her in this region.
Near the summit we see some ropes stretched across the road. As I slow down, six kids come running to the car, sticking their hands in the window and offering to sell fried bananas, pan de helote or cornbread and slices of sugar cane. I try to drive away and they partially block the car; a dangerous situation at best and one that is more than just a little irritating. This happens several more times and each time I just hope I don’t run over someone’s foot…
We drive through more small towns; some of them Zapatista and some not. By nightfall we arrive at Ocosingo and find a hotel.
We take a walk and the town is busy. Thankfully no one asks me for money for school supplies.
Jack D. Deal
July 29, 2007
Mexico Road Trip: Stress, Panic and Fight or Flight
But when I get up in the morning he was still here.
I need to ask you a question, he says.
I haven’t changed my mind about the job, I answer.
No, it’s not that he says, motioning me to sit down across from him at the table, it’s about stress. In the last few months I have not been able to sleep very well. I have spoken to many people about it and have come to the conclusion it is stress…I even feel embarrassed to be here talking to you about it. Do you know how I can get rid of it? When I started out I would give people credit and we would seal the deal with a handshake…but now, even if we have a contract, some don’t pay me and I have to take them to court…I hate that. I lie awake worrying about it…
Mildred brings me a cup of very hot coffee. I’ll tell him what I think taking a sip, at least it wasn’t a question about women.
I once had a client that was a professional scuba diver, I say taking another sip, he would do shipwrecks and all sorts of dangerous dives. I helped him with his business and even though he paid me I learned a lot from him. He told me that sometimes he would sit on the boat before a dive and have a funny feeling and if he got that feeling, he would not dive. He said he thought it was the stress in him starting to build – a feeling generated about the stress of the dive. If there was any doubt, it was better to not go…and he was a professional.
At any rate, I continued, he used to take others diving into caves. Now diving into caves has to be one of the most dangerous things imaginable…if something happens that’s it. Usually they would use a type of chord they would tie at the entrance and unwind the chord as they entered the cave…it was usually pitch black except for their lights. If anything happened, they could just follow the chord back up to the cave entrance.
Sometimes, they would be a narrower passageway and they would stir up the silt. This silt would completely blind them. Even though they had discussed this possibility before, some divers would panic. Panic is an extreme form of fear. What happens literally is that the field of vision narrows until one only sees a small tunnel. And of course the brain starts to fall apart… With the panic some divers would actually try to get out and get confused and go the wrong way…it’s called the fight or flight syndrome by psychologists. The point is it would happen even with expert divers…
Did it happen to him?
Yes, I continued, but he had learned and conditioned himself to accept it and become comfortable with it. He trained himself on how to deal with the fight or flight fear…
So you think scuba diving in caves will help me?
Not a bit, I laugh, it might help relax you but personally I think one has to be a bit crazy to go scuba diving in a cave, no? What’s important to understand is that stress is a part of diving, just as it is a part of business and life. If one scuba dives or is in business or is in fact alive, stress is a part of it. It’s how we react to stress that usually determines the outcome, just as the scuba diver going the wrong way in a cave can really get in trouble…
Mildred brought me another cup of coffee.
I have friends in business that have the same problem, he stated.
There is no cure for it – except death, I laugh, it’s a big problem where I live in California…stress can make people sick. I have read new research that shows attitudes and perceptions are 50% or our health…some deal well with stress and others don’t…
So how can I deal with it? He asks, when I was selling balloons and earrings I didn’t even know such a thing existed. It was just work, work, work….
I think the key is to gain a perspective on it, I continue, when you do that, you can then develop healthier attitudes and then your behaviors can change. You won’t eliminate stress but you can find a way to live with it better. For instance, they say that 90% of what we worry about are things we cannot control…so worrying about them does us no good – we only increase our stress level.
Like worrying about whether or not a credit customer will pay?
Exactly, but after you have given them credit. While you are considering them for credit is when you should worry…after you have made your decision, there is not much you can do, no? You can’t repossess their paint or can you?
You are right, he laughs, I think I need a vacation Others have said I should learn to meditate – it will help me relax. What do you think?
It probably won’t hurt but I think it depends on the individual. I’m very good at meditating but don’t do it because it doesn’t help me that much…I need the edge or stress in my work to keep me sharp. Too much meditation makes me stressful – if I get too relaxed I get worried…something is wrong.
Juan laughs.
