Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Ringing Out The Oh-Ohs

Let the countdown to the end of 2009 begin.

I for one will not be sorry to see this sorry excuse of a year come to a close. And "don't let the door knob hit you where the good lord split you" on your way out 2K9.


Good riddance to this last decade as well.

Whatever it was called.

After a decade of this new millennium now, we still don't have a common easy way to refer to this last ten years. In my life time, we had the 60s, the 70's, the 80's and the 90's. But what do we call this first ten years of this new millennium?


I would suggest we call this last decade the "Oh-Ohs".


More bad than good came of this last decade.


That's an understatement.


The millennium opened with the American election and inauguration of the Dub-ya administration ruling the U.S. after a twisted electoral vote dispute over hanging chads in the state of Florida – governed at the time by Dub-ya's brother Jeb. A short nine months later we witnessed the event that changed the western world - the 911 attacks.

This led to chasing down Osama Bin Laden in Afghanistan that somehow was deferred to invading Iraq.

Fear gripped the world – most noticeably in the United States. Homeland Security became the most powerful branch of law enforcement in the lower forty-eight, highlighted by its designer security threat color codes.

I forget now how threatening fuchsia was.


As well, gas prices soared through the roof, while Iran started threatening with nuclear missile development.


China rose to the forefront of economic power – while North America watched it's jobs leave the west and move into the eastern lands of China and India.


And then came Katrina – which showed us just how Mother Nature could take advantage of a neglected city like New Orleans and turn it into a soup bowl over night. Having spent a good deal of time in New Orleans in the early eighties, this incident really disturbed me in how badly the aftermath played out.


Then there was a tsunami that devastated the populations of the Malaysian coastal areas.


And earthquakes devastating areas in China and Pakistan.


And all the while the Africans kept killing each other in a battle of the genocides.


Last year the financial meltdown as big as the great depression of the 1930's threw many in financial disparity.


Business failed.


Jobs lost.


Homes foreclosed on.


Banks failed and major financial institutions came close to folding – caused by years of corporate executive greed with multimillion dollar bonuses being paid to those very executives who put in place the practices that caused the meltdown.


The American banks received trillions of dollars in American Bailout monies. Other nations like Great Britain followed suit.


And General Motors – the company that once gauged the prosperity of North America went into bankruptcy proceedings and had to be floated by billion dollar bailout package to restructure and be overseen by a government appointed Automotive Czar.


As well, Al Gore – the very presidential candidate that lost to Dub-ya in the election of 2000 by a hanging chad – has spent the last ten years growing beards and shaving them off as he shows the world his power point presentation about the irreversible effects of global warming – and chanting "I told you so" every time we see an odd weather pattern appear.


Ten years into the millenium and we sit in a tough situation – high debt owed to China – skilled professional jobs outsourced to underdeveloped nations abroad – wars on two fronts – and some say the worse is yet to come.


And Osama Bin Laden is still nowhere to be found.


The Oh-Ohs indeed.


The western world is far worse for wear that it was a decade ago.


And many actually believe the ending of the Mayan calendar in 2012 means the end of the world.


Thanks Nostradamus. Great timing.


Let's usher this decade out with all the grief we can muster, and usher in the next decade of the Teens with all the celebration, pomp and ceremony that we possibly can.


Because while I would like to tell you that it can't get much worse – it certainly can.


But we can't dwell on how bad it might be.


We need to knuckle down now to do our best to ensure this next decade unfolds much better.


An awakening.


A resurrection.


We need to find an alternative to fossil fuels to not only stem the tide of pollutants in our environment, but more importantly (in my personal opinion) to neutralize the power and influence of the oil barons and the dastardly (bastardly) destruction the lust for oil has created.


We need to find ways to use this new technology we spent the last decade building other than to download movies and music illegally to really bring cultures together to find common grounds – lowest common denominators of understanding – to work together.


To understand each other.


We need to do something different.


If we are moving into a global shift of power – from North America to Asian and Persia – we need to understand the causes of that shift – and what our new roles will likely be. And how we can perhaps shift that balance back to a more equal level.


I believe this next decade will be ten years of the greatest opportunities mankind has yet to encounter. And how we embrace these challenges will determine our ability to grasp these opportunities to benefit of all of us.


Or maybe the Mayans are right?


If we don't start the awakening soon, the Mayan's may as well be right.


Join with me now as we kiss the "Oh-Ohs" good bye- and lets join hands and celebrate what can be. What should be.


On New Year's Eve 2009, have the one you love by your side – take their hand – and make the commitment together to embrace this next decade with all the optimism and spirit of community you can muster.


Happy New Year everybody. And raise your glass high to a happy new decade.


And next year - this next decade- may we all win.


Whatever we call it.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Fame – Be Careful What You Wish For

Another Christmas has come and gone.

Christmas wishes hoped for. Some received – while others denied.

It's all part of Christmas.

But one wish I would never make is that of fame.

I have indeed met some famous people.

Once – at the young age of twenty - I got drunk with Burt Reynolds – me and about twenty five other people that night in the former Atlanta underground that used to house the Omni.

And I once stood in line at the airport with Bill Cosby – but he was in no mood to be sociable that day. Airports ticket lines are not conducive to grand moods of social levity.

I have written here already about the time I walked eighteen holes with Mike Weir.

As well, I once met basketball legend Isaiah Thomas as he waited for a puddle-jumper to take him from Detroit to Toronto. He was very friendly that day. He actually came up to us and asked us if we wanted his autograph. I have no idea why we declined his offer – but we did. I joked at the time that I hoped Mr. Thomas would not be on the same flight as us.

And once while at Canada's Wonderland amusement park north of Toronto, Shania Twain – a just then rising country music singer leaned back against a chain link fence as I did the same from the other side – and as we both turned around to see what we had done – I got the nicest smile from the soon-to-be-super-star as she apologized to me – as I apologized to her. So my bum has touched her bum. But that didn't impress her much – and to this day I wonder if I inspired that song?

But these are only random chance occurrences of paths in life crossing each other.

Novelty encounters only.

I have never seen any advantage to fame. And after the last month or so, witnessing the Tiger Woods affairs on every form of media available to the modern man, I wonder even more so "who would want fame?"

Why?

The world is a much smaller place now. And while I feel closer to friends I have not seen for thirty years as they continue to appear on various social media sites like facebook – it is also smaller in the way the creeps of the world can now approach my family online – promising great riches of Nigerian bank accounts and false and misleading emails from what appears to be my own bank asking me to please confirm the information for my various accounts.

The scary part is that we are just at the very beginning of this new age of the Internet – even though it has been prevalent in our lives for the last fifteen years.

Sites like YouTube to allow every person with a camcorder the ability to post their best attempt to be noticed in the hopes of instant fame.

Fame – why would anyone wish for fame?

The only fame I would ever wish for would be that of recognition among my peers – those that I struggle and toil with on a daily basis in the efforts to fulfill the obligations of our professional designations. And I believe we as a team have already accomplished that positive level of recognition – within the confines of our corporate audience at least.

I wonder if Tiger Woods is still happy to be famous.

It would appear that with fame come riches - or at least the opportunity for riches. And power. That seems to be the common perception of fame anyway.

But to me I think such fame would bring unwanted obligations. Conditions on fame such as constant public scrutiny. Approval ratings. And of course the loss of any privacy a person such as you and I may not appreciate that we enjoy.

Would I want pictures appearing on web sites of me all unkempt with ball cap on in sweatpants as I run into the market for sorely needed bread and milk for breakfast?

"Fred Brill is really a sloppy bum!" would read the caption – announcing the truth that my close circle of friends already know.

Would I want people speculating on my personal life because a picture appeared of me talking to a pretty girl out at a social function?

I think not.

It would also appear that a stipulation for popular fame is beauty.

So I think I am pretty safe.

I am not one that people would look upon as a beautiful person. I am actually quite odd looking. I am not complaining mind you. Being an odd-looking married father of two has its advantages.

I wonder how it must be for that beautiful girl – the one people like me are seen talking to that launches speculation on intentions and other what-nots.

How inconvenient it must be to be beautiful?

Yet there is a multi-billion dollar industry founded on products to make us more attractive – both men and women. And for what purpose?

Sex I guess. Sex would appear to be the motivating factor for so many stupid things people do.

Do you think Tiger Woods is still motivated by sex?

Who knows.

Who cares?

