Being Remembered

There is nothing like a funeral to put you in mind of dying.

Especially the funeral you find yourself at when you do not know the person who died.

As you sit in the memorial service, packed with people you don’t know, talking about the accomplishments and good qualities of the man who died, you start to think.

Self-centered thinking.

Thinking about – when your time comes – who will be sitting in the audience at your memorial service. Who will speak on your behalf to express a lifetime worth of thanks to those you have known, respected, revered and loved throughout your life.

And how many people would there be?

Would the room be overflowing with people who respected, revered and loved you?

As I sat in the funeral parlor’s memorial service room listening to all the great things being said about our neighbor Ed, I felt bad that I did not ever make the effort to meet this man. I didn’t know anything about Ed until he passed.

And I felt very guilty.

I can do better than that.

Another person I could have learned from slipped right by me.

Another missed opportunity.

And now it’s too late.

Ed was a musician. That much I knew. As part of the therapy to recover from a stroke he had over the summer, Ed frequently played the bongos. You could hear them over the fence as we sat in the summer time heat in our back yard on the deck by the pool.

And Ed was very good. We would actually turn the radio off and just listen to Ed.

And that is all I knew of Ed.

I rarely saw Ed, only the odd time to see his head poking above the fence when he cut the lawn in the summers before his stroke.

But Ed made me do some big thinking today.

Ed died of a massive coronary heart attack last week. We awoke one cold rainy morning to the red and white and blue lights of ambulances and fire trucks and police cars shining through the sliding glass door that leads to our back yard.

Ed left this world early.

And when you see people leave this world early, you can’t help but reflect on the state of your own lifestyle.

I smoke.

I am over weight.

I have the odd drink.

I cannot run up the stairs. But I have been taking the stairs more often at work, all three flights – to go out and have a smoke.

Now as I sit a year and a handful of months from reaching the age of fifty, I take this thought seriously.

I have two little girls, and a lovely wife, and wonderful home.

And what would my faithful black lab Suzy ever do without me.

Does age quicken its pace to catch up to us? Or do we simply slow down to let age catch up?

And what have I really done to inspire people to take time out of their day – spend an otherwise luxurious Saturday morning off work – to come to a memorial service for my passing?

I remember when my Dad passed away in September of 1990. He and my Mom had moved to Pensacola for nicer weather after Dad fell ill in 1983. No family lived in Pensacola, and his sickness did not lend itself to a social lifestyle. So when Dad passed, a man of significant status in his professional life, a man who many have told me inspired them with his leadership – there was no memorial service. Just a brief visitation of the shell of my Dad lying on a gurney as my Uncle Fred, Aunt Sheila, my brother Paul and his family, and my Mom and I stepped in for a few final moments alone with him, before he was to be cremated.

When my Uncle Fred passed two decades later, the small country church in Ilderton, Ontario was overflowing with people. And wonderful words were said. The same happened when my Aunt Sheila passed only a few short years later.

But that being said, the most memorable experience of my life came the summer following my Dad’s passing. On my Mom’s first visit back to Canada since Dad passed, she brought Dad’s ashes with her.

My Uncle Fred and Aunt Sheila, my Mom and I hopped in Fred’s big white Crown Victoria and we took a drive with ashes. We went to the beautiful little town of Goderich on Lake Huron. There was a long point there with a lighthouse on the end of it.

Dad used to love to sit and look at this sight as the sun set.

So we marched out there in the mid-evening and we spread Dad’s ashes around the point by light house.

It was a beautiful summer night. The kind Dad loved.

And as we pulled out of the parking lot of the old fashioned little town with freshly cut grass and trimmed hedges, we passed a sign pasted to a wooden telephone pole.

“Steak and Lobster Dinner“

A local church was having a steak and lobster dinner.

Steak and Lobster was Dad’s favorite meal.

So we pulled in. And we ate the most perfectly barbecued steaks, and savored the most sumptuous lobster tails drenched in butter that one could ever hope to find in any restaurant. And we sat and talked about how Dad would have found this to be a perfect end to a perfect day of sailing.

It were as though Dad had held that dinner just for us.

So in the end, I only hope that those who might take the time to remember me have such fortune as we did that beautiful summer’s night in Goderich remembering my father.

Who could ask for more than that?

Little Fish In A Big Pond

Indeed the world has gotten much smaller in the last twenty years.

So small that good friends around the world almost seem local to us.

Tools like Facebook and Twitter bring us the status and relevant thoughts of their lives in short snippets of text. In Twitter the limit is one hundred hand forty characters. Facebook provides a bit more.