Remember it’s how you set up your perspectives and attitudes, I continue, for instance, on those credit customers that don’t pay…it helps to understand that is a cost of doing business. Businesses that give credit are always trying to find that line between profit and growth and bad receivables…that’s where you can do something about it…where you draw that line and what you want the result to be.
It’s too much for me, he replies, that’s why I need your help.
Or someone else’s, I laugh, try to work on what is most important or the top priority. And try to do one thing at once and finish it…it’s like me, if I think of the mountain of work I have waiting for me when I get back to my office, I will become overwhelmed. But if I look at it as a series of tasks I do one at a time, it becomes manageable. In the trade we call it compartmentalization.
So I guess we Mexicans are a lot like you Gringos, no? he laughs.
We are not just alike, I laugh back, we are the same. I can hardly imagine the stress of seeing one’s children go hungry…that would make swimming a river or walking across a desert an easy task. That’s why so many of your paisanos do it…the risk of not going is much greater.
Maybe you could stay a few weeks and help me work on this, he says, I will pay you very well.
I’m sure – but my stress level would go way up, I laugh, and besides, my time is running out.
Why did you come back to Mexico? he asks.
To meet with folks like you so I can explain to my paisanos that we are all the same, I reply, at least that’s what I like to think.
I also think you are also in a battle with yourself, he smiles.
And you are one perceptive paint distributor, I laugh, but it’s also because I love Mexico and the Mexican people so much as well…I’m part Mexican you know.
I know that, he laughs, you think I would have offered you the job otherwise? I may be a stressed businessman but I’m not a foolish one. That offer still stands, you know?
I know, I reply, but my road is calling and I must be going.
Angelica is ready and we say goodbye. Juan grabs my hand with both of his.
You come back anytime, Gringo, this is your house.
Gracias, I reply.
And I have another amigo that will be very glad to see me when I return…
Jack D. Deal
July 26, 2007
Mexico Road Trip: Ingenuity, Poverty and Day of the Kings
A norte blew in last night and cleared out the heat and haze. The day is spectacular and we are preparing for the journey south and the long road back to California. There are other friends in other regions and adventure is calling once again…
I’m sitting at the market in Papantla thinking about all sorts of things and one of them is the Latino diabetic problem. Even though Mexico is rich in fruits and vegetables many Mexicans eat very little of them. And diabetes is a real health problem here as it is with Latinos in the U.S. Maybe it’s because the tacos and tamales and tortas and other foods are so delicious, eating fruits and vegetables is a let down…ha. Just like broccoli and Brussel sprouts are for me back in the U.S…ha!
Instead of bottled water, Mexicans carry soft drinks. Like we Americans, many Mexicans are now overweight except for a few like Timo that work at hard physical labor and eat fish and some vegetables and almost no sugar or canned goods. That has to be a key…
Most restaurant menus are a la carte and many do not have such items as salads or fruit cups. A salad with a meal is often no more than a few slices of onion and a slice of tomato. Usually there is no salad dressing and maybe there is a slice of lemon…a Mexican salad is more of a garnish than a salad.
Avocado is popular but not on the menu when not in season. Guacamole is popular but usually expensive as it has to be prepared.
I’ve been surprised at the number of folks that are diabetic but not surprised at their being diabetic with such a diet…and the same holds true for the high incidence of diabetes with Latinos in the U.S. I wonder how many cases of diabetes can be prevented by eating more fish, vegetables and fruits and less carnitas, chips and sodas. I wonder why both countries aren’t doing more to prevent diabetes as it is expensive to treat and diabetic complications are not only life threatening but very expensive as well…go figure where the priorities are…It’s not that the fish, fruits and vegetables are not available, they just aren’t purchased and eaten. What are the politicians and leaders on both sides of the border thinking?
Today is January 6 or Day of the Kings – Dia de los Reyes. This is the traditional day for giving children gifts; the kids put out their shoes at night on January 5 and in the morning find their gifts in their shoes. To a great extent a Jingle Bells Christmas has been imported now and has taken over…but I do see many kids with happy faces as they play with their new toys. Angelica brings me a toy and gives me a hug…here is your gift, kiddie, she laughs.
She knows that I collect toys. I don’t like the plastic stuff preferring the toys that do something or have a certain thing about them that is attractive. Often these are the cheaper toys as well. She gives me a grasshopper made out of palm leaves – it looks very real and as though it were a metal die cast. The antennae are painted yellow and the eyes are some sort of dark bauble…but it’s cool and I like it and marvel at the ingenuity behind it.