It's such a small world now.

Damned near crowded.

I don't answer the phone when the caller ID reads "Unknown". Let them talk to my answering machine.

I don't open emails from people I don't know – regardless of how large the sum in my Nigerian bank account could be.

But I still smile at strangers as I pass them in a store or on the street. Some smile back – others look offended that I acknowledged them.

I also sometimes like to wave at strangers as I go by in my car – but only for the sport of watching them try to figure out who I am and how it is that they must know me. My wife hates it when I do.

Someday perhaps I may find myself famous – quite by accident I would assure you. And should that day come – the game of passing strangers on the street and waving or smiling at them would take on a new aspect – depending on the nature of my fame.

Should I be acknowledged as that amazingly talented writer of Headstuffing – the response would be positive of course. But this is quite unlikely.

But should I be acknowledged as that horrid person accused of doing what-not to you-know-who for reasons we all know – the response would be much more negative.

I might even get punched in the nose.

And for this reason alone – I will do my best not to do anything horrid like what-not – certainly not to you-know-who – and never, never, never for reasons like the one we all know.

Because I'm already pretty odd-looking. A broken nose certainly wouldn't help.

Let others fill the role of beautiful and famous. Let them enjoy the riches and the power that fame brings.

As for me – I am quite content to simply remain anonymous – except for my name and odd-looking picture of me in the top right corner of this page.

I will simply continue to whisper to the world in my writings here on Headstuffing – attempting to make you laugh – or point out the foibles of the day – of our ways. And whisper those ideas I sometimes have that may make a difference in the world, whisper them into the ears of the rich and famous and powerful so that perhaps – just perhaps – one day that one of those ideas might take root in the public's imagination to be realized.

But leave the fame to someone else.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Cherish The Christmas Present Before It’s The Christmas Past

The ground outside is white with snow.

The snow is lit by the outdoor lights of white, blue, red, green and gold. The reflection from the snow creates a surreal haze in the silence of the dark night.


Through the window the Christmas tree is lit in the center of the room. A sense of warmth emits from our well lit abode.


My faithful black lab Suzy's new favorite place to lie is no longer at my feet as I write from the back deck by the pool. The deck is now buried in white – the furnishings of the deck put away until the eternal hope of spring teases us with the nearness of summer.


Summer? It's Christmas!


Suzy's new favorite sleeping spot is under the foot of the Christmas tree.


The tree I just erected moments ago. Less than a week before Christmas.


My two little girls – promising so eagerly to help me put this three pieced mash of fake evergreen and pre-strung white lights – are strewn across the couch in tiny curled up forms of lightly snoring little princesses.


Useless princesses – but my princesses none the less.


I hope they marry into money – because the job market for princesses is likely to be very small when they grow up.


Our two little kittens are not quite as little now – but this will be their first Christmas. They are curious of the tree, the holly intertwined in the banister that wraps around our upstairs living room, and the larger than normal nativity scene on the large shelf above our foyer closet.


The kittens find all this more curious than normal. Climbing and balancing and weaving their way through the decorations.


Downstairs in front of the fireplace sits the green and red bin full of mantle decorations. Full of stockings, and stocking holders, and nutcrackers of all shapes and sizes. And a very special snow globe my cousin Jenny made for me to celebrate a headstuffing story called "Don't Be Scared Of A Little Snow" – depicting my arrival to the great white north from the sunny southern climate I grew up in.


All are very special to me. But the snow globe is the most special I think.


My daughters are now seven and eight years old. And I plan to cherish these few remaining Christmas's with them as little girls. Soon they will be young lady's – and soon the childlike wonder of Christmas will fade from their eyes.


Too soon – I know.


Their favorite decoration in the bin would be the tiny house of Advent – with twenty five doors – one for each day of the month from December 1st to Christmas day. And behind each door is a candy for each of them. Each day they open a new door.


The Advent house hasn't been pulled out of the bin yet.


Alannah – while helping me line up the sections of the tree posts to fit them together – asked me:


"Daddy, can we open all of the doors of the Advent house tonight?"


"I'm afraid they don't have any candies in them Alannah".


"That's ok, I just want us to open the doors".


Shortly after – she was curled up on the couch – likely dreaming of doors to be opened in some mystical fashion.


Later, Ashley-Rae woke up and helped me spread the branches out on the tree to make it look full and natural.


"Lift me up Daddy, so I can reach the ones on the tippity-top" she asked.


As I did so, I realized my daughter weighed more this year at seven than last year at six. Combined with my additional year of aging, it was obvious next year would be an even greater struggle to do so.


I know it's silly.


It's silly to love something so much as to start missing it while you still have it.


I am already starting to feel the pangs of missing my little girls – even though they are still – to me anyway – little.


I see the days coming ahead in the not-as-far-in-the-future-as-I-would-like-them-to-be.


The days when Alannah comes home from wherever she is living – with her boyfriend or husband – and only having a brief moment to stop in and visit her mother and I as we sit in that same living room. She will pull a small parcel from her bag for each of us and explain that she has to be elsewhere for dinner.

And we will smile and say thank you and give her presents to her. And we will show her the lovely card we received from Ashley-Rae explaining that she cannot be in Ontario for Christmas but that she will be thinking of us.

And while the boyfriend checks his watch for the time, my lovely wife and I and Alannah will drop our heads in unison as to signify to each that we know the days of today are past and tomorrow's days have arrived.

And I will let out as deep a sigh then as I let out now as I wrote my premonition here.

But today is still today. No ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future need visit me just yet. The bah-humbugs have not yet infested my soul and devoured my passion for Christmas with my little family.


It's not about getting. It's about giving. And it's about giving all that I have – all that I am to my two little princesses – strewn on the couch lightly snoring.


Useless as they may seem to me now – they are the most valued treasures of my future. And in their absence I will somehow love them even more then than I do now.


Merry Christmas to you all. Cherish the Christmas present – for soon it shall be in the past.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Be Of Service

Christmas is the time for giving.

That's what Christmas is all about right?


Giving.


But most often at Christmas, we mistake this idea with simply purchasing and wrapping something up with pretty bows and ribbon. We take that parcel and put it under a tree, and wait for Christmas day for the receiver of the gift to open it and tell you how much they like it.


Job done. Objective met. Obligation satisfied.


Right?


Well, the one aspect of giving that many overlook this time of year is the most important one.


To be of service.


To offer assistance to someone in need.


To be available and receptive to requests for your attention.


To give your time and attention to someone who would benefit from it.


These are the gifts of the greatest reward.


Much better than a kitchen gadget that scoops ice cream and cuts pizza when it's not crushing fruits and vegetables into some form of juice.


Your attention is the most purest form of generosity.


The reward is the deepest sense of satisfaction, of purpose, of gratification.


It helps if the receiver of your attention appreciates your attention. But that should not be your motivation for being of service.


Some confuse this aspect with the self-serving form of self-promotion. Giving to people who can help them better their station in life.


But the greatest reward comes from being of service who have nothing to offer in return. Except for their sincere appreciation for your effort.


This year, as we get busier and busier with holiday festivities and the tasks they inspire – I would like to ask you to please keep your eyes open for opportunities to be of service.


Not when it's convenient. Not when it suits your schedule. But when it's required.


A laneway shoveled for a person not easily capable of shoveling.


A visit to a person who could use a friendly face to tell them you care how they are and to listen to them.


A trip with someone to someplace they need to go.


You know what I mean.


You may have had several opportunities to be of service come to mind as you read these few short sentences.


I encourage you to be of service. To give of yourself to others. And to ask for nothing in return.


Then you will be in the giving spirit of Christmas.


Should you heed this advice – well really this request – you will find the spirit of giving this season to make this Christmas even more special.


More special to you.


But even better – someone else.


And you might find you will want to be of service all year round- truly making every day Christmas.

Sunday, December 06, 2009

Being Santa In Our Hearts

I have said it time and time again.

I am not a winter person.


But it's not quite winter yet. It's still fall.


It's December and Christmas has been charging full steam at our Calendars now for the last two weeks.


Last year about this time, my eldest daughter Alannah was questioning Santa Claus. So she and I had a long discussion about how Santa lives in your heart in the faith you hold that he exists. I wrote about this last year in a story called "Believe and He Exists".


But a year to an eight year old seems like an eternity. It does not seem as recent as it does to a nearly fifty year old Daddy.


