One tree hill

I’ve been drawn to trees since I was a young kid, mostly as a climber.  This old tree caught my eye on a hill that I drive by on my way to work.  The tree is interesting because there are no other trees around it.  It’s all alone on this hilltop, struggling against the elements to survive.  The thick trunk is bent over to the point that it defies gravity.

I remember my college photography teacher explaining that seeing a deer all alone in a dry meadow 100 yards away may be exciting when you see it in person, but it doesn’t necessarily make a good photograph.  It’s just a speck of brown in a big field of yellow.  You’ve got to zoom in or walk in for a closer look.

I decided to walk in for a closer look at one tree hill, during a break in my run on Saturday.  I had to jump a barbed wire fence and trudge through snake territory to get there, my running shoes slipping sideways on the steep incline. The hike was worth it.  I looked around from the tree’s point of view to see Tracy in the East and Livermore in the West.  No wonder it was all alone.  This was some great real estate.

The tree is magnificently strong, and must have deep roots to be able to hang on to the hilltop like that.  What was even more amazing was the other side that you can’t see from the road. It was scarred and missing a large chunk due to a giant branch having fallen away.  Half the trunk was hollow at the base, yet it still supported the one heavy branch growing at an impossibly sideways angle.

I reached up and placed a hand on the rough bark of that one huge branch.  I gave it a little shove but it didn’t budge.  I could almost feel the ancient life force speaking to me, saying “Dude, I’m surviving 50 mph winds up here. You’re not going to push me over.”

I wrapped my arms around the branch to measure the circumference, and then laughed at myself when I realized I was actually hugging a tree. Please don’t tell anyone.

If Barbara Walters asked you if you were a tree, isn’t this the tree you’d want to be?  You’d have a strong base, like your deep roots with family and friends.  You’d be a little scarred from previous storms, but still showing your best face to the world.  Bring on the wind, the lightning, the frost, the termites and the brush fires. You’re still standing and you’re still growing.

Impossible is overrated

Philippe Petit does the impossible… just because it SEEMS impossible. You may recognize the name of the man who walked on a tightrope between the World Trade Center towers in 1974, a story you should see in its entirety in the Academy Award-wining documentary “Man on Wire.”  My son Evan and I just had the privilege of hearing Philippe speak in person in a UC Santa Barbara lecture hall.

He engaged the audience with photos and stories of his many highwire exploits, some of them sanctioned by governments, some of them completely illegal.  As I listened to him, I was impressed with his enthusiasm for challenges, and his attitude toward treating the Eiffel Tower as his personal playground.  When he told his friends he felt compelled to walk a wire between the twin towers in New York City, they said it was impossible.  He said, “Yes, it is impossible, let’s get to work on it!”

At the end of his talk he asked for questions from the audience, and I walked up to the microphone in front of the stage. (I’m always interested in how high achievers get themselves back up when they’re down.)  “Philippe, you talked a lot about having faith to get through the challenges you took on.  Can you tell us about a time when you lost faith, and what you did to restore it?”

He thought for just a moment, and then in his animated French accent he said, “You know… when I take my first step onto the wire I am ready to take my last step off the end of the wire as well.  I have prepared for thousands of hours and scrutinized every detail of my plan to build my faith for that first step.  Still, little seeds of doubt fall down on me like raindrops, but I am able to shake them off like a dog because of all that hard work. I have constructed a safety net in my mind that is far stronger than any net I could stretch out below me.”

As I absorbed this answer, I pictured in my mind the raindrops of doubt that pelt me from time to time, and the seemingly impossible challenges that I sometimes face in my life. 

He looked away to the audience for the next question, but stopped and turned back toward me.  As if knowing I needed a little more advice he said, “I am not sure I answered your question, but I’d like to tell you this.  When you look at the great pyramids, you think ‘oh wow, how could those giant things be built by human hands.’  But when you look closer you see that they are made of smaller stones that can be moved around, and smaller still are the grains of sand and clay that make up the stones.  When you take on something big, break it down into parts that you can get started on today and then do it.  That is what will give you faith.”

I’ve been thinking about this since we left the auditorium, and it reminds me of something I learned as a kid in Sunday school.  “God helps those who help themselves.”

Faith does not necessarily mean waiting around for someone else to take your hand or tell you what to do.  Doing the hard work of preparation and having the courage to get started is what sets faith in motion and carries you across the wire. 

What first step can you take today?

Got everything you need?

Just got challenged by my friend and co-worker to “write a blog post on that.”  This challenge came right after I asked him “Got everything you need?” 

Now that I think about it, that really is an impossible, rhetorical question to answer.  No one EVER has ALL of their needs met at any given time, and the needs are constantly changing based on the environment, situation and proximity to other people.

You may remember from Psych 101 the basic needs on the basement floor of Maslow’s hierarchy – food, water, air.  Most of these are met daily for me, with the exception of Spare the Air days and an occasional bad burrito.  So fortunately, I get to spend more time thinking about my needs higher up the hierarchy – self-esteem from achievement, inclusion in social circles and love. 

Some would consider these more wants or desires rather than needs, but I disagree.  Humans need to achieve things in their lives.  Humans need to hang out with other humans.  Humans need love.

Zig Ziglar is famous for the line “You will get all you want in life if you help enough other people get what they want.”  Rebuttal from Mick Jagger, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, well you just might find you get what you need.”  

What are you saying, Mick?  That just getting your needs met is somehow a fallback or compromise?  I think needs may be far more important than wants.  As we know, some people surround themselves with material riches, yet still have an emotional void to fill inside. 

Helping the needy may start with those who can’t feed themselves, but it matters for higher needs like friendship and love as well. The next time someone asks you if you’ve got everything you need, don’t forget to ask them back.

Fight or flight?

We all learn to deal with stress in different ways.  I learned by watching Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Remember when Marlin Perkins sent Jim Fowler into the jaws of danger while he provided color commentary from the safety of an armored jeep? 

 “It looks like Jim has successfully gained the crocodile’s attention, and he looks agitated!!  Now Jim has a choice to either wrestle the croc or run for the hills.”

Yes, surviving stress pretty much boils down to one simple question – Fight or Flight? Here’s an example of what I mean… 

 

I spent my early teen years in Kokomo, Indiana, where the landscape is mostly cornfields and country roads. One hot October night my friend and I walked out into one of those fields, plucked some dusty ears of corn and twisted them in our hands until we had a small pile of dry, hard kernels. 