One of the first toys I bought in Mexico was a magnetized top. A small metal snake came with it…when one spinned the top and placed the metal snake at the base, the snake would go back and forth as if it were moving. I still remember that toy! And there were noisemakers, puzzles and all sorts of moving toys that were ingenuous.
I wonder how this ingenuity can be tapped to push a people out of poverty and give them meaningful jobs. I wonder how this ingenuity can be used to make politics work for folks on both sides of the border. I wonder why this ingenuity can’t be used to help stem the diabetes epidemic that plagues Latinos…
I look at my toy grasshopper and think it only has to be a matter of opening up that potential and letting folks create their own opportunities. Once again the simplistic answer comes back to language, ideas/concepts and cognition.
Hmmm…maybe I could invent a toy that could do that? What would such a toy look like and how the heck would it work?
Jack D. Deal
Mexico Road Trip: Contemporary Caveman and Cognition
The whole world is connected; either by computers or human beings. By chance I was talking with a man from Rancho Gomez Farias, a rancheria not too far from Coyutla. He was asking about my experiences there and I told him about the young man chained to a tree.
Oh him, we all know him, he said, we call him the Wild Man of the Mountain. Some in my pueblito go up into the sierra or mountain and cut cilantro and pick wild mushrooms to sell in the market. Every now and then they will see him there – sometimes where they least expect it.
And sometimes, he continued, he will show up at fiestas or dances – sometimes in his underwear or wearing nothing at all, he laughed. People give him food if they have it and sometimes they even let him dance at their fiestas…he’s a good dancer. But I’ve seen him when he gets nasty and he will try to pick a fight or throw rocks…so it’s best to keep one’s distance. They say he was a hardworking young man when his young wife left him for another man and that made him crazy. I see him every now and then walking down the dirt roads or sometimes on the highway…
There it is. That word of mouth that links families, communities and towns. And the cause and effect syndrome…I’ve heard several opinions on why the young man went loco…and that’s all they are -- opinions. No one disputes he is loco or mentally ill; but there are a numerous explanations as to how it happened.
We humans have such a strong tendency to create simplistic reasons for what happens to us…it must be in our blood and genes. Caveman saw the spirits and gods and we see a variety on the theme even today…maybe it’s all in cognition and until we understand that simplistic explanations often aren’t answers, we will act more like the caveman. Until we learn the ideas and concepts behind cognition, we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past and live in it…or remain in that gray twilight of mediocrity.
I lay awake last night thinking how my Mexico is changing and probably changing at a faster rate than California culture. Of course I expected some change but am frankly surprised it is happening so fast. Dr. G and others have spoken to me about this change but it’s always different if someone tells you something versus you seeing and feeling it yourself. And now I’ve been here longer and can feel it….
The most noticeable change is the language. Language always evolves but Mexican Spanish is evolving very quickly. English words like gay, bunch and truck become gay, bonche and troca. So many words are becoming hybridized or substituted that the older Mexicans are feeling awkward with their more ‘proper’ Spanish. The difference in how a 15 year old and a 50 year old speak is striking; of course one can note the difference with English in California as well, but even there it does not seem to me to be as extreme.
Media is one factor and the U.S. culture expressed through the media is a juggernaut. It is hard to resist as folks like the French can attest. The youngsters have no problem with it and embrace it fully…those that resist find themselves increasingly out of the vernacular mainstream.
And it’s not just the English. Mexicans are a vibrant, passionate people and invent many words and phrases on their own. Words like chido that I first heard many years ago as slang, have now become common usage and are now in Spanish dictionaries. A world like padre can mean father but also ‘cool’.
And so it goes. I hear few complaints though there are regional offices set up to preserve the Spanish language. The idea is that somehow Castilian and older Spanish is better, something I have never accepted. Who are we to say what is better and what isn’t? Doesn’t usage determine correctness as well? Language, usage and vernacular are all relative and it comes down to one’s perspective…maybe even one’s attempt to create the simplistic cause and effect.
There are no massive protests that English is taking over. There are no movements to ban English…in fact there are signs everywhere that interest in English is increasing. Why are we Americans so afraid of Spanish?