So I shouldn't be surprised that last year's conversation has slipped out of her mind.


She seems to want to be grown up at only eight years old.


Meanwhile, our youngest daughter Ashley-Rae is seven. The same age Alannah was last year, but Ashley-Rae understands believing – and does not throw such logical explanations at us in such a well structured case of court room prosecution style that the fat man in the red suit is fake.


"You're Santa Claus Daddy, what do you think I am … stupid?" says Alannah, my future crown attorney.


Hmmm ….


I was getting ready for work last week. Standing in front of the bath room mirror brushing my teeth, I saw my own reflection.


I am heavier this year. Nearly two-hundred and forty pounds. Okay, I'm fat.


My hair is a bit longer in the cold weather – not nearly as short as my profile picture suggests. And every year in the cold weather I grow a beard. Not just the white goatee like my profile picture suggests – so this year more than years before – my beard is growing in white.


And it's pretty full.


See where I am going with this yet?


So this year I will continue to let my hair fill in. And I will let my beard grow as long as I can in the short four weeks left.


After this divine revelation presented in my bathroom mirror reflection – I bided my time for Alannah's next session of professional analysis. The clincher was at the point where she restated her position that "Daddy, you're Santa Claus" as her clinching argument.


"What does Santa Claus look like?", I asked.


"He is a big fat guy with a white beard", her voice raising an octave as she said "beard" – questioning where I was going.


"Yup", I said.


She picked up a shopping flyer left behind on the kitchen table from her weekly shopping planning excursion through the ads in the newspaper.


"He looks like this Daddy, but this is not the real Santa Claus".


I took the flyer from her hand. I looked at the picture. I held it up next to my own face.


"Look familiar?", I asked.


I pulled my reading glasses from my shirt pocket and I put then on the end of my nose, like the Santa in the picture.


Alannah just looked at me.


I asked her if she remembered our conversation from last Christmas – that cold evening in the garage where I explained that Santa Clause is in your heart – and lives in your faith – like the baby Jesus lives in your heart – lives in your faith.


"Oh yeah", answered my little girl slipping out of her analytical grown up persona and back into my little girl with an open heart.


"You have to believe for Santa to be real", I reminded her.


She looked at me, and she looked at the picture again. And then she looked at me.


I just gave her a little wink, looking down at her over my spectacles.


She gave me a hug, and then without a word she ran downstairs to the area around the pool table – where our indoor decorations were pulled out of the closet waiting in their boxes to be re-allocated around the interior of our lovely home.


She came back upstairs with a handful of read Santa hats. She handed me mine – with the name "Daddy" written in glitter and glue on the fluffy white fur bottom of the hat.


I put it on.


"Oh my …" said Alannah. "But your beard is not long enough."


"Not yet, I still have four weeks your know"


Alannah smiled and ran off to play with her sister.


Again, like last year, our conversation ended with my uncertainty of its effect.


But this year, I am a bit behind an eight ball now.


The next move is mine – and I really don't have a clue what to do.


I believe sincerely that Santa Claus lives within the heart of all that believe. He lives in our faith, and he lives in our actions.


But all I did was play off the fact I got fat, my beard happens to be white, and my now aging face with my wrinkled eyes looks a tiny bit like Santa's – if the light is right and I wear my spectacles on the end of my nose.


Now I have to back up this big impression with something substantial to make a lasting impression on my future female Clarence Darrow. If Santa lives in our actions, what should my next action be?


What do I do now? Any ideas would be greatly appreciated?


How do I get myself in messes like this?

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Suzy And The Gentleman Stud

I have to be quiet right now.

I don't want to distract the goings on here in my back yard.

I'm sitting here on my deck in the sunshine of the last Saturday in November – and it's cold.

I wouldn't be here if I had the choice.

But I'm a chaperone right now.

"But Fred, I thought your little girls are seven and eight?"

It's not my daughters – it's my beautiful and faithful black lab Suzy.

She's on a date.

The lucky boy is a two year old golden lab stud named Samson. And he's quite the looker.

He's got papers. A pedigree.

Suzy only has a smile, a wink, and a handshake from a farmer in the county for credentials.

You see, we are hoping that Suzy can have puppies.

This is the weirdest date I have ever chaperoned. There is a whole lot of bum sniffing going on – followed by this mammoth of a lab pooping all over my back yard – and peeing to mark his territory.

And Suzy, my beloved best friend is acting like a little slut. And I am encouraging it. If find myself holding Suzy still so Samson can have a better sniff – and saying horrible things to him like "See that Samson? What's that eh boy?".

But my encouragement isn't working.

This is their third "date".

They have come close a couple of times, but poor Samson, the stud extraordinaire, seems to be missing a key talent for recognizing opportunity.

Poor Suzy.

After the last two dates were over, and Samson went home, she lied in the corner of the living room and just sulked – like the girl nobody wanted to dance with.

Right now they are getting close, but they are running out of time. I would imagine that her owner's – Graham and Rene – are nearing the time to pick up Sampson and take him back home.

I sure would like to tell them the good news – but so far – the relationship between Suzy and Sampson is only a platonic one.

Best friends – but not romantic friends.

Perhaps next time Suzy should maybe work a little harder – a little make up or perfume – maybe something a little slinky to send the message.

Right now all she is wearing is her red collar. But then that is all Suzy ever wears.

Perhaps I should take Samson for a walk, and have a little man-to-man with the pup. Explain that under normal conditions I would be grateful for his gentleman-like behavior, but that this is different, and I am actually rooting him on.

I feel like a pervert out here watching.

But we have to know if the deed is done. There are financial obligations associated to a successful outcome to this transaction. There is no room for supposing – or wondering.

What if the deal were done and six weeks later Suzy had malamute pups?

I could just see the small claims court on the television for that one.

"Mr. Brill, please state the Nature of your case."

"Well your honor, we paid for lab puppies, but instead we got malamutes! We demand a refund of our stud services"

"Please elaborate", would say the dignified and honorable judge.

"We paid a sum for this dog over here you honor to do the nasty with my faithful black lab Suzy"

"That's not a malamute?" would say the honorable judge.

"Your honor, Mr. Brill paid us for a service performed by my amazingly handsome stud Samson here" would counter-point our new friends Graham and Rene.

"He still doesn't look like a malamute", would reply the honorable judge.

"The malamute lives next door", I would reply. "It would seem .."

"I think I can deduce for myself what indeed it would seem, Mr. Brill", would shout the honorable judge. "Did Samson and Suzy ever actually do 'the nasty'?" – of course the courtroom would snicker.

"We think so, your honor!", I would say.

"We don't know for sure", would say Graham.

"He doesn't look like a malamute", would say the judge. "Case dismissed!"

So I kind of have to watch.

It's almost like Samson is just too nice. He kind of wants to, but he doesn't want to give Suzy a bad reputation.

But that malamute next door can't be trusted!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

It’s Not Easy Being Green – But It Has To Be

I'll be the first to admit that I talk more about being green than I actually do.

I'll bet most of us do.

I was reading Ian Aspin's ReallyGoodThinking blog this morning - he was talking about how we have to be "Super Heros" - each and every one of us - to change the tide of the environmental changes we see happening before our eyes.

And I thought to myself - "Super Heros?, that sounds pretty hard. Good luck achieving that one!"

Clearly, with all due apologies to Kermit the frog, it's not easy being green.

I wrote a long piece here a year or so ago about developing trains that will carry cars like a ferry, and how if that were to happen – and actually catch on - the cars would evolve to be more compatible with the trains that ferry them.

But the two cars I own are gas guzzling pigs – A Chrysler 300 and a Jeep Liberty.

Why would I buy those two cars?

Because I live in the heart of North American automobile manufacturing – on both sides of the U.S. Canada border, and Chrysler (or Chryslers as we know them in Windsor) are a very big part of our local economy.

And because I got a really great deal on both.

I buy only the new style of low energy light bulbs – but only because the legislation in Ontario is that we have to use these bulbs. I actually like the old ones better – they don't need a warm up period when they turn on. If you flip the light switch they immediately come on bright – not dim like the new ones until they warm up to a point where you can see what you're doing.

I put environmentally friendly lawn care products on my lawn – but only because the province of Ontario has banned the old fashioned "good stuff".

We still use canned products like non-stick cooking sprays and such – that release fluorocarbons into the air and eat away at the o-zone.