 

Now you may be asking yourself, how much fun can a kid have with a handful of corn?  Well check this out… you hide in the corn 6 rows back from the country road and watch the oncoming car headlights reflecting off the telephone wire above. If you time it just right, you can throw your corn high over the road, rain it down on the windshield and scare the driver witless.  Sounds fun doesn’t it? I’m not proud of it today, but boy was it funny to a 14-year old! 

 

Until the pick-up truck came along…

 

Science lesson – If you’ve ever been in a pickup truck doing 60 miles an hour when a handful of corn hits your windshield… it sounds like God just dumped a bucket of pea gravel on you. Babababababa!! We heard the tires screeeeech, a door slam and the angry voice of a very large cowboy. Like a jilted husband on the Jerry Springer show, he let out a string of profanities so profound that the FCC prevents me from repeating them here. The part I remember with absolute clarity was “I’m gonna shoot your little blankety blank blanks.” 

 

My friend and I looked at each other with wide eyes.  What do you think we picked… fight or flight? 

 

We ran flat out through that cornfield like Kentucky Derby racehorses, cornstalks whipping our faces, tripping over big dirt clods. We ran at least 200 yards until we were stopped by a fence.  And then a really funny thing happened. We looked up at each other and cracked… up… laughing. That crisis shot adrenaline through our bodies, we acted on it, and ran until we couldn’t run anymore. Then we felt a tremendous sense of relief.

 

When faced with a gun-toting redneck, it was a simple choice to run away.  But what happens when you don’t have such a simple choice… like when you feel powerless to fight or run away from stress?  As adults we are often backed into a corner and end up holding onto stress over a sustained period of time without acting on it – like when you are dealing with an overbearing boss, stuck in traffic, or piling too much on your priority plate. This creates all sorts of physical and mental health problems if you don’t release the stress somehow.

 

Now that I am older, I have learned to fight – stand up for myself in conflict, sometimes retreating for a while and then coming back to address it more constructively.  I’ve also chosen flight, but this usually means literally running more often and alleviating stress through exercise.  If I avoid resolving a conflict for too long, the stress is unhealthy to hold on to.  I’ve even got this little pain spot behind my right shoulder that tells me when my stress level is too high. 

 

Everyone experiences stress.  What’s important is what you do about it.  As Marlin would say… “Just as the mother lion protects her cubs, you should take good care of your body and mind.” 

 

How do you deal with stress? 

 

 

True colors

“I see your true colors shining through. I see your true colors, and that’s why I love you.”  Why does this Cyndi Lauper song stop me in my tracks every time I hear it? 

It makes me visualize an old painting, like the ones you see on the antique roadshow.  “My Great Uncle Henry had this up in the garage for 50 years and he just LOVED it. Of course, he did smoke his cigars out in the garage.” 

Layers and layers of gunk have built up on the painting over the years, masking the brilliance of the original colors.  All it needs is some careful restoration and to be brought out for display under museum quality lighting… and it’s priceless. 

Of course, being a man, I would be tempted to just take a powerwasher to it.  But no… restoration is a painstaking process, carefully removing each layer of haze without damaging the original brilliance underneath.

I believe we all start out as masterpieces. Your true colors are the real you, the talents you bring to the table, the dreams you had as a kid.  Over time we build up layers of dirt – creating personas to succeed in business, putting on acts to please other people, putting on masks to protect ourselves from pain.  Revealing your true self is not easy or risk-free. 

I’m finding that the real me is coming out more and more as I get older. It happens when I surround myself with people who love and support me. Just like in the song. Support from true friends gives me the courage to try those things that I think I may be good at, and to spend more time doing things that I love.  If you can find the intersection of those two lists – things you are good at and things you love -you are well on your way to museum-quality pricelessness.

Restoring the real you will take some time. The layers may need to come off as slowly as they built up over time.  And you may need to change the environment, the wall you are hanging on, to start the process.  But there’s no doubt about it… you ARE a masterpiece and your true colors are still there. 

Don’t be afraid to let them show.

What was your name again?

One of my friends asked for the secret to remembering people’s names at a party.  I won’t reveal her age, but she’s old enough to be a little short-term memory-challenged (like me.)  I actually learned a great technique for remembering names early in my career.

1)  Prepare to hear the name (I mean really get ready to receive it when you ask the person for it.)

2)  Repeat the name right after you hear it.

3) Repeat the name one more time before you leave the conversation.

Three impressions really helps cement the name in your memory.

I’ve heard about fancy mnemonic techniques using acronyms, rhymes and such, but this simple 3-step method works fine for me.  The trick is having fun with the way you repeat the name.

Examples:

“Nice to meet you Gerald.  Our family used to visit my Uncle Gerald… until he went to prison for embezzlement.”

“Chuck?  That’s a sick name! What’s UP Chuck?!”

“Terry?  That’s a cool name because it could be for a man or a woman.  Which one are you?”

Nothing warms up a conversation and builds rapport like making fun of someone’s name.  I guarantee this will help your memory, and your new friend won’t forget you either.

The running man

I ran, and finished, my first half-marathon Sunday morning.  I’ve never entered a big race and never run that far in my entire life. Just last year I could barely run 2 miles without stopping to walk. They say 2 hours and 6 minutes is a respectable time for 13.1 miles, and I was fairly happy with the time since my knee was recuperating from a recent injury. 

No… I did not injure it from running.  I injured it while dancing. 

My 19-year old son, at a family party, said, “Hey, my dad knows how to do the running man, he’s from the 80’s. Show ‘em Dad!”

I busted a move alright and also, apparently, a tendon.  It was pretty ironic that it was the “running man” that hurt my ability to run just 2 weeks before the race.

To prepare for this race, I had trained hard for 10 weeks, adding 1 mile each week until I hit 11 miles.  I still wasn’t sure if I could do 13.1 miles on race day without my knee, or me, collapsing.  But I was determined to finish the race whether I was running or hobbling at the finish line.

Right around mile six, I got inspiration from an unlikely source. I saw a little old lady (I’m guessing 70+ years of age) running ahead of me.  She was about 5’ 4”, with dark sunglasses, spandex water belt, a color-coordinated pink running outfit and matching visor.  Barely able to lift her legs much above the ground, leaning to her left side as if her spine could not support her, she was cranking right along at a 10-minute mile pace.  She was consistent, determined and focused on her goal. 

Suddenly my knee didn’t hurt that much anymore.  I smiled, kicked up my tempo and passed her, but kept her image in my mind until the finish line.