And it’s not just language. Clothes and fashion are quickly changing too. When I first came to Mexico almost no one wore shorts. Shorts were something one might sleep in or wear around the house but not in public. In Tihuatlan the other day every young man I saw was wearing shorts and tennis shoes with a T-shirt. The youngsters no longer wear sombreros and even most middle-aged men wear baseball style caps. The young women have adapted the tight clothes with exposed stomachs, much to the delight of the young men, ha! But pregnant women still don’t show their bellies as their counterparts do in the U.S. At least yet.
The native dress is fading fast and we’ve only seen the typical Indian style dress in a few remote areas in the Huasteca. The embroidered blouses and dresses are no longer popular and are used mainly at folklore dances as relics of the past…the white cotton shirts and pants of the men have given way to jeans and western style shirts. And cowboy boots…
The children used to take their morales or woven bags to school but no longer. Now they use backpacks to carry their books.
I’m feeling my age now as I’m well into my fourth decade in Mexico. All generations lament the passing of their customs and culture as societies evolve. So what else is new?
A lot of this can be traced to the cause and effect of illegal and legal immigration to the U.S. Is that simplistic? Ha…When those that work in the States return back home, they bring with them the clothes and music and culture. It has to be a major cause of the effect, no? And all this culture swapping further strengthens the ties between the two countries…at least that is how I see it.
Who knows where it will evolve…it could go in some strange ways. The Chicano Spanish spoken in California could in fact become a more pure Spanish than Mexican Spanish…that would be a real good one, no? Wouldn’t it be ironic if the isolated monolingual Spanish speaking communities in the U.S. have less language change than generic Mexican Spanish?
As I sit here in my last few days in Veracruz there are more questions than answers. Great language and sociological changes are happening to my Mexico and I am privileged to be able to see many of them. I too am nostalgic for the old days but am fascinated by the new.
Language, concepts/ideas and cognition are the keys, not just for development but for better understanding and relations between our two countries. We must not be intimidated by those that want to tyrannize or sink us into the gray twilight of mediocrity.
Jack D. Deal
July 15, 2007
Mexico Road Trip: The Mexican Psyche and a Fistful of Dirt
As a teenager, one really doesn’t think about getting older. I certainly didn’t back then either. Teenagers don’t realize that as one gets older, contemporaries die. The ones that are left with the sadness are the lucky ones although sometimes it certainly doesn’t feel like it.
Death takes its toll and as the old song goes “Pobre o rico va lo mismo, para pasar por otro viaje” – rich or poor go the same on the other trip. Life is a mixture and if it were not, it would not be life. But we all leave the same way we came. No exceptions.
Mexicans face death directly and are famous for accepting the tragic side of life. Their humor and happiness is tempered by death and sadness.
I remember going to wakes for the poor that had died. They would take up a collection and hopefully get enough to buy a plain wooden coffin. The women would be inside next to the newly deceased saying their rosaries and shedding tears. The men would be outside the huts drinking the strongest drink they could afford and wondering how and where they would get the next bottle…
It really it doesn’t matter what kind of coffin you go out in…as the famous Ramon Ayala song goes, ‘the only thing I will take out of this world with me is a fistful of dirt.’ As in life, there are certain truths in death as well.
I was saddened to find out I would no longer be able to visit some of my old friends.
Ignacio died of lung cancer. He was a heavy smoker and as such it was no real surprise. The last time I saw him he had those sunken, sad eyes of one whose days are numbered. He used to invite me over to his house for beer and ‘antojitos Mexicanos’ or typical Mexican snacks. His wife would always scowl at us and she was not one of those happy Mexicans; it was if she always resented the fact he could laugh and enjoy my company and the lively conversations we had. And we had many. He was one of those persons that even though not very well educated, was an astute observer of human behavior and Mexican life. I miss him…
I don’t know how Julio died and I guess no one does. He didn’t die in Tierra Blanca. He once told me he shot a man in self defense yet others say he killed the man in cold blood. Julio and I used to go rabbit hunting at night with my .22. We would drink beer and stay up all night, usually not getting any rabbits but having a great time anyway. We would drink in the cantinas and sometimes buy beer and go to his hut and sit on the dirt floor and talk for hours about whatever we liked…
Of course Angelica didn’t like Julio at all since he was known throughout as being a ‘low lifer’ but I didn’t care. I knew all types of people and did not pick my friends by their socioeconomic class or status. Or even reputation. On the one hand it introduced me to a wide spectrum of Mexican character types but on the other I was also known as a crazy gringo that had all sorts of wild and sometimes unsavory friends. Like Americans, most Mexicans only know those in their own ‘class’. What a waste of human experience!