And I will print an email or a word document or a spreadsheet so that I can take it away – digest it fully to completely understand what is being conveyed to me – and dispose of it into the office supplied shredding boxes when I'm done. If I need another copy – I print another copy when I need it.

Our washing machine uses only the "he" (high efficiency?) detergents – because that's the only type of detergent the washing machine can use – and it cleans our clothes much better than the old style one we had. And this dryer doesn't eat every button off my good dress shirts and slacks like the old one did.

I'm all for saving buttons. They're a bugger to sew back on.

Our swimming pool in the back yard re-uses most of the water it holds year after year – but we pump chlorine pucks, algaecides, and acidity equalizers into that water to keep it sparkling clear.

Who wants to swim in murky water?

One of the fellows I work with just finished installing some thirty-five or so solar panels on his roof. We were talking about it at lunch on Friday. He did the work himself and says he dumped about twenty-five grand into this project.

"I admire your conviction to do something to save the planet", I said.

"I'd love to tell you that's why I did it", said my slightly eccentric colleague. "Truth be told", he continued, "I did it for the financial return."

"Really?", I was kind of surprised, "How long before you can see a return on that twenty-five grand?"

"About six years?"

I just looked at him as he took another bite of grilled chicken.

"If I wouldn't have done the work myself, it would have taken be about fifteen years!"

I think he saw my confusion in the way my jaw dropped and my eyes bulged.

"It's not something everybody will jump up and do. I did it partially to see if I could", he explained. "It took about two years, and I cut a special hatch to my roof so I could get quick access".

"So I guess your wife has long left you then, eh?"

"No – she hasn't. She actually helped! Not voluntarily mind you!"

My eccentric friend – eccentric in the way many software programmers are eccentric – went on to continue telling me that the electricity he produces is now greater than the amount he consumes. He signed a twelve year contract with the power company – and he gets a larger check from the power company than he pays to the power company for the energy his house uses.

"All the power the panels create goes into the power grid and my house takes power from the grid just like anybody else's."

"The last time we talked, you were putting up a windmill?", I asked.

"I was, but the neighbors complained". He looked down at his plate.

They're not allowed to complain – another one of Ontario legislated green initiatives states that unless you are putting up a really big windmill, or unless your blocking a significant piece of scenery from your neighbors view, like a lake view or something – that they cannot complain.

"I didn't want the neighbors all hating me.", he said. "Besides, the maintenance to keep that turbine working efficiently enough to produce optimum power is pretty high".

Clearly, it is not easy being green.

Now, with all this being said, I know one thing to be true.

People – in general – meaning people who are not eccentric brilliant software programmers – are not going to go out of their way to be green.

People – in the manner of the common masses – will always take the path of least resistance.

The less the resistance – the better – until the clear advantage to the common masses clearly outweighs the inconvenience.

Twenty five grand for a large do-it-yourself project is not exactly the path of least resistance.

The only solar power used at my home is the blanket I put on my pool to warm up the water to a swimmable temperature in the early June and late August days. And those little garden lights that have strategically stuck in various parts of my grounds.

They both serve a convenient purpose and they do not do anything to contribute to the betterment of our environment.

Green cars either cost a ton of money – like the new hybrids and electric powered cars showing up on the market, or are so impractical for a family of four – like the smart cars by Mercedes – which look like they need to poles sticking out the front so the rickshaw pullers can help you get up enough speed to get on the expressway on-ramp.

They just don't fit yet.

I read a great book some years ago – written by an employee from IBM – in which he discussed what it took for a software program to reach "critical mass" – the point where everybody saw a feature in the program that they couldn't live without – like email of the day.

You have seen these applications emerge – the iPod to download and play your favorite music. The digital camera to take millions of high quality pictures to store on your computer and print when you need to. The various new applications on phones like texting that is quickly surpassing email as a means to communicate with friends and business colleagues.

These applications all have the same lowest common denominators. They are simple, they are convenient, they do not require a tremendous investment to use, and they are seen to make our immediate personal quality of life immediately better.

The push to be environmentally friendly has to continue to move this way. To be "green" must be convenient - and must show immediate benefit to the consumer.

It shouldn't have to be legislated by the government.

The green movement has to reach critical mass. Or – as Al Gore will quickly tell you, our planet is doomed.

Products we commonly use must become convenient and affordable to use to contribute our environmentally efficient objectives.

Currently there are some who a seen in the media as pushing the need to change our lifestyles quickly before the impacts of global warming completely change our big blue marble in horrific ways.

But their means for spreading their gospel is to guilt the masses into changing. Harping on our human flaws like our gluttonous waste of materials that demand greater landfills, or our gluttonous use of natural resources like water, clean air, and oil to serve our simple needs to get kids to soccer practice in large SUVs.

Making us feel bad won't make us change our ways.

And we don't as a broad mass of people yet fully recognize what the full extent of global warming means to us, more so to our children, or even more so to our children's children.

No matter how many power-point presentations turned into movies are presented by newly-bearded ex-presidential candidates.

We need that "What's in it for me" question to be clear – concise – and indisputable – understood by everyone!

And it has to be convenient.

The Inconvenient Truth exposed by Mr. Gore has to have a clearly convenient resolution. There has to be a resolution that everyone can adopt without sacrifice.

It's the law of achieving "critical mass".

It has to stop working against the path of least resistance, and instead start embracing that easy path.

People will go with the flow – if the flow goes where they want it to go!

I don't want to see the planet self destruct.

And I don't know how accurate the gloom and doom predictions of the environmental pundits of the day are.

But I do know that the as a whole, the human inhabitants of this planet are gluttons to the worst degree.

And gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins.

Now that being said, I really have to get to work hanging our Christmas lights today before it gets any colder. It's more convenient you see to hang them now.

And I'm proud to say they are all LED lights. So I'm doing my part.

Why? Because LED lights are cheaper to buy now, cheaper to turn on every night from now 'til New Years Day, and they look nicer than the old style.

It's beneficial to me to use LED Christjmas lights.

See what I mean?

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Keys To Success

Times they are a changing.

Although I confess – I thought they changed a long time ago.

I stepped into the little kitchenette in my department this morning to grab a cup of office coffee.

No time to stop at Tim Horton's to grab my usual extra large double-double – office coffee would have to do.

A poster hung on the kitchen cupboard – above the microwave oven – the most prized advertising spot in the entire department.

You could announce anything and get a huge response by hanging your poster in this location – literally trapping every poor soul in the department to have to stand there and read it while the microwave slowly heats last night's left over supper comprised of stuff you didn't eat last night.

The poster was for a women's economic conference – to allow women to share insights as to how to be more successful.

"I want to be more successful too", I thought to myself as I read this poster.

At the bottom of the poster – disguised in a feminine fancy script so as not to be easily visible to the male eye – was written the single qualifying condition …

Exclusively for women!

"Hey …"

That can't be? We are now supposed to be equals, aren't we? Ever since Billy Jean King beat the snot out of that nerdy cross-dressing Bobby Riggs in the Battle of the Sexes tennis match back in the 70's? Ever since Margret Thatcher became Prime Minister of England, and Geraldine Feraldo ran for Vice President of the United States? Ever since Hillary Rodham Clinton ran for President only to get beaten by the first black man ever to run for office (bad timing or what?).

Ever since women's World Cup soccer?

Ever since Yoko Ono? And let's not forget Sarah Palin!

We were supposed to have transcended both race and gender prejudices by now. Right? The twenty first century and all that it brings?

That's why we now have metro-sexual men. Right?

I looked all over the cabinets in that tiny little kitchen for a second poster – the one for men – the one that held the date and time for the big Men's Only How To Be Successful seminar.

I couldn't find one.

I still had time waiting for the coffee to brew, and I stood there looking at the poster for women only to read. I hoped nobody would catch me – there might be a hint as to how to be successful in that poster somewhere.

Nope, I guess you have to go to the conference.

Then I started imagining what would happen if I showed up – with the twenty five dollar entrance fee – and tried to get in. Would they usher me out? Would they deny me access – access to these great keys of success that I am certain were to be delivered just the other side of that conference room door?

Would the cops come, and usher me away – take me down town? Call my wife?

I would likely have to dress in drag – a pant's suit – with reasonable shoes – something that would sing 'successful business woman'. And I could use my daughter's Hannah Montana blond Halloween wig.