I was satisfied to finish with dignity, but my runner’s cap goes off to the athletes who overcame much greater odds than I did (especially the little old lady from Pasadena.)  I learned first hand that what gets you through a big challenge is not just planning and physical preparation. It also takes willpower.  Go Granny, go.

You’ll shoot your eye out kid

A father’s need to turn his son into a man and a mother’s need to protect her young are NOT naturally compatible instincts.  Surely you’ve seen the movie “A Christmas Story,” where little Ralphie tells everyone that he wants an official Red Ryder carbine action two-hundred shot range model air rifle… but what did the department store Santa tell him?  “You’ll shoot your eye out kid!”

Like Ralphie, I dreamed of getting my own BB gun.  My dad thought, “Yeah… learning to shoot will turn you into a man.”  My mom’s opinion? “Learning to shoot… will put your eye out.”

My dad was a member of the Jaycees, a community service organization that raised money for charity and encouraged opportunities for young people.  They also sponsored an annual BB gun shooting contest.  That’s right… a Community service organization putting guns into the hands of kids. Of course they preached “safety first” in their training program; never point a gun at anyone; take out all your ammo when you store your gun.  But for a 10 year old boy - safety may be first, but reckless adventure is a close second.

To participate in the annual shooting contest, my dad bought me my first BB gun.  I was 10… and I was armed.  My brother Jeff got one too.  These Daisy air rifles didn’t have much power – you had to aim 4 inches high so the BB would fall to hit the paper bullseye.  But paper targets got boring after a while. And what do boys do when they get bored?  That’s right, they shoot at each other! 

Now we weren’t stupid.  Reckless maybe, but not stupid.  We discovered that you could shoot a BB directly at someone’s leg from 20 paces without breaking the skin.  It would leave a red welt, but no blood.  So we put on 2 pair of blue jeans, our fluffy “Michelin man” down coats, and we ran outside to “play.”  My red rubber boots crunched on the crusty snow as I snuck around the corner. I saw Jeffy up in the tree.  BLAM… gotcha!! 

Now… for all you moms reading this, I can see your look of horror right through your computer screen.  That’s exactly the same look on my mom’s face when she found out. She said “Give me all the BBs!” and took away our ammo.  The guns could still shoot compressed air but there’s not much fun in that.

Yes, mothers have a need to protect their young, but necessity is the mother of invention.  My brother Jeff was eating a tootsie pop as we sat there staring at our empty guns.  He was getting down to the white sucker stick at the core. (It takes more than three licks by the way.)  Just as he was about to throw it away he stopped.  He noticed the diameter of the white stick was about an eighth of an inch – the same as the opening in the barrel of his gun.  He tore off the mushy chewed up part and slid the rest down into the barrel. He cocked the gun, aimed at the bird feeder and pulled the trigger. BLAM!!  Birdseed flew everywhere.  The compressed air shot that sucker stick at least 30 feet with decent accuracy.

An evil grin spread across his face.  We would not be denied our destructive birthright.  We immediately pooled our money, ran to the Handy Andy convenience store and bought a whole box of Tootsie Pops.  Thus began the great sucker stick war of 1971.  All sugared up with plenty of ammo.

Later that evening, my mom locked our guns in the trunk of her car.

It only took us a couple of months to find the BB guns and BBs again, up on a high shelf in the attic (like a boy is not going to climb up there.)  Jeff said “Come on, let’s go shoot stuff.”  We walked a mile down the railroad track to the garbage dump.  That was forbidden…by our mom…as a place to play.  We climbed over some garbage to set up bottles and cans on the side of an old refrigerator.  I took aim at a Gillette Foamy shaving cream can and knocked it over with my first shot.  I took a second shot at the shiny concave bottom of the can.  Just then some kind of heavy bug flew into my eye and I blinked it off.  I rubbed it a few times and thought nothing more about it.  We headed home to hide our guns in the attic.

A few days later, my eye started to hurt and turn red around my lower eyelid.  I said “Mom I think I might have a bug in my eye.”  My mom was a registered nurse and had no problem pushing gently around my eye with her fingers to see what was going on.  She pushed up with her thumb under my eyelid and Boink!!  A small BB popped out of my eye and bounced onto the bathroom counter.  My mom looked down at the BB.  I looked down at the BB.  I looked up at my mom and said “Now how did THAT get in there?!”

For those of you wondering about the science of this… apparently, when I shot the concave bottom of that can, it hit at the perfect angle to ricochet back straight at my open eye.  I blinked just as it hit my eye, forcing it down into my lower eyelid, where it left 2 little rust spots that had to be treated with special ointment.

I was busted on all counts – the BB Gun, going to the garbage dump, and most importantly, my mom always told me I would shoot my eye out… and I almost did.

So what have we learned today?  Let’s recap.

- Young boys with guns are hard to supervise

- Anything, including candy, can be made into a weapon

- No matter how much you crave reckless adventure… you should always listen to your momma.

Reunited and it feels so good

The word “reunion” literally means “to bring together again.”  But is there actual unity after the initial re-meeting?  My wife Carol and I just attended our North Central High School reunion in Indianapolis, and I’m still energized from it.  The shared educational experience so many years ago was not really a choice for us back then – we HAD to go to school. But this weekend, 225 classmates willfully chose to come together from all over the hemisphere to reconnect.

Maybe it’s because our “first” best friends were made during those formative years.  You try so hard in high school to figure out who you are and what you want to do with your life, and you’re surrounded by peers who are equally hopeful and insecure.  There’s a special bond that emerges when you go through a thrilling or traumatic experience with others, and I think high school qualifies on both counts.

I also admit feeling a bit of plain old curiosity.  I got to see how he or she “turned out.”  Social status and external appearances were so important during teenage years, so I guess I couldn’t help making physical comparisons now.  I wonder if I look older or younger than the majority?  If you haven’t changed TOO much, you get the compliment of “Oh, you look exactly the same!”  Well… I think I looked a little awkward in high school, so is that really a compliment? 

This time I think it was the “internal appearances” that made the real impact on me.  As I talked to each of my friends, shared a few embarrassing war stories, shared photos of our children (all about the same age) and talked about our careers, I felt a sense of unity that came from sheer survival.  We’ve lived through triumph and tragedy.  We’re old enough to know that learning who you are is a lifetime quest, not something you learn in college.  And what you want to do with your life can change, several times, depending on circumstances and your will to follow your heart.  I felt a kinship once again with people I have not seen or talked to in decades.  Facebook has provided a virtual reunion of sorts the last few months, but there’s nothing like looking someone in the eye, getting a hug and celebrating our lives in person. 