Julio was the type that was always getting into some kind of trouble so my guess is one day he pushed it a bit too far and that was it. He probably would want to go out the way he lived. I’ll miss him too….
But the saddest was the loss of my younger friend Gabriel. He died in a car wreck. When they called me in California to tell me I choked up. In case you did not know, we macho Mexicanos don’t cry; we just choke up a little – Angelica just asked me what’s wrong and I told her I’m getting a cold. We don’t like to admit to anything, ha!
Gabriel’s death was one of those events where one gets angry at God, the universe and anything else one can think of. His death was one that shows there is no justice; of all the evil people in the world that deserve to die, why him?
I think back over all the times he would take me out to meet his friends and we would laugh and drink beer as if there were no tomorrow. Gabriel had way too few tomorrows. His smile and laugh will stay with me forever and my life is much richer for having known him. He was a true Veracruzano.
Sadly three months after his death, his wife abandoned their three kids and left with a new boyfriend. Gabriel’s mother took them in and they call her mama now. At some point I would like to do something for his kids as a way I could give back some of what he gave to me. He loved his kids as much as any father could. His oldest son looks just like him.
Over the years there have been other deaths – just the steady march of my ‘Cien Anos de Soledad’. The generations come and go and deaths are somehow offset by births. The spirit of Gabriel lives on through his children and the world moves on. For both the rich and poor, the good and the evil…
Today I’m sad thinking about all those that I will no longer see. As is customary in Tierra Blanca, I think I will go into town and have a few beers for my friends that are no longer with me. To those that have enriched my life and introduced me to their individual worlds…
I’m sure I will choke up and others will pat me on the back and raise their beers and drink to my health. It’s a type of therapy, though of course Angelica would never agree. And as is customary here in Veracruz, the sad buy each other beer. And choke up.
Angelica doesn’t like my going to the cantinas but on a certain level she will understand today…after all, she knows the only thing any of us will take with us is a fistful of dirt.
Jack D. Deal
July 11, 2007
Five Million Dollar Day
It was one of those 'stellar' or rather 'solar' California afternoons.
The sky was a deep, dark blue -- a storm having cleared out the skies the
day before. We walked through rows of brussel sprout plants that were
beginning to lean with the weight of the sprouts. Surfers were scurrying
down to the beach. The waves, ten and twelve footers, were breaking
several hundred yards out and rolling in just right. We reached the cliff
and walked down the narrow path which still slippery from the recent rain.
What could spoil this perfect setting?
I kept thinking back to the management meeting I had conducted the day
before. There were six of us seated around a conference table evaluating
employees and discussing how to create an employee buy-out program. We
were fifteen minutes into the discussion when one of the managers said, "I
have to say something".
My first impulse was 'oh boy'. In the past when these kinds of
statements came up it was something like -- 'I quit' or 'We gotta fire Joe'
or 'Someone's stealing the coffee money'. But that wasn't the case this
time.
"My best friend stopped by to see me last night," said the manager,
"we went to grammar school together. The good news was that his company
went IPO last year and he took home five and half million dollars. That
was
the good news. That same day he got the good news from his accountant he
also got a call from his doctor. He had cancer; it had metastasized and
was non-treatable. He had 6-8 months to live."
There was a silence around the table. After a pause I made some
comment about how sorry we all were and went back to our agenda. I lay
awake that night thinking about the peculiar occurrence at the meeting. I
did not think about the buy out -- that was simple. I kept thinking about
the cancer and the millions of dollars.
What would five million dollars look like? Could you go down to the
Credit Union and withdraw five million dollars? Could you get the 5M in
gold? What would 5M in hundred dollar bills look like? The truth of the
matter was, the five million really did not physically exist -- it was just
a bunch of bits and bytes on a computer database. Sure the money could be
spent but only because others gave value to the database. If it were wiped
out by something like the Y2K bug, would it still exist? What if everyone
said 'your bits and bytes aren't worth anything anymore to us?'
Then I kept going back to the terminal condition. Would he get to
enjoy his money? Would he give it away? Would he throw one big party?
Would he live lavishly as his physical condition deteriorated? Did his
quest for the 5M contribute to his cancer? Did he work too hard and lower
his immune system? Was it a cruel joke played by fate? Was the doctor
only kidding?