And tools like Skype let us call and talk and see each other while we do.

Global events like the World Cup soccer tournament can now be analyzed and debated – scrutinized in real-time as the match is being played – with the world – amongst the noise of the cheering fans typing in their cheers and jeers as well.

The internet has changed the world drastically. So much that the name Internet no longer really represents this global connectedness.

The opportunities this new connectedness (a phrase coined by the online gurus of this new connected world – first seen by me in tweets from great pundits like Ian Aspin Andrew Keen and Patrick Dixon) has opened up a world of opportunities.

Opportunities we are still trying to get our heads around.

For example, it has allowed for me to write here on headstuffing – and share my musings with the world (or at least my .006% of the Earth's population that I can reach) – in hopes of that someone of influence will trip over my stories and open new doors for myself and my family – to let me put headstuffing to work for my daughters education and to maybe add to the pittance of a retirement fund I am acquiring after twenty years of dedicated service to the various employer's throughout my career.

Sorry, I got on a bit of a tangent there.

But you see what I mean.

When I was a young man – first looking to get my foot in the door – my Uncle Fred once told me that if I offered my services for free – then the parties that benefit from those services would gladly pay you to do them once they realiuzed their value.

A debatable concept – which led me to poverty in my early twenties – until a friend – already successful in the field – suggested that I charge an exorbitant fee for my services – because that would create the illusion of value.

My friend was right. And together we made a pretty good little living together for a couple of years.

But neither of these concepts seems to work on the Internet … err … in this connectedness.

You can't charge people for what they get for free. And you can't charge exhorbitant amounts of money for something people can find online for free – by sources much more talented than yourself.

This connectedness has taken all the big fish in small ponds and thrown them into one great ocean. And the whales and the sharks in this ocean simply overshadow – and sometimes eat – the once big fish in small ponds.

Newspapers are the shining example of this – once great fish – in their local ponds – overshadowed by online news services - extinguishing their readership and subscription revenues as people find that bundled little gem of local news on their doorstep to be of less and less value. Overshadowed like the tiny elm that can't get nourishing sunlight because that damned gigantic maple tree next to it has left it permanently in the shade.

Would you pay your local newspaper as much as you do for a subscription – merely to see the local high school sports scores?

Maybe in the case of the Atlanta Journal of old – and that was the only place you could get the latest Lewis Grizzard column. But in those days, Mr. Grizzard's writings became valuable enough a service that he became a syndicated columnists printed in thousands of papers across the United States.

In short – he jumped from the little pond to the big ocean of the connectedness available before the Internet.

So how do writers like myself and headstuffing – and others as or more talented than I – how do we find that next level?

Some would say the best source of revenue from a blog (and I hate that term so desperately) is to put tiny little advertisements all around it. Monetize it.

I did. Not a single Google Ad cent over the last four years since I started. Not a single nickel from Amazon for touting their books on my pages.

Of course I didn't go chasing those nickel and dime clicks very hard.

But advertising someone else's wares to earn money when you want your writings to be respected seems to me to be a bit – hypocritical? No that's not the right word.

Misdirected.

"But it's your writing that will draw people to the ads … the ad money directly correlates to your popularity as a writer".

No it doesn't.

I don't buy into this concept that people are so prone to impulse buying that they will click a link off of my site to go purchase a hat or a sweatshirt or the latest paperback novel.

Not unless they could only get that merchandise from headstuffing. A headstuffing hat or t-shirt or sweatshirt – a collection of headstuffing stories in a book form.

Do I want to be a merchandiser? They say the big Hollywood movies make more money on merchandising than they do on the movie – some times. It depends on the movie.

I doubt seriously there was tons of merchandising opportunities for Brokeback Mountain.

I guess in short – I am simply wanting for what those of us who call ourselves writers want … to be called writers by other people.

That respect goes a long way. And opens even more doors.
Some of the great writers have earned tremendous fortunes from their writings. Because their writings became books. And their books became movies. And their movies often became merchandise.

Damn, there's that merchandise avenue again.

But it's such a big ocean. The little ponds are all gone.

And I'm wondering if I am a good enough swimmer.

Why I Write - Revisited

As time goes by, our goals and objectives are bound to evolve.

Mine certainly have.

I still long to strive to reach my potential as an IT professional. That goal remains unchanged. And I'm not done yet. My commitment is strong.

In fact, tomorrow I have my performance review first thing in the morning. So I have spent the evening with the standard form – answering the questions to the best of my ability – unbiased but still intentionally putting my best foot forward.