I saw guys who I thought would not survive their heavy partying looking quite healthy and happy now.  I heard about a few friends who are sadly no longer with us. I heard about our former class president who is now Chief of Staff for VP Joe Biden.  We are manufacturing reps and marketing execs, comedians and company owners, doctors and decorated soldiers, lawyers and lobbyists, dental hygienists and disaster recovery specialists, attorneys and activists, mothers and fathers. We live in Alaska and the Virgin Islands.  We live on the East coast and the West coast and in the Heartland in between.  We are diversity and unity at the same time. We are the class of ’79.

Special thanks to the organizers of the event.  This Panther appreciates you.

A different drummer

I had an obsession once. I wanted to bang the drum… the big bass drum that sat on top of a player piano at Farrell’s ice cream parlor in the Castleton Square mall.  Long before Chuck E. Cheese baked his first pizza, Farrell’s was THE place for birthday parties, and it was my first real job in high school. 

The waiters and waitresses wore straw hats (really made of styrofoam) and black & white striped shirts with puffy shoulders. It was supposed to look like the gay 90’s (the 1890’s and the original meaning of gay.)  If you were lucky enough to have your birthday at Farrell’s, the waiters would play a siren, bang the drum, play “Roll out the Barrell” on the player piano and serve a giant “Zoo” ice cream sundae for you and your friends. It weighed roughly 25 lbs with 12 flavors of ice cream, chocolate fudge, caramel, nuts, whipped cream and cherries. Sounds like fun, eh?

But I was not a waiter. I was… a lowly dishwasher. Dishwashers did not get to bang the drum or carry the Zoo. I toiled away in my prison – walled in on three sides with grey ceramic tile and stainless steel. There was a narrow horizontal window where busboys slid grey plastic tubs full of sticky dirty dishes for me to wash. 

If you leaned down just right, you could see the colorful world outside, filled with music, laughter and merriment.  But I was on the inside, doing backbreaking work. And as I toiled away, the banging drum taunted me. Every time the elite class of waiters would run to their posts and deliver the celebration, I just lowered my head and scraped glops of leftover ice cream out of half-eaten sundae glasses.

One day I decided I had had enough. I begged the general manager Mr. Merkel to let me out to bang the drum for the next party.  I just wanted to experience a little piece of the happiness going on outside.  Though it was not in my official job description, he told me if I got far enough ahead on the bus tubs…I could run out and play the drum. I was so efficient in the next two hours, I became the first dishwasher to get released on good behavior.  Sweet serendipity!! 

But before I could lay one bang on the drum, Darren the waiter waved me over to the fountain area.  He was actually in need of a second Zoo carrier. I was elated! What an honor to help carry the sacred sundae of all sundaes all over the restaurant, ending on the table in front of the happy birthday girl. (Skip to 5:30 in this old video to see what I’m talking about.)

Fountain noise!  Drum roll!  Player piano! We took off with the Zoo. Up and down the aisles, out into the mall, back through the candy store.  Note: 25 lbs of ice cream in a giant silver bowl needs to be carefully supported on four sides at all times. If just one support point gives way, the ice cream will head that way too. You can guess what happened next.  As I rounded the next corner my world slipped into slow motion.  A slip of the handle in my hand… my partner losing his balance… and the giant silver bowl rolled out of the stretcher, splattering 12 flavors of ice cream and 12 different toppings all over a lady’s skirt.  She looked fit to be tie-dyed.

The player piano continued to play “Roll out the Barrel” as we all stood there in stunned silence.  I rolled out a barrel of fun alright. 

I grabbed a dishtowel that I had stuffed in my back pocket and kneeled down to help clean the mess, quickly realizing that chocolate fudge doesn’t easily wipe out of a yellow linen skirt. As I looked up at the horrified look on her face, all I could do was laugh a nervous laugh and say “Happy Birthday ma’am. No charge for that one.”

Mr. Merkel gave me a dirty look as he took over the rescue effort. I was relieved to get back to the solitude of my dish room for the rest of my shift.  I was only allowed to be a drummer after that but it was enough.  I got to carry the Zoo that one glorious time… all the way to its conclusion on some poor lady’s skirt.  Moments like that, even when they don’t turn out the way you thought they would, make stretching yourself worthwhile.

Related Brush with Greatness:

I actually got to sit next to founder Bob Farrell at a National Speaker’s Association conference dinner in the early 90’s, and I told him this story.  He was amused.  Bob does a keynote speech on customer service called “Give ‘em the Pickle.”

Suburban cowboy

 Do you have one of those childhood photos that you wish would never see the light of day again?  Yes… that is me on the left with my older brother Jeff on the right. 

I wrote a bit of cowboy poetry below, dedicated to my childhood and the spirit of the Old West.

 

 

 

When I was a kid it was a simpler time
In the 60’s, I dreamed I would be
Like Roy Rogers or the Lone Ranger
A’ridin’ the lone prairie.

But life is what happens as you make other plans
And I grew up forsakin’ that dream
Got married, had kids, bought a house in the burbs
And by God my front lawn is real green

I’m a suburban cowboy, no prairie in sight
And I ain’t got no time to be bored
My day’s full a work with a keyboard and mouse
And my horse is a Honda Accord 

Got boots nice and clean, never been in a fight
And I can’t say I’ve shot a man down
But I’ve drawn on a dude in a video game
High score! I’m the best shot around! 

I troubleshoot my computer
And work around ‘most any glitch
Instead of a campfire to sing by
I got a grill with an auto-light switch 

Some folks can relax, raisin’ kids and some cattle
and settlin’ down on a farm
But ain’t no relaxin’ for this workin’ stiff
With a 30 year fixed and an ARM 

When life gets too stressful I do venture out
To a saloon where there’s gamblin’ and drinkin’
OK it’s not really a saloon, it’s an Olive Garden…
At the corner of 12^th street and Lincoln 

Now I don’t want your pity, don’t give me that look
I got the cowboy spirit inside.
And I don’t need no more excitement
‘Cause my life is already a wild ride 

So let’s cut this short, I won’t waste your time,
I’ve still got some spreadsheets to do
I hope you find what you’re lookin’ for…
Happy Trails from me to you!

Where I come from

Revisiting a childhood home can be an emotional experience.  After you get over the difference in scale (not as big as you remember it) you’re transported back in time to relive memories you thought were long gone.  I recently got to visit my childhood home at 802 S. Lafayette Street in Macomb, Illinois, and I had not seen it since age 11 when we moved to Indiana.