But then I remembered I have a mustache and a beard now. I grow a beard most every November – and the mustache hides the scar on my upper lip – so I'm not shaving that off!

So much for going in drag.

What would they talk about?

It must be pretty juicy stuff if men aren't allowed in to hear it! I'll bet they are going to talk about how to get around the old-boy-business-networking that my dad and my dad's dad and his dad too worked so hard to set up for the last couple of millenniums. They will probably advise each other to start playing golf – and how to gain the edge in meetings by showing more cleavage – thus leaving the men in the department to babble and state wrong information – only to jump in with the right answers. They will talk about networking – and workshops – and sharing their feelings. All the while balancing teacups on their knees and munching delicately on little finger foods – and chocolates.

It's just not fair?

Then – only because our office coffee maker is nearly as slow as the elevator in our three story head office building – I started thinking about another angle. If there is no seminar for men only … then I should host one.

I could host the event in my garage. I could set my laptop on my workbench – and borrow one of those LCD projectors to shine a power point presentation up on the other wall – between the rakes, the hose wheel and the stack of old apartment size air conditioners we have moved several times but will likely never use again.

"Welcome to the Men's Only Workshop On How To Succeed More than Women" I will say, and I will show images of important women and motivate these men in my garage to believe these women are the enemy.

I will warn the men that now it is more important than ever to not be accused of sexual harassment in the workplace – because that will only play right into their hands! No dirty jokes – no off color humor. And I would suggest that from now on we refer to every female colleague as Miss.

"Why Miss Samantha – that is a very professional looking blouse you are wearing – but could you please button up the top two buttons – you are distracting me", I would say for an example.

And we would the share our feelings. "How did you feel about the Lions play last Sunday?" or "Didn't you think A-Rod had a great post season?".

After that, we would break, and retire down to my family room – where my family is not allowed – and we would play pool and shoot darts over a couple of beers – and see who could make the loudest noise come out of their body parts.

You have to play hardball these days. You can't just sit around doing a good job and think someone will notice and move you ahead in life. These women aren't sitting around. And apparently some of them in my office are looking to beat me out of the next promotion!

But imagine – if I followed through with this brilliant counter-strike of a plan – and I made up a poster to hang on the kitchen cupboard right next to the microwave – imagine the horrific complaints of a male only event being held that women could not attend – to help us men gain an advantage on those power-wielding ladies of the corporate world of today.

They would have me in front of the Manager of Human Resources explaining myself. And I would have to take some kind of a gender-sensitivity training course – probably on Sunday afternoons.

That's no good.

And it's not fair.

Finally the coffee maker had completed its task – and I poured myself a fresh cup mixed it with extra cream and sugar – when Madeline walked around the corner.

I mean Miss Madeline.

"How's the coffee, I just made it a few minutes ago?" asked Miss Madeline , with all the buttons on her blouse done up all the way.

"Pretty good!" I replied. I wasn't lying. It was actually a good cup of office coffee.

And I realized, I got it pretty good the way things are, and if I hung that poster I was dreaming up, I might not get coffee like that at the office ever again.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Reaching Out To .006%


I was just reading Ian Aspin's blog ReallyGoodThinking – I go there a lot because Ian is a very talented fellow who makes me think.


After reading today's piece – I started thinking about who is really reading headstuffing. Who am I reaching?


Headstuffing, from the emails that I get, and the comments left, and from what my friends tell me when I see them, is read pretty much by people of all types.


That's pretty cool.


All though the younger crowd doesn't really get me.


That's pretty cool too.


But I like to try to bring everything down to one common denominator. So I spent a lot of time thinking what are the most two most common characteristics of people who enjoy my little ramblings?


After a lot of thought – too much really, because I am very busy and should be putting my amazing thinking powers to more immediate concerns right now like raking the back yard leaves or finally putting the new door knob on the garage door (there's a big hole there now and I have to move a chair in front to keep the stupid door closed), or hanging the Halloween decorations for tonight's festivities! – I finally came down to my two lowest common denominators of who reads headstuffing:


They have to be able to read the English language - or at least my impression of what I think the English language is.


And they have to be able to use the Internet to get to headstuffing.


Okay, that's three lowest common denominators.


Then it struck me. There are roughly somewhere between eight and ten billion people on the planet earth right now. Of those eight to ten billion people, how many are literate, English reading Internet users?


Being one myself, I thought I would find out like all literate English reading Internet users learn research stuff now-a-days.


I'll Google it.


I typed in this simple question to the Google search bar:


"How many internet users speak English?"


I figure if you're using the internet you most likely can read – otherwise the web browser is pretty useless … right?


The answer came up on the first selection.

464 million. That's a lot.

But out of say … 10 billion? That's only 5% of the Earth's population?

That's not very many.


Over the course of three years of writing headstuffing, my Google Analytics account tells me I have had about 250,000 unique visitors.


So that's only .006% percent of the total potential persons -people that I can reach?


That's not very good.

But it's pretty close to the percentage of people that I know that think like I do.


Headstuffing would likely touch a lot more people that think like me if I could publish it in different language. According to the chart, 251 million Internet users read in Chinese.


Hmmm. Would the Chinese get me?


I work with a lot of Chinese people at the office. We get along really well … I think – I can't really understand what they are saying when they talk amongst themselves. I doubt I ever actually come up in conversation.


So I called up one of my colleagues at home – Lo Hi. I think he was still sleeping.


"What you want Brill?"


"Hi Lo, I was wondering if you had ever read my headstuffing blog?"


"You woke me up to ask me stupid question like that?"


"I'm doing research actually, sorry I woke you", I apologized. "I'll make sure I credit you in the post with your answer."


"Yeah, I read that stupid blog one time. You not very funny Brill!", and he hung up.


So, I guess that's not the answer I was hoping for.


That makes sense though, Lo never laughs at my jokes in development meetings.


So I guess that unless I either change my sense of humor, or I learn to speak, then write in another language, I am going to be stuck with reaching only .006% of the entire English speaking Internet community.


Which is ok I guess.

Monday, October 12, 2009

The Good Stuff

It's a Monday. And I am once again sitting out on the back deck beside the pool with my faithful black lab Suzy lying at my feet.

Only today it is cold out.

The pool is covered by the new black tarp we bought to replace the last one Suzy ripped when she wandered out on to the tarp to get one of her chewy toys.

I dug my brown suede winter coat out, and my cup of warm coffee turns cold quickly.

The tree behind us has changed to a brilliant crimson red. Not many leaves have fallen yet, but some lay in the rain water collected in the black tarp.

Today is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. A good long weekend perfect for finishing up the yard work projects on my property.

I have spent the last two days working on the yard, pulling weeds clearing the flower beds and trying to figure out how to make my lawn look as good as it once did using only the "green" fertilizer and weed-killer products available now to us in Canada.

They outlawed the good stuff.

That's what we all call the lawn fertilizers and weed killers we used to put on our lawns to keep them pristine and lush and full. The good stuff. You just can't buy that stuff anymore. The chemicals in those products were deemed to be hazardous to the environment.

A fellow came by in the spring to roll and dethatch my front lawn. As he was making his pitch for us to use his services all year long, he proclaimed "I only use the good stuff. I have it stockpiled in my barn".

My neighbor across the street has the best lawn in the neighborhood. Even as winter approaches his lawn is a deep rich green lush and full with not a single bad patch on the lot.

You kind of want to take your shoes off and go run around on this guy's lawn.

How does he do it?

I can see a bunch of riding lawn mower fanatics gathering over beers in a garage to discuss why the one neighbor's lawn looks so good.

"I hear he's using the good stuff", one would whisper.

"Really? Wonder where he gets his?" would reply the flannel shirt wearing buddy.

"Word is he gets it from the co-op!" would say the third.

"Let's go!" they would all mutually agree – and hop into the fourth guys pick-up truck to go investigate the underground network supply of good stuff fertilizers and weed killers, only to find the co-op had no such inventory.

At least none that they would share.

We have become quite used to depending on these products to make our properties look as good as we can. Now we will have to do it the old fashioned way – pulling weeds – making up concoctions from recipes we find on the internet to keep those nasty weeds and crabgrass at bay.

These concoctions could be more deadly than the environmentalist's claim the good stuff was.

Some urban centers are dealing with "meth labs" – people manufacturing their own methamphetamine – a nasty horrible addictive drug that seemingly destroys people's lives by merely thinking about it.