The more I thought, the more absurd my ideas became. Nothing made
sense and a hundred years from now, I thought, who would care? As I sat
on the beach my editor (and life companion) looked at me strangely. 'All
this pure air, sea and beach and you are not enjoying it,' she said,
'business problems don't usually get you this down -- especially at the
beach.' I then told her the story. She shrugged and started looking for
shells.
I never resolved this one and concluded that there really was no
resolution. We are all animals and the price we pay for not being a rock
or the sea is mortality. How we live is all we really have and how we die
in a certain sense is rather insignificant. In the total scheme of things
it matters very little.
So when our teenager acts up I really have to put it in perspective.
Are the annoyances really important? How would I feel if he had the
cancer? Or my editor? Or me? Some would care - some would cry but for
most, life just goes on.
The next day I was reviewing a motivational tape in my car on my way
to a client site. The speaker was talking about discipline and how we must
manage our lives with discipline to achieve business success. And then
came the clincher: "And some of you instead of being disciplined would
rather spend the afternoon at the beach."
That's me, I decided! Sure I work hard and will work hard in the
future. But I will take some time. Even 5 million dollars can't buy an
afternoon at the beach.
The sky was a deep, dark blue -- a storm having cleared out the skies the
day before. We walked through rows of brussel sprout plants that were
beginning to lean with the weight of the sprouts. Surfers were scurrying
down to the beach. The waves, ten and twelve footers, were breaking
several hundred yards out and rolling in just right. We reached the cliff
and walked down the narrow path which still slippery from the recent rain.
What could spoil this perfect setting?
I kept thinking back to the management meeting I had conducted the day
before. There were six of us seated around a conference table evaluating
employees and discussing how to create an employee buy-out program. We
were fifteen minutes into the discussion when one of the managers said, "I
have to say something".
My first impulse was 'oh boy'. In the past when these kinds of
statements came up it was something like -- 'I quit' or 'We gotta fire Joe'
or 'Someone's stealing the coffee money'. But that wasn't the case this
time.
"My best friend stopped by to see me last night," said the manager,
"we went to grammar school together. The good news was that his company
went IPO last year and he took home five and half million dollars. That
was
the good news. That same day he got the good news from his accountant he
also got a call from his doctor. He had cancer; it had metastasized and
was non-treatable. He had 6-8 months to live."
There was a silence around the table. After a pause I made some
comment about how sorry we all were and went back to our agenda. I lay
awake that night thinking about the peculiar occurrence at the meeting. I
did not think about the buy out -- that was simple. I kept thinking about
the cancer and the millions of dollars.
What would five million dollars look like? Could you go down to the
Credit Union and withdraw five million dollars? Could you get the 5M in
gold? What would 5M in hundred dollar bills look like? The truth of the
matter was, the five million really did not physically exist -- it was just
a bunch of bits and bytes on a computer database. Sure the money could be
spent but only because others gave value to the database. If it were wiped
out by something like the Y2K bug, would it still exist? What if everyone
said 'your bits and bytes aren't worth anything anymore to us?'
Then I kept going back to the terminal condition. Would he get to
enjoy his money? Would he give it away? Would he throw one big party?
Would he live lavishly as his physical condition deteriorated? Did his
quest for the 5M contribute to his cancer? Did he work too hard and lower
his immune system? Was it a cruel joke played by fate? Was the doctor
only kidding?
The more I thought, the more absurd my ideas became. Nothing made
sense and a hundred years from now, I thought, who would care? As I sat
on the beach my editor (and life companion) looked at me strangely. 'All
this pure air, sea and beach and you are not enjoying it,' she said,
'business problems don't usually get you this down -- especially at the
beach.' I then told her the story. She shrugged and started looking for
shells.
I never resolved this one and concluded that there really was no
resolution. We are all animals and the price we pay for not being a rock
or the sea is mortality. How we live is all we really have and how we die
in a certain sense is rather insignificant. In the total scheme of things
it matters very little.
So when our teenager acts up I really have to put it in perspective.
Are the annoyances really important? How would I feel if he had the
cancer? Or my editor? Or me? Some would care - some would cry but for
most, life just goes on.
The next day I was reviewing a motivational tape in my car on my way
to a client site. The speaker was talking about discipline and how we must
manage our lives with discipline to achieve business success. And then
came the clincher: "And some of you instead of being disciplined would
rather spend the afternoon at the beach."
That's me, I decided! Sure I work hard and will work hard in the
future. But I will take some time. Even 5 million dollars can't buy an
afternoon at the beach.