There in splendid detail was:

- the window to my old bedroom
- the buckeye tree I used to climb
- the front sidewalk where I skinned my knee after falling off my clip-on steel roller skates
- the porch window where the Christmas tree sent a warm glow out onto the snow-covered evergreen bushes
- the white-painted front door that swung open the night my dad surprised us in his Santa suit
- the picture window I used to look out to see when my brother Jeff got home from Kindergarten
- and the sloping backyard that we used to roll down just for the fun of it.

I wanted to knock on the front door and get a tour of the inside, but it felt like a line I shouldn’t cross.  As I stood in the front yard and took a picture of the house, it hit me… how much it had NOT changed.  Other than some peeling peacock blue paint, it was mostly the same as we left it.  Maybe this is just a small town phenomenon. In California, old stuff gets torn down and new stuff gets built on the lot. 

Time had not really touched my old home, and it reminded me of the permanence of things. Not just the house, but the permanence of the values I learned growing up in Macomb in the 1960’s – be nice, help others and treat people the way you want to be treated.  Simple rules, really.  No matter what mask or game face I put on in my job today, I cannot escape that part of me…instilled by a loving family and a community that protected its own.

Life is not perfect in a small town. OK…sometimes it can be more Norman Bates than Norman Rockwell. But I choose to recall the best parts of my childhood and draw strength from them, including celebrations of happy times, lessons learned the hard way, and the importance of self-reliance and accountability.

As we drove out of town, we passed the brick courthouse and town square that looked remarkably like the one in the movie “Back to the Future.”  That’s where I was headed alright, back to the future and my current life in the fast lane.  

I love big cities and big city people, but some folks here on the coast jokingly call the heartland of America “flyover country.” If that’s the way they see it, then I hope they keep flying over and don’t stop.  The permanence of the people there, their families and the way they treat each other is something to be celebrated… not mocked.

Growing up in a small town was an important cornerstone for who I am today. And knowing where I come from helps me stay on track for where I’m going.  Have you revisited where you came from?  What memories do you choose to hold on to?

Brother Max

“You’re aaaallll sinners! Repent before it’s too late!!” 

I turned to see where the voice was coming from.  I was late for my freshman psychology lecture, but I had to see what was going on.  There in the middle of the grass mall was a large circle of 50 students with a skimmer straw hat moving slowly in the center.  I rollerskated up the sidewalk (hey it was the 80’s) as the crowd shouted at the man in the middle.  That’s when I first laid eyes on Brother Max.

Brother Max was a traveling preacher.  He was in his late 50’s, and wore a white seer sucker suit with suspenders and a yellow bow tie. He reminded me of one of those snake oil salesmen that wandered from town to town in the old West.  But Brother Max was not selling snake oil.  He was selling Christianity.  And now, like a single gladiator in the middle of a great coliseum, he was inviting the crowd to clash with him in a war of words.

At first I was amused.  He danced around on his soapbox (OK, plastic milk crate) and alternated between reading scriptures from his beat-up old bible and rebuking random members of the audience.  The audience alternated between booing and laughing. I admit I laughed at the spectacle too, until Brother Max walked up to a young sorority girl proudly displaying three Deltas on her pink sweatshirt, and said, “Yooooouuu are a prostitute, and yer going to hell if you don’t repent.”

Whoa! Now hold on a minute. I am a Christian and this was not the tolerant, respectful religion I grew up with. This guy was going WAY over the top and inciting the crowd with hostility.  I somehow felt like they were laughing at my faith now, and suddenly didn’t feel like being silent anymore.

“Hey, you don’t know her!!” I shouted, apparently loud enough for Max to hear from across the circle.  He wheeled around and looked right at me.  The crowd got quiet as he took six long exaggerated steps toward me and stopped six inches from my face.  I could see the fire in his eyes through his thick glasses, not unlike looking through the bottom of two rootbeer mugs.  He smelled like an odd mix of cotton candy and beef jerky.

He growled, “And you’re going to Hell too, boy.”

Everybody laughed at the theatrical display, but then got really quiet and turned to look at me.  Was I going to respond, or back down?  Not wanting my religion to be mocked anymore, I expressed myself, eloquently,

“You’re an idiot!”  The crowd emboldened me with a laugh.

Brother Max came right back with, “You’re a blasphemer!”

I shouted a little louder, “You’re a blowhard!!”

The crowd roared again. It had now grown to over 100 people.

Brother max escalated “I challenge yeewwww to repent of your sins!!”

All the expectant eyes were upon me.  To this day I’m not sure where it came from inside me, but I shouted “Well, I challenge you… to an arm-wrestling match!”

This got the biggest laugh of the “show.”  I looked left and right, congratulating myself on my quick wit, but Brother Max was not ready to give up.

“Come on bring it, little man.”

Excuse me?  Did he just accept my challenge to an arm-wrestling match in front of 100 people?! There was no backin’ down now.  I threw aside my backpack and said, “You’re goin down, Brother Max.”

Now picture the absurdity of the scene for a moment.  Here was a 50-something man in a white seersucker suit and yellow bow tie, lying down in the grass to arm-wrestle a freshman wearing a Purdue sweatshirt, blue jean shorts and rollerskates.  Brother Max was short but stocky, probably outweighing me by 80 pounds. My skinny arms were about half the size of his. I was not optimistic about the outcome, but there was no backing down now.

The crowd closed in and counted down from 10 like a rocket launch.

10 – 9 – 8 – 7

His hand felt like a big hairy catcher’s mitt, and I gripped the best I could.

6 – 5 – 4

He glared at me through those rootbeer mugs, magnifying the fire in his eyes.

3 – 2 – 1 – Go!!

The battle didn’t last long.  I put up a 10-second fight before he turned his wrist and slammed my arm back into the grass.  The crowd cheered and booed at the same time.  Then something unexpected happened – Brother Max didn’t immediately let go of my hand.  He held on for a few seconds more, as a big smile curled across his lips.  He whispered something I’ll never forget, “I’ve got their attention now, don’t I boy?”

Max got back up on his milk crate to preach and I slinked away to my Psychology class. My Christianity was still intact but my pride… not so much. I was now known as “that guy who arm-wrestled Brother Max and lost!”

But the story doesn’t end there.  An hour later, after my class, I was rolling by the mall.  There was no longer a crowd in the grass, but I saw Brother Max under the shade of a big oak tree, talking quietly to a group of four students.  I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was handing them small bibles and turning to specific pages for them to read.

Is it possible that crazy Brother Max was really a marketing genius, creating a scene in order to be heard?  Was he simply demanding attention from the many to really reach just a few?