But in Canada, we will now also have homemade labs for making fertilizers, weed-killers and pesticides. To replace the good stuff we all became so dependent on.

The United States has not gone so far as to regulate these yard care products as Canada has. In fact I am not sure if all the other provinces in Canada even have.

It may only be Ontario that is trying to lead the way in the regulation of domestic fertilizers and weed killers.

I can see those same bunch of guys now – disappointed by their inability to get their hands on the good stuff from the local agriculture co-op – scheming and plotting their trip across the bridge or tunnel to the American side – a small lawn and garden shop in the suburbs of Detroit – to get their stash of the good stuff and smuggle it back into Canada – back into Ontario – hiding the massive pile in the flat bed of the pickup truck under a pile of blankets.

Nervously they pull up to the customs officer's booth on the Canadian side of the Ambassador Bridge.

"Do you have anything to declare?" the officer would ask the group of four suburban home owners.

"Uh – nope" would say the driver.

"Any guns, alcohol, firearms?"

"Nope".

"Any tobacco products, meats, vegetables?"

"Nope"

The officer steps outside the comfort of his secured roost in the booth and walks around the pickup truck.

"That's a lot of blankets." He would say. As he lifted the small pile up, he would discover the stockpile of the good stuff.

The boys would be told they couldn't bring such toxic products into Ontario – and the stockpile of the good stuff would be seized – the foursome warned not to ever try that trick again – and they would be sent home.

Is it right or wrong that these fertilizers and weed killers be banned from our province? I don't know.

But it does say something about our culture in that we feel the need to keep our lawns so perfect that we are willing to contaminate our environment – our ecosystem with these chemicals that must do some kind of harm to us and the wildlife that lives in suburbia.

Truth be told, I still have two bags of the good stuff. Left over from last year. I was smart enough to stock pile away.

But I haven't used it. I thought I would give this green experiment a try. And this year my lawn was so bad I was an embarrassment to the neighbors. Yesterday I pulled three big lawn bags of weeds from my front lawn. Weeds that I have no idea where they came from. Stuff that I have never seen grow in a lawn before. Four hours of back breaking bending, yanking and pulling. Even my super-duper weed pulling device I bought this spring couldn't get some of them.

So am I tempted to go dip into my stash of the good stuff?

Damn right I am.

One night next spring – around two in the morning, I will make sure all the lights are off in my house. I will go around to all my solar powered garden lights and disassemble them so they will not give me away. And in the pitch black of night I will feed my spreader with the good stuff and apply it to my lawn.

Because I think my lawn is addicted to the stuff.

And I can't stand to watch it go through another summer next year of withdrawal.


Sunday, September 20, 2009

But Is Golf A Sport?


The other day I was having a smoke at the office in the tiny shed we have allocated for those - like myself - who are addicted to nicotine.

In came one of my co workers – a young man who is by all accounts quite a college football fan.

During the course of our conversation, the question came up "yes – but is golf really a sport?"

"Golfers are not athletes" stated my young debating partner.

"Golf involves a precise movement of skill and agility to control the distance and aim over often substantial distances", I countered. "It ain't easy!"

"I don't consider any game you play while smoking a cigarette and maybe drinking a beer or two to be a sport!", countered my young elitist friend.

I stated my opinion that he was confusing sports with athletics, and my reasons why. And we left cordially agreeing to disagree.

My position on this topic has always been that the term "sports" has always been confused with the term "athletics". To me the matter has always been "what is the true definition of the term 'sports'"?

I have always defined sports as "the competition between two or more parties".

And I defined athletics as "the demonstration of a physical feat".

So by my definition – a spelling bee is a sporting competition. A weekly game of bridge would also be a sporting event. And yes, hitting a golf ball is a demonstration of an athletic feat.

The term "good sport" thereby meant one who competed fairly and never complained about the result of the matching of skill.

I always thought the word sport to be rather vague – and if you wanted to better categorize such sporting events – you would use terms "athletics" or "chance" – like a game of black jack - to better specify the type of competition.

But for all the debates, and for all my certainty that I was right in my stance – I never looked the words up in the dictionary or in the encyclopedia.

Until today.

The main definition of the word Sport comes closest to this explanation. This definition comes directly from the Merriam-Webster's dictionary:

"to amuse oneself : frolic <lambs sporting in the meadow> b : to engage in a sport"

Okay – nothing revealing about this. According to Merriam-Webster - it simply means to have fun.

So on to the Encyclopedia Britannica … how do they discuss the topic of Sport?

"physical contests pursued for the goals and challenges they entail. Sports are part of every culture past and present, but each culture has its own definition of sports. The most useful definitions are those that clarify sport's relationship to play, games, and contests. "Play," wrote the German theorist Carl Diem, "is purposeless activity, for its own sake, the opposite of work." Humans work because they have to; they play because they want to. Play is autotelic—that is, it has its own goals. It is voluntary and uncoerced. Recalcitrant children compelled by their parents or teachers to compete in a game of football (soccer) are not really engaged in sport. Neither are professional athletes if their only motivation is their paycheck. In the real world, as a practical matter, motives are frequently mixed and often quite impossible to determine. Unambiguous definition is nonetheless a prerequisite to practical determinations about what is and is not an example of play"


Well, that helps a little more.

But according the good German theorist Carl Diem – the term Professional Sports is a paradox, a contradiction unto itself?

I jumped over to Wikipedia to find out just who this Diem fellow is and why he is the authority used by such a prestigious reference as Encyclopedia Brittanica:

"Dr. Carl Diem (born June 24, 1882, Würzburg – December 17, 1962, Cologne) was a German sports administrator, and as Secretary General of the Organizing Committee of the Berlin Olympic Games, the chief organizer of the 1936 Olympic Summer Games (sometimes referred to as the "Nazi Olympics"). He created the tradition of the Olympic torch relay, and was an influential historian of sport, particularly the Olympic games."


Okay – Mr. Diem was a Nazi with a bias towards amateur athletics. (My apologies to any Nazi's out there who think my terminology is insensitive).

But no place do I see the a correlation to the athletic prowess of the competitors in a sporting competition.

So I hold true to my own self concocted definitions stated earlier – that sport is merely a competition – and will add only that it is truly sport when those competing enjoy the activity.

So golf indeed is a sport.

You play golf. You might work on your game in practice – but you actually play the game when you are on the course.

How many times have you heard a professional golfer say that they would quit playing the day it wasn't fun anymore?

Why would you play if it wasn't fun.

And in any case – who is going to look me in the eye and tell me that Tiger Woods is not an athelete?

Is golf a sport?

Damn right it is.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Could it be? The Detroit Tigers Are Six Games Up?

Could it be?

I seem to have to keep looking at my newspaper this morning.

The sports section. The Major League Baseball standings tucked in the top left corner of the second page of the sports section.

There, in black and white – with the authority of an official news organization behind – sits the standings of the American League Central.

My beloved Detroit Tigers are leading the American League Central division by six games.

Holy mackerel!

I have watched every game on television or listened to every game on the radio. So I don't know why I am in such a state of disbelief. Joyous disbelief, but disbelief all the same.

Pat Caputo is on the radio again this morning urging people to finally believe in this team. With a team leading their division by six with twenty seven left to play. The magic number now set to twenty two games – combinations of Tigers Wins – or losses of Minnesota and Chicago. Pat can't understand why Tiger fans have been hesitant to believe the Tigers will win the American League Central pennant and have a spot in the 2009 playoffs.

Well, to start with, the Tigers were supposed to be a poor team this year – chosen by the pundits of national sports to finish near the bottom of the division. But we Tiger fans knew the boys wearing the old English D were not as bad as they appeared to be last year – when they did finish in the basement after being picked by those same national media pundits to win the World Series.

We knew our starting pitching rotation would not stink this year like they did last year. We knew guys like Polanco, Inge, Guillen, and Thames would step up to fill the shoes of game-by-game heros when our superstars like Cabrera, Ordonez, Granderson, and Verlander faltered. And we knew that the Tigers farm system was deep enough to supply great temporary support by sending up newcomers like Raburn, Thomas, and Avila would step into roles and play significant parts – before we even knew their names.

But the problem was the Tigers couldn't win on the road.

Their road record was atrocious until the last two away game series. They hadn't won a road series since May, until taking the Angels in Anaheim last week and know their current series with the Tampa Bay Rays this weekend. The final game of that series about to start in a few minutes.