That's how it works, right?

But as I reached the exercise of examining my goals and objectives, my mind started to wander.

And I went through some of my favorite headstuffing posts – and I started once again to reconsider my goals and objectives for headstuffing.

Back in April of 2008, I wrote a post called "Why I Write". I liked this post so much that I decided to put a link on the side bar under my profile – and use that as my statement to the world … my justification if you will … why headstuffing exists.

But that was almost two years ago.

And this performance review has me in mind of reflection.

So why do I write headstuffing now in 2010?

I still stand behind my original mission statement that I am writing these stories about our life for my daughters so "they can remember us as we are now, for as long as I keep writing these stories – as long as I keep documenting our life – and they will be use these stories to keep us alive in their hearts".

But there is more now.

No, not to make money off my Google Ads. I still have yet to see a penny from my Google Ads.

I have come to realize that I really enjoy writing stories that touch people. That inspire people. That make people laugh and cry.

And think.

If I can make you laugh and think at the same time, I have reached my objective with my story.

I'd just as soon you not cry. There is enough in the world to make a person cry. I don't want to add to it.

And my goal to strive for? To achieve should I consistently meet my writing objectives of touching you with laughter and thought?

Easy.

I want to do this for a living … my retirement profession.

After I am done with the IT profession, or after the IT profession is done with me.

I want to write stories like the sideline columns my favorite author and hero Lewis Grizzard used to write.

People used to pay for the whole Atlanta Constitution just to read Lewis Grizzard's column – running down the left side of an inside page in the front section – about an inch wide the length of the page. And then leave the paper for the next person to pick up – likely only to read Grizzard's column as well.

A grandiose goal to be sure.

But we gotta dream. And why not make a goal out of dream.

But I don't charge for headstuffing. It's just a blog.

And take it from me, if you go telling people that you write a blog, the eyes roll back in their head, and you can see your credibility fall from right off the edge of the world by the smirk of the smile on their face.

But to me, headstuffing isn't a blog.

It's a collection of stories. My stories.

My heart.

My soul.

I consider headstuffing being referred to as a blog is an insult. Even though you and I both know that a web site with posts archived like this is really just … choke … a blog.

But I want these stories to be read. I hope that these stories are enjoyed. And I desperately want the writing that goes into these stories to be respected.

Would it be great to make a living off these stories? Of course it would be.

But for right now, this is the venue that I have to share with you.

And I do love headstuffing. It is my passion.

Silly eh?

Perhaps.

But it's also my legacy – for my little girls to really know their Daddy and remember our family by.

And it's my only way to share with the world what I have to offer.

All I have to offer.

Google Ads? I still don't need no stinking Google Ads!

But I do love your comments. And I do love your feedback.

So since I'm sharing with you, why not share a bit back with me by sharing your opinion by leaving a comment.

And your still welcome to click a Google Ad or two while you're here.

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" Encyclopedia Britannica: Sport

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." Wikipedia: Carl Diem

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.

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.

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.

How To Be Successful

Lately I have been looking at people who have really grown their blogs to incredibly high numbers of readers. Blogs like zen-habits and reallygoodthinking.

And why are they so successful? They offer the reader help. They offer assistance to make you a better person.

Be more productive.

Be more creative.

Be more … something.

Head stuffing's reader levels are nowhere near these two successful sites.

On head stuffing, I only offer you a laugh, and if I'm successful, I might make you think.

But I don't really offer to help you.

Here is what I have for you. Here is my list of things that I know of what it takes to be a successful person in life:

1. Work hard
   
2. Be sincere and honest
   
3. Have a skill that people need
   
4. Make decisions based on rational thought – not with your heart
   
5. Enjoy what you do
   
6. Enjoy the people that you do what you do with
   
7. Keep your mind sharp
   
8. Keep your body healthy
   
9. Love somebody
   
10. Love yourself
    

Now how many websites can you find this information on?

Could I talk more about being sincere and honest? Well, I think I talk about that a lot on head stuffing. I think I talk about all of these points a lot in my stories on head stuffing.

These principles are pretty simple to grasp, but pretty difficult to apply to your personal life. Especially if you don't have a skill that people need (I believe everybody does – they just may not realize it) – or if you don't have somebody to love (I believe everybody does, they just may not realize it).

That's the part I don't talk a lot about on head stuffing – how you can apply these aspects to your own life – or recognize that they already exist.

I guess I have given little care or consideration as to what niche I and my favorite passion – my head stuffing site – play in the bigger picture on the internet. What role does it play. What is this site's niche?