There are 2 lessons I took away from my run-in with Brother Max. Take your pick:

1)     Don’t let your alligator mouth get your hummingbird butt in trouble.

2)     First impressions, and intentions, are not always what they seem.

For that lesson, and for the four other students he reached that day, I say… thank God for Brother Max.

Crap sandwiches

Social media allows anyone to connect directly to authors and thought leaders and have unfiltered conversations that were just not possible in the past. I just had a lunchtime exchange on Facebook with Larry Winget, author of the upcoming book “No Time for Tact.”  A self-described pitbull of personal development, Larry’s in-your-face, direct style can be equally off-putting and refreshing. It’s shock value with a point, and I like it.

Here’s our brief wall conversation following this posted book excerpt:

“Constructive criticism is a stupid concept. To construct means to build up. To criticize is to tear down. You can’t do both at the same time. Pick one (from “No Time For Tact.”) I also wrote about the Crap Sandwich concept in my book. Any way you slice it, at the end, you still have the taste of crap in your mouth. Better to just give it to people straight. We spend way too much time trying to soften the blow and don’t end up serving people well at all.”

Really?  Personally, this goes against everything I learned from my parents, school, church and Toastmasters. And hey, I’m from Indiana. People from Indiana grow up nice. I felt compelled to throw in my two cents…

“Larry, I agree that criticism tears down in preparation for building up. The key is asking someone if they want it before you just dump it on them. ‘Would you like my opinion on how you can improve?’ If they say no, be prepared to walk away.”

“David, if they work for you, you don’t have to ask, it’s your obligation to criticize their work. If they don’t work for you, I have discovered it is best to wait until they ask you. People don’t want to change any way or they already would have so why put yourself through the grief of “helping” them? It’s a waste of time and effort for everyone.”

“Good point Larry. In my experience though, I see so much crap rolling downhill for everyone at work, I find it helps morale to get it in “sandwich form” occasionally   I have also found some people willing to change, starving for help, but afraid to ask. So I volunteer my humble advice. Some say yes, some say no thanks.”

“David, your point is well taken.”

I share this with you because:

A) It shows that Larry Winget is reasonable and willing to have an intelligent conversation with his readers, and

B) I really want to know what you think about Larry’s claim above, “We spend way too much time trying to soften the blow and don’t end up serving people well at all.”  Do you agree?

The other side of the board

“Come on, you can do it!  Break the board!  Break the board!!“

My best friend Jeff Bagby was coaching me on martial arts in the basement of his house in Kokomo, Indiana. It was the early 70’s and Kung Fu was at its popularity peak, fueled by primetime TV shows, movies and comic books.  I was looking for a little self-defense insurance.

I lined up my arm and gently touched the piece of scrap wood with the base of my palm.

Jeff held it firmly between his outstretched and locked arms.  “Come on, break the board!”

I stared at the wooden surface as I rotated my torso and retracted my arm.  I screamed out “Hie-yahhhh!!” as I punched forward as fast as I could.

I screamed out “Yee-oucchh!!!” as my hand bounced off the board, sending a shockwave of pain up through my shoulder.

“OK… OK. Here’s what you’re doing wrong.” Jeff patiently explained.

“You are focusing too much on the surface of the board. You have to focus on a spot 12 inches on the other side and punch THROUGH the board, not AT it.”

He held it out once again, and I visualized punching through all the way to his stomach (which would be a nice payback after the pain he just put me through.)  I took a deep breath, pulled back, let loose and CRACK!!  The board split as I almost fell forward into coach Jeff.  My disbelief turned into a satisfying smile.  Nobody was going to mess with ME on the school bus!

Funny how these little defining moments stick with us.  Sometimes when I’m having trouble breaking through an obstacle in my life now, I try to visualize what it will be like after I succeed.  I picture what it will look like on the other side of that board.  Then I stop punching AT the problem and punch through it instead. After all, seeing is believing.  And if I am not able to really SEE my success in advance, I don’t really BELIEVE it in advance.

Are you having trouble getting through an obstacle in your life? Maybe try adjusting your vision beyond the short-term and focus on where you will be after you succeed. Trust me… it makes it a lot easier to break through.

Taking the hill

There was a light rain followed by a sharp temperature drop, and fresh icy snow had formed all the way up Salisbury hill. There were other ways I could have gone home, but I wanted to take this shortcut.  My beloved ‘71 Monte Carlo had plenty of power – a 400 cubic inch engine with a Holly 4-barrel carburetor (environmentally-friendly at 6 mpg in the city, 9 on the highway.) It had shiny Cragar rims on wide racing slick tires – great on hot Indiana asphalt; nearly useless at getting traction in the snow.

I thought if I just got enough momentum at the bottom of the hill, surely I could make it to the top. My girlfriend Carol said “You’re not going to make it.”  Well, chalk it up to 19-year old macho, but I took this as more of a challenge than a warning.  I punched it and charged up the icy hill.  About a third of the way up I noticed the car was starting to slow down. And the harder I stepped on the gas pedal, the slower we went.  I floored it with the speedometer buried at 120 miles per hour, but I could see out the frosty window that we were only doing about 2.

Apparently my slick back tires were spinning so fast they were able to burn their way down through the ice, and grab just enough of the asphalt pavement to get a grip.  The engine was whining and the tires crying out for help, but we were inching our way up that hill.  That’s when I realized how deep I was into this commitment.  If I were to let go of the gas and hit the brakes, I would just slide backwards out of control, and surely hit a tree or a parked car. I had to keep going.

When the hill finally leveled out at the top and I could let off the gas, I yelled out “YES!!”  in triumph.  Then I looked over at Carol who had dug all 5 fingernails into the imitation leather arm rest.  She didn’t have to say a word.  I got the glaring look that screamed “Don’t you EVER do that again!”

That’s when it really hit me about the risk I took. I could have slid back down, crashed and injured us both. I could have blown up the engine.  Was it really a good decision to take that hill?  Actually, it was not a decision at all.  It was an emotional burst of stupidity.

Have you ever charged into something at full speed before REALLY thinking it through?  Of course you have.  Motivational experts tell us all the time to take a chance, take a risk… nothing ventured, nothing gained.  But the older we get, the more our experience and intuition drop hints about what could cause failure. 

This is exactly my point.  There is nothing wrong with listening to your intuition before you hit the gas.  It’s a built-in check and balance system.  If something is bothering you in the back of your mind before you start, take a moment to bring it to the forefront and deal with it.  Because once you go with the emotional charge up the hill, you just might get yourself in deep before realizing you have no traction.