But while the Tigers played poorly on the road, the Minnesota Twins and Chicago White Sox played worse.

Nobody beats Tampa Bay at Tropicana field.

But the Tigers have. And came from behind to do so.

The bats that were quiet are now awake.

The players that were slumping in clutch situations are now getting key hits. The pitching – when failing – has received enough run support to surpass the opposition. The defense has been tighter – and the Tigers Catchers – Laird and Avila – have been surpising in their ability to handcuff base runners by throwing laser accurate ropes to second – to the perfect spots where the runners slide into waiting gloves of Polanco, Everette, and Santiago.

A new confidence has arisen from the Tigers when they sit in the visiting dugouts.

If they score first they taunt the opposition to catch them if they can. If they fall behind in the course of a game, they charge back with determination and conviction to take the lead in the eighth or ninth innings.

And Tigers closer Fernando Rodney gives you tingles of fear comparable to a bungee jump made at a county fair – walking men or giving up hits to allow the tying run coming to the plate – only to get the poor bastard to swing at strike three and get out of the self-imposed jam. Rodney has scared us to death with every save opportunity appearance – but the statics show that in thirty something such opportunities – he has only let one slip through his split fingers.

But I am superstitious when it comes to baseball. I believe in jinxes.

And so that is why I still hesitate to declare decisively as Pat Caputo insists – that the Tigers will win the AL Central division.

Six game leads seem like a lot. Especially in September.

But there is a very scary road trip coming up – to visit both Minnesota and Chicago – at fields they don't typically do well in … so I reserve my right to hedge my complete and utter faith in the Tigers winning the pennant. Six games can dwindle quickly – especially if Minnesota and Chicago get hot too.

So I am still nervous. That's what makes a true pennant race like this one so exciting. I am hopeful – and trying desperately to be faithful. But I don't yet know for sure where things will sit when the fat lady sings in the first week of October.

I do know this. I will be at that final regular season game in October – against the White Sox. And whether it is a game of formality to simply cheer the Tigers into the post season – or whether it comes down to that final game to win our way into the post season – I don't know.

But it will be a great day that day.

Perhaps I will venture up to the press box to track down Caputo – and shake his hand – and share with him how truly great this season has been – pretending to be a pizza delivery guy – or a writer for the Schwartzville Times – Gazette – and simply point a thumbs up at him as he keys in his thoughts on the season.

Who knows.

But it has been a terrific ride that I hope continues strong for another twenty seven game days.

And I can honestly state that I am now a true believer – with only the fear that I am jinxing my beloved Detroit Tigers.

Could it be?

Yes it could.

Finding Our Way

The world is full of people that want to tell you what you can do, and what you can't.

Some are people who sit in stations in life that you might perceive to be above you. They certainly perceive their station to be above you.


Some are peers who simply can't help but give you their opinion of you as constructive advice.


Some are people that feel they must put you in your place.


Some are people that truly care about you – deeply - and want to help you avoid making the mistakes they have made.


In this list of people, I find only the latter to be worthy of consideration.


If you can weed out those people who truly care about you, then listen closely to their advice. You don't have to take it, but you certainly have to consider it.


I take their consultations seriously, for in many cases they may also have a stake in the paths I choose, and the outcomes those paths lead me to. They will be travelling these new unknown paths with me, and they will share equally in the rewards that result.


That is why it is so important to surround yourself with positive passionate people in your life – whose values closely match your own.


The people that I truly admire in this world are those that followed their dreams – undaunted by those who told their dreams could not be fulfilled.


It takes a certain discipline to move forward while others around you shout loudly how mistaken or foolish you are for choosing the path you're taking after you have committed to that direction.


In this lifetime, there is really so little time.


In the blink of an eye – opportunities we may think will exist forever evaporate like the morning dew of late summer, there until the sun moves overhead to absorb it back into the air.


We have to take these opportunities as they present themselves to you. You have to pounce on them quickly and decisively. Commit to them with the passion that brought them to your attention to begin with – for the next moment – they may be gone.


I would like to tell you that I am a rational man. Rationale with clearly thought out plans – drawn out into neatly diagramed specifications – each line clearly labeled to denote the relationships of each component of a solution to the problem at hand. In my profession this is true, but in life – my diagrams in my mind are much less detailed. But in my mind – as I think about the future moves that I will make in my life, I have only boxes to signify desires – passions – the things I would like to accomplish. And like a poorly designed system – these boxes that depict future ambitions often have no lines drawn between them to map out the avenues that I will take to move from one to another.


The future often seems to hold two possible paths.


One that is the series of clouds and black boxes that we have not yet drawn the lines between yet – let alone put a label to for clarity of the approach to reach each one.


The other is that path that looks quite clear – only because we have travelled it for some time already, and the line continues straight on to the horizon – with little changing – with few curves or forks in the road forcing decisions.


Perhaps the safest path to take moving forward is to stay on the straight line of known outcomes as long as needed until we find the opportunity to move closer to the paths with no lines yet drawn – and hope the lines will appear as the goals and objectives move closer into view. Perhaps the lines will be labeled like street signs, to give us confidence the roads we find ourselves on are the right roads to travel.


Perhaps.


To move in such a new direction takes confidence in our abilities.


But it also requires the odd leap of faith.


And as we know that each step we take forward to move towards such disparate goals and objectives – faithfully and confidently – we have to believe that we are absolutely right in our conviction – and know that self-doubt is but a passing milestone as we continue our journey – and that doubt will also evaporate as we near our destination.


Along the way the naysayer's voices will sound louder as we encounter them. Their consternation more biting as our confidence starts to waver, more convincing as our commitment comes into question.


But hopefully you, as I have been so fortunate, will have those that truly care about you cheering you forward and urging you on to make that next step. To go where the naysayers declare you have no place to be. They will drown out those chants of "you're not good enough" or "you must be crazy for thinking you can do that" with their own encouragements of "just a little further now" and "you must work harder now, you're almost there!".


I have had the experience in life to have made some of these journeys already. I have had more than several occasions where my leaps of faith have taken me to better places than I was before. They have brought me now to a place of contentment with a beautiful wife and two lovely little girls. To a beautiful home. A loving family.


But again this need to take yet another leap of faith will soon stare me in the face. And this time my family will join me – so there is more at stake than to simply follow my own heart. I must also ensure that their needs are being met, that their goals and objectives are as equally included in my decision making as my own.


Because they are my voices of confidence now. Their voices will cheer me on past the naysayers who have already come out of the woodworks to try to deflate my ambitions. And they need also to feel the reward of where I am going – even though I know not truly where that destination exactly is ... just yet.


This time we will be going there together – and when we arrive – after the long series of little steps along the way are behind us – we will look back together and realize we are there.


The destination is merely the outcome.


The journey is a road of new experience we will obtain as we approach the destination. And life is comprised of journeys – not destinations. And each step of this journey – as small as most steps will be – will each add to the legacy of experience that defines us.


We will be judged by how we travelled the journey through life – not by the destinations we reach. And I have a wonderful collection of travelling companions. Companions who - with their love and shared commitment - will drown out the shouts of the naysayers.


And I will need their support every step of the way. And they will need mine.


Because the world is full of people that want to tell you what you can do, and what you can't.

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

Staying Canadian

Recently – through facebook of all places – I have had the wonderful experience of reconnecting with a lot of my old high school friends.

And they tell me that they have enjoyed very much my stories of being a teenager in Lawrenceville, Georgia, and my adventure of moving back to the Great White North.

But – as they are Americans – and proud to be so – they often ask me why I stayed in Canada after school.

America is the land of opportunity you know.

I returned to Canada – as I have said before – simply to go back to school yet again – to get the education – to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. I knew I didn't want to slug it out doing the hard work I did in Louisiana, delivering electrical supplies to all corners of that odd and interesting state, or managing grocery stores – and especially not digging any more damned ditches.

So I returned to Canada, land where I was born but had left when I was three years old. I was a Canadian citizen – but I was not really Canadian.

The personal computer had just arrived, but had not yet made its niche on every office desk like it is today. People were just trying to figure this new version of technology out. And I found that I understood the concepts of the mainframe and mini computers – their roles – how they worked – and how they fit into the schemes of what was then called data processing.

So I studied hard for several years – occasionally slipping back into those youthful desires to have too much fun – which got me in so much trouble in my previous attempts at achieving a higher education.