I'm not exactly a self-help guru. I can only tell you stories about events that have happened to me – and how they shaped my life.

I have been writing my stories on head stuffing for nearly three years now. And I have gotten some really great feedback from those of you who continue to return. And to those of you who do return – I would sincerely like to thank you.

I have been writing what I believe are great little stories on head stuffing. I try to put some sense of reason and meaning – perhaps a moral – or the obvious lack of a moral – in each one.

And sometimes I leave the stories behind and pretend I'm a sportswriter and write about the Detroit Tigers. Why? Because I am a big fan, and sometimes I have to get some of those thoughts out of my head as well.

I'm sure if you return to head stuffing you might be confused as to what you're expecting to find here. You might wonder why I think you, a reader from Atlanta or San Francisco or New York would even be interested in how I thought the Detroit Tigers season would play out?

I guess to this point, I have treated head stuffing like a note pad. Like a place to jot down whatever was stuffing up my brain at the moment. Because that has been my intention to date – and that is why this site is called "head stuffing".

So what can I offer you?

Do you know what your niche in this global network is? Do you use facebook to keep up with friends around the globe?

Do you use instant messaging to chat with loved ones far away? Certainly you must use email, and send pictures and videos and jokes to share them with your friends. You might even be using professional social networking sites like LinkedIn.com to track and communicate with your business contacts.

Maybe you use Twitter – although if you're like me – you're still trying to figure out what real purpose can 140 character text messages – tweets – can play in your life. Maybe you like to follow famous people like Ashton Kutcher or Ellen DeGeneres or golfer John Daly or any of the hundreds of other celebrities that think we need to know they're stopping off at shopping mall or a fast food joint.

But you're not sure what you could 'tweet' that would be of any interest to anyone else?

Maybe we can figure this out together.

I have tried using some of these sharing services to attract more readers to head stuffing, thinking that if they just came and read one good story that moved you and you enjoyed, you would come back for more. And it worked – kind of – but the numbers that do return are much lower than I expected. My statistics show that only 39% of my readers are return readers – the other 61% are brand new. But the number of visitors remains constant.

Honest – I'm not complaining. And sincerely – thank you for coming here to read head stuffing.

I post new head stuffing sites to del.icio.us, digg.com, and technorati.com. I share them on facebook.com and LinkedIn.com. I used to share them with StumbleUpon.com, until they informed me that promoting my own site on StumbleUpon.com was an offense that could get me banned from their service. In fact, most sites look down upon what they call self promotion. So how can I get the word out about head stuffing?

Now I announce new posts on Twitter.

So I am going to continue my struggle to come up with ways that I can offer you help.

And maybe together we can figure out just how do we all fit together in this new global community?

Change is Good

Normally, as I drive into work in the morning, I quickly go through the days events – before they happen – as – after seven years - my day has become predictable.

Or at least it was. Right now I am in transition mode. Performing the final duties of my old role, and also performing the beginning duties of my new role.

I carry two laptops - one for the old job, and one for the new.

I sit at two desks - one for the old job, and one for the new.

I answer to two bosses – one for the old job, and one for the new.

I carry a day-timer – a Franklin day-timer, and my life is organized by it.

I only have one Franklin.

Everything I do is written into my Franklin, and everything I do is tracked and organized by it. My schedule, my calendar, my action items, all prioritized and carried forward from day to day until accomplished.

As a normal day easily fills a page, my day-timer is twice as crammed with additional notes, action items, and calendared events.

But change is good.

Change is good for your mind. It is great for your soul. Like a new chapter in the same story. The scenery changes and the characters are different. But the same story line prevails.

The role I am leaving has been with a project that has lasted fourteen years. I was on that team for exactly half that duration, the last seven years. And after seven years, I am still regarded as a “new guy”.

I wasn’t there when the contract was won.

I wasn’t there for the proto-type.

I wasn’t there for the go-live implementation.

You know, the ‘good old days’.

During my time I did help usher in new technologies, new methodologies, and I designed some very key aspects of the system as it evolved. And they have recognized that.

But I am still ‘the new guy’.

My new role is on a brand new project. We will be using brand new technology for a group we have never worked with. The fact that I am new to the group holds no bearing because I will be there as long as the project exists.

And I will look back on these upcoming events as ‘the good old days’.

At this time I am the only resource dedicated 100% to this new project, although I still have to spend 50% of my effort supporting the end of the old project.

So I truly am giving 150% percent at the moment.

My poor Franklin.