I’ve learned plenty of things the hard way in my life, but I’m finally starting to get it.  Call it intuition, call it conscience, call it God whispering in my ear…. I’m better off when I listen first, act second.

Yosemite #2 – A little insurance

 
My first attempt at climbing Yosemite’s Half Dome was a failure – I had to retreat in the face of bad weather. Many of you said I did the right thing in turning around, and that the mountain would always be there for a second try.  Honestly I wasn’t sure I wanted to.  The climber who fell to his death not long after my first retreat still haunted me.

Trying again after failing is easier said than done. “Get back up on that horse” you’ll hear from your friends. “If you wait too long it will get worse.” 

When my 19-year-old son Evan said he wanted to do the climb, my first impulse was “no way!”  How could I allow my only son to take a risk like that?  Then again, if he was old enough to do it himself anyway, perhaps I could be there to make sure he was safe.

 

So we set out yesterday on the 18-mile hike and succeeded in reaching the summit this time!  But it was not without a little insurance.  I bought a couple of 8-foot black webbing straps and offset caribiners at REI, so we could clip onto the cable in between each post. (NOTE: the steel cable diameter is slightly less than the width of a quarter. Use a quarter to test the caribiner you buy. Also use gloves that are thin enough so you can operate the clip easily.)

 

Now I was prepared.  If I slipped during the climb or if someone else fell into me, the waist strap would stop my slide.  I still felt like I was literally hanging on for dear life, but that clip provided enough peace of mind to enable me to go all the way.  On the way down, I was even confident enough to create camaraderie on the cables, giving little pep talks to the other climbers around me.  By the way, my son was never afraid, going up or down. Ah, the immortality of youth.

 

This is the point… experience can be a double-edged sword.  It can make you fearful when you have seen just how bad things can be.  But learning from other’s experience can also help you achieve more than you’ve ever dreamed.  It just took a little online research and discussions with other experienced climbers to help me try again and reach that new level.

 

The photo above says it all.  That’s Evan and I standing on the edge of the top of the world.  I was able to draw courage from experience, and it was SO worth it to try again. May you reach the same heights in your lifetime. 

See more photos from my trip, and send me a friend request in Facebook if you want to keep up with each other’s journeys

Get your kicks

The runners rounded the final turn and headed into the home stretch of the 800M race at the 1972 Olympics in Munich.  Dave Wottle, whose trademark white golf cap made him easy to find in the pack, was so far back it looked impossible for him to even place.  I was just a kid, watching the race on TV with my dad.  He said, “Don’t count Wottle out, he’s got an amazing kick.”

I snorted, “Yeah right, Dad.  Look at how far behind he is!” 

Jim McKay echoed the warning, “Stand by for the kick of Dave Wottle. If he’s got it, he could make it!”

Then I watched in amazement as the skinny guy in the white cap passed every runner in the final 100M to take the gold medal!  My favorite part  was Wottle’s face after he won… as if he was saying, “Yeah I did it. What did you expect?”

Click here to watch the video (4:47)

I thought to myself, “What the heck is a kick and how do I get one?!”  Was there something about seeing that finish line that made him suddenly come to life? 

Have you ever performed better when the end was in sight?  I’m talking about closing sales deals before the end of the month, delivering a project by the due date, or finishing your article by the publishing deadline.  There’s a rush of adrenaline and a sharpening of focus when the day of reckoning is near. You kick it into high gear, and give it all you’ve got to the finish line.

Wouldn’t it be cool to call on a kick whenever you needed it? Maybe use a few mini-kicks along the way so you’re not stressing so close to the due date?  I’ve started breaking down big goals into sub-goals with immovable deadlines.  It helps me celebrate more often and space out the adrenaline surges. 

The same goes for getting your team to kick.  Set up short-term mile markers with imminent dates to get them focused.  Then cheer them on as they pass each one. 

Don’t let your goals float out there too far.  If you set up a finish line you can see, you may get a “kick” out of it.  It’s your call on wearing the white golf cap.

Just keep going

I was sooo comfortable in my table seat on the commuter train.  Laptop plugged in, wireless Internet on and cranking through my email.  Best of all, there was no one else sitting at my table to bother me. But that was about to change.

“Next stop, Fremont station!”  The train squealed to a stop.  Shooom, the doors opened and the next batch of riders shuffled up the stairs to find a seat.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone rustling a bunch of bags down the aisle. I thought ‘Oh great, he’s going to plop down right across from me and ruin my little paradise.’  I was looking out the window like a kid who didn’t want the teacher to call on him in class. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?  Do you mind?” 

As if I had a choice, I said “no, not at all” and made a half-hearted attempt to pull my computer a little closer. 

He said, “Thank you, ‘preciate it. ‘Preciate it, thank you.” 

I noticed he had the same nervous twitch and repetitive speech pattern as Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man.  I thought he may have been autistic or developmentally disabled in some way. He was 20-something, with a sunburned face and long, stringy red hair hanging out of the back of a baseball cap, like one of those Wayne’s World caps you see in costume shops. He wore a sleeveless white t-shirt, baggy pajama pants and beat-up running shoes.    His “luggage” consisted of a large blue vinyl duffel bag, a yellow backpack (which he hoisted up onto the table) and a re-usable cloth grocery bag, all stuffed to the seams.

I instinctively reached for my noise-cancelling headphones.  I was being courteous, but didn’t want to give the impression that I was TOO open to conversation. Well, apparently I was now a captive audience.

He said, “I’m going to Stockton.  First time going to Stockton.  First time.  Do you know Stockton?”

I smiled politely and nodded.  “Yes, I’ve been there.”

“You know any shelters?”

“Shelters?” I said.

He pointed to his duffel bag. “Yeah, shelters in Stockton. I’m homeless, homeless.”

I suddenly snapped out of my bubble.  Here was some homeless kid, riding the ACE commuter train with a bunch of 40-something executives like me, just trying to get from one place to the next.  To be honest, I usually walk right by homeless people, occasionally throwing a buck or two into a can.

“I don’t know Stockton that well, but I can look something up for you on the Internet.”

“Dang!  You got Internet right there!  Wow!!” His face lit up with an enthusiastic smile.  “You got a printer too?”

I chuckled.  “No, but I’ll write down some addresses for you.”

“That would be great, great.  ‘Preciate it, thank you. Thank you, ‘preciate it.”

I pulled up a Google map of two homeless shelters near the train station.  As I drew a little map for him, he asked, “How much is bus fare in Stockton? Bus fare?”