But my Uncle Fred – a wonderful man who I miss dearly now – and who I can never pay high enough tribute to – had this time instilled a work ethic in me.

"Keep your eyes and ears open – and your big mouth shut!" I was told over and over again.

I still have not learned that lesson.

After the second year of school, I was fortunate enough to land what was called a Co-op" position with Revenue Canada – in their headquarters in Ottawa, right across the street from the Parliament buildings – the very seat of the federal Canadian government. The Canadian version of the American House of Representatives.

On a fairly frequent basis, as part of my duties, I would deliver documents and reports to the Minister of Finance or a Deputy Minister in charge of this and that and what-not.

One of my Mom's cousin's – therefore a cousin of mine I suppose – was a gentlemen who represented the riding of Owen Sound – Mr. Stan Darling.

Cousin Stan had held that seat for a good number of years – as conservative as conservatives can be... in Canada – and was often seen on television standing just behind then Prime Minister Brian Mulroney in Parliament sessions – and as the Prime Minister would speak – cousin Stan - sitting right behind the Honourable Prime Minister - would holler things like "here here" and "that's right" – in unison with his colleagues seated on both sides – pounding their fists on the table, face red and jowls jiggling.

A true back bencher.

"You should go visit your cousin Stan", Ma would tell me from her nice warm Pensacola paradise in Florida. "Just to say hi, and to tell him I said hi too".

So I tried, but he would never see me. Later at a family reunion, Uncle Stan claimed to my Ma that he had no idea I was in Ottawa, let alone trying to stop by to say hi.

Politicians are politicians – no matter what land you live in.

Canada, as you probably should know if you don't already, is a bilingual country. The French Canadians and the English have for years struggled in cooperating with each other. The best government jobs go to those who are bilingual, so mostly the French – who had little option but to learn English – hold the best cival servant positions.

So picture if you will – a young good old boy named Fred, still talking with a thick southern drawl, still driving his favorite little Mazda 626 with Louisiana license plates – still planning on returning to the sunny south of Florida when his degree was earned – totally French illiterate to say the least - working in a French Canadian office environment where French is the predominant language.

I made very few friends.

A beautiful girl in our office named Sylvie – who spoke only French when I was around – despised me. My nickname to her was not a French name I can repeat.

I understand it is a vulgar term .

In a second work term, I actually worked across the Rideau river in Hull Quebec. My luck there was better, but still not one that made me feel … welcome.

So I returned the following Fall to London. School started up and I had a very good school year.

My grades were all A's with the odd B here an there. When that semester was over, I decided to fly down to Pensacola to visit my Mom and Dad for Christmas.

Uncle Fred drove me to the Airport in Detroit. We crossed at the Windsor bridge – and I was pulled into customs for questioning. They examined my bags – and they asked for my identification – proof of citizenship. I pulled out my little green card – the one I had been carrying since I was three.

My picture was still that of a three year old boy.

A heavy set African American lady was the customs officer inspecting me. She watched as I pulled my green card out of my wallet and handed it to her.

"What was that in your wallet?" she asked.

Caught off guard – I held my wallet open. She pointed to my old security card from Revenue Canada – Customs and Excise. She recognized the logo. I pulled it out of my wallet and handed it to her.

"That's my security card from Revenue Canada in Ottawa", I said politely and proudly. "I worked up there on a co-op job for my schooling".

She looked at me, and her face went so sad. She told me that the terms of living in Canada and retaining my American green card meant I was not supposed to work in Canada.

"But … how was I supposed to survive if I couldn't work?" I asked. "This was part of my schooling – I had to take a co-op job for this program – for this degree!"

She actually started to sob, and told me she was so sorry she had to do this – that she wished she didn't.

I simply looked at my watch and knew I had to catch my plane.

In that blink of a moment, as this very sweet lady with a downtown Detroit accent cut up my green card while crying – I made the decision that I was going to stay in Canada after school.

Canada would be my home. I would be a Canadian.

I had already been honorably discharged from the United States Coast Guard for being Canadian. And I never really had any luck making anything work in the States.

So I thanked the lady. "Please don't be upset", I said. "You helped me make a decision I had been wrestling with."

She really was a very nice lady, and she felt much more horrible about this tragedy than I did.

I took my bag and my wallet and I turned to my horrified Uncle Fred who could not believe what had just happened, and we left for the airport.

In the car, Uncle Fred turned to me and said yet again, "how many times have I told you to keep your eyes and ears open and your big mouth shut!".

This time I looked at Uncle Fred and said, "It's all for the best".

America may be the land of opportunity, but it was clear to me that day that America didn't really want me there.

So I am a Canadian. And proud to be so.

Friday, August 28, 2009

A Lunch With Great Friends


Today I am having lunch with old friends.


People I worked on a contract with for seven years.


I was the "new" guy, as the rest had worked on this contract for fourteen years total.


This lunch is occurring because one of the team members moved to British Columbia when the contract ended. He was chasing his dream of living out west. But a family matter brings him back to Windsor for a week.


I received his email last week through facebook.


The very reason I ever started using facebook was so that I could keep in touch with this fellow. For that period we worked together we became very good friends. His wife actually sold us the house we live in today.


So I created a facebook account, and so did he. We agreed to do this during a night on the town in Toronto while both there on business for different reasons. Pat created one to.


So Pat was my very first contact on facebook. But I never ever talked to him on there.


Within the course of a couple of days, my friends list on facebook grew to a huge number of people I have known in all parts of the continent that I have lived. High school friends I had thought about and tried to contact using more primitive means but failed suddenly showed up on facebook.


Poof. Instant contact.


But no Pat.


If you were to look at my friends list, you would see a long list of pictures of smiling faces. All but Pat. His was still the grey silhouette – only his name beside it, with no activity.


As time passed on, and things changed, Pat's profile remained empty. And I was talking to friends from Lawrenceville, Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, London , Toronto, and Ottawa. My list continued to expand with friends from Dublin Ireland and the U.K.


But still no Pat.


Last week – I received an email. It said that Pat had added me as a friend on facebook.


I logged into facebook later that evening. There was a picture of Pat with his lovely wife and two children.


"Who the hell was that other guy?", I wondered.


So I wrote a note to the grey faced silhouette also named Pat.


A reply came back. "Wow, I had no idea I even had this account!". Indeed it was Pat.


In the days of that contract, we had a long standing tradition Fridays to that our team would go out together for lunch. There was a little Irish pub down the road from the office called Murphy's. We would go and sit and have great conversation while having a pint. The food was pretty mediocre, but we didn't really go to Murphy's for the food.


We went for each other's company.


Today we will all meet up again for lunch. But Murphy's is only an empty shell on a street corner. Instead we will meet up at an old roadhouse tavern on the outskirts of town, similar in atmosphere to Murphy's – but not Murphy's.


Pat will be there, and so will the few of us remaining at the company after the contract. And Roseanne will be there as well – who I used to tease by showing her pickle jars – asking her if we could keep her brain full of adjudication rules in there – because we would never learn all that she knew about that process.


And Crazy Roy will be there. I call him Crazy Roy out of respect, because the man is indeed a genious in my book – but slightly past the edge of eccentricity. I learned an awful lot from Crazy Roy, who was famous for his long grey beard and hair pulled back into a pony tail. Truly one of the most unique individuals I have ever met.


It will be good to be there with them all again. To sit and listen to them chat. To hear about what they are working on.


To feel that warmth of lost camaraderie.


A lot of workplace teams have lunch together on Fridays, or they get together for drinks on a chosen night – like paystub Thursdays. These are great experiences that build stronger teams – more committed to each other – more passion developing for what they do together.


But this team was the most passionate team I have ever had the pleasure of being a part of.


Perhaps at lunch I will suggest to those of the team not on facebook to join. And I will explain to them that we could create a group in facebook , and call it Murphy's. And we could find a time when we could all meet inside there and chat – the page decorated like the old Irish pub, maybe even post a picture of the old menu.


And maybe they would come. And chat.


But it wouldn't be the same. Not like sitting there at the old round table – elbows wet from the sweat of the pint glass as we laugh and talk about what's going on.


But it would never be the same.


Social networking has its place. It has its function. But it will never replace the camaraderie of really good friends sitting at a table – having a pint and a bite and the chatter and the laughs.


So today I will cherish this lunch. Because you can never be sure that you can all be together like that again.





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