I clicked to find a fare schedule. “Let’s see… if you’re 18 years old it’s $1.50.  Are you over 18?”

“I’m 20 years old.  20… and I’m disabled. Cheaper price for disabled.”

I looked down the list.  “Let’s see… seniors and disabled… here it is…75 cents.” 

He smiled, “Cool, 75 cents. Cool.”

I was starting to get drawn into his story.  What did it take to keep going every day?  I couldn’t help thinking of the contrast with my own 19 year old son, who’s going to college in Santa Barbara. My son doesn’t have to worry about his next meal, or scraping together 75 cents for bus fare.

I asked him why he was on this train, and he said the bus fare from Stockton to LA was cheaper than San Jose to LA.  “I’m going to visit my mom in LA. She’s diabetic. Diabetic. She’s 54 and she’s diabetic.”  I didn’t ask anymore on the topic, as he looked troubled about it. 

He pulled out an insulated coffee mug with a train station logo on the side.  He proudly proclaimed, “The lady filled it up with hot chocolate… and I got that for FREE!” 

He pulled out a big plastic jar of apple sauce, opened the lid, and chugged a big mouthful.  “Ah, that’s good stuff. Good stuff.”

It occurred to me that I hadn’t properly introduced myself.  I reached out to shake his hand. “My name’s David, what’s yours?”

He said, “My name’s Pebbles.”

“Pebbles?” I thought it was an odd name for a guy, but I went with it.

He said, “Yeah, like on the Flintstones.  You know the Flintstones?”

“Yes, I’m old enough to know the Flintstones.”

“Yeah, my nickname is Pebbles.  Pebbles.  Because she is independent… and gets in trouble all the time!”  He laughed out loud, and then shook his head slowly.  “I just keep going. Keep going.”

I closed up my laptop and we talked about a few things, like the windmills in the Altamont hills, which led to talking about the famous Rolling Stones concert at Altamont in the 60s. He surprised me when he said, “Yeah Hell’s Angels stabbed somebody. Stabbed somebody.”

I said, “You’re not old enough to remember the Rolling Stones.” 

He rolled his eyes sarcastically and said “I KNOW history!”

“Are you saying I’m old?”

He paused for a second. “You said it, not me.  Not me.”

The train was rolling downhill faster now, and I told him my station was coming up. He silently looked out the window for a few minutes, and then back at me. His voice dropped as he said, “You know… lots of people don’t want… don’t want to be by me.  They say GET AWAY from me!”  He made a shooing gesture with his hands.  “But you…”

His face became very serious.  “You… treat me like a human being.”

I really didn’t know what to say after that.

“Next stop Tracy station!”  I gathered up my stuff, and reached into my wallet for my last $20 bill.  This kid did not once ask me for money.  But he did say ‘maybe someone will help me out,’ as if planting a hopeful seed that would sprout later. 

I wanted to be the one to help him out this time.  I said, “This’ll help you get to LA.  When you get there, tell your mother hello for me… and tell her how impressed I am with your survival skills.”

“Thank you.‘Preciate it. ‘Preciate it. Thank you.”

He grinned that big grin. “Bye David!”

“Goodbye Pebbles.”

As I walked downstairs to get off the train, another passenger tapped me on the shoulder and said “Hey, I saw what you did back there.  Not everyone would have stayed and talked to him like that.”

I said, “You know… he’s a lot sharper than he looks. And he just keeps going. Gotta respect that.”

I’ve been thinking about Pebbles the last few days. I don’t know if he found a good shelter in Stockton. I don’t know if he’s on his way to LA to see his mother.  But one thing I do know. I’ll look at homeless people differently now.  Sometimes God sends us reminders that we are not alone… that we’re put on this planet for each other.  I may have been an angel to Pebbles that day, but he was a messenger to me too.  He reminded me that no matter how tough life is, you just keep going.  You just… keep… going.

The next time you see someone who’s homeless, I encourage you to stop, spare a few dollars, and then if you can…spare a few minutes to talk to them.  Restoring their self-respect may be the greatest gift you can give.

‘Preciate it.  Thank you.

NOTE:  Here is a foodbank that several of my colleagues and I volunteered to help last Christmas.  It’s one of the really good ones: http://www.accfb.org/

Coyote ugly

Our hero rips down the road at blinding speed, kicking up a vapor trail of sand that lingers in the hot heavy air of the Nevada desert.  He’s running for his life you know… being chased by a relentless predator who wants to eat him for lunch.  He suddenly stops on a dime in front of a stone wall, painted to look like the road disappearing into the horizon.  He ain’t fallin’ for it.

He turns to face the predator, barreling down on him at breakneck speed.  He literally has his back against the wall, but demonstrates defiance in his last seconds on this earth.  He sticks out his tongue, sadistically mocking the predator and his stupid trap, then turns and runs impossibly into the painted scene. The predator tries to put on the foot brakes, but his momentum carries him straight into the now solid wall, flattening his snout like a pancake. But does he give up?  No!  Does he lay down and die?  No!! He pulls out his face with a loud “sproing!” and then walks off to plan his next attack with his ACME catalog and seemingly endless supply of coyote currency.

Saturday morning morality was not always so cut and dried.  Was I supposed to be cheering for the Roadrunner, who had super speed and enough intelligence to avoid the perpetual traps that were set for him?  Or was I supposed to admire Wile E. Coyote… who never gave up, even after suffering humiliating defeat after defeat in his attempt to get some food.  I mean… maybe he had a coyote family back at his cave and little cubs who were starving too?

Perhaps this cartoon was more sophisticated than we thought.  Was Chuck Jones showing us the futility of chasing after something we know we’ll probably never get?  (But wait… don’t give up because your next bright idea might just work.)  Or was he just trying to make us feel a little bit better about our own pain?  (Gee I had a rough day, but at least I didn’t fall off a cliff and crash in a tiny puff of smoke at the bottom of the canyon.)

Whatever the director’s intent, I think the Roadrunner cartoons were really about the entertainment value of humiliation.  It’s the same magnetic trainwreck effect that drives the popularity of reality contest shows like American Idol today.  Humiliation sells.  But is it really just harmless fun to watch the poor untalented coyote candidates get mocked by the roadrunner judges and sent home crying? Can’t we just start the show after the good ones are selected? 

As the lines blur between hero and villain, between civility and cruelty, I ask… who do you identify with more – the gleefully talented Roadrunner, or the tragic Wile E. Coyote?

Me?  I gotta run.  I’m hungry and I can’t find my ACME catalog.