Where’s the Fun?

When I was a kid my friend Neal and I rode our bikes out to LA International a time or two. As much as I felt we were getting away with something, we would walk through the terminal to the various gates. We’d walk on board and check out the unattended cockpit, have a seat, push some pedals. Try that today and a kid's folks would be getting a call—and they’d make national news if they could pull it off.

I thought of that entering Denver airport the other day. Denver is one of those airports, like Seattle, Detroit, Orlando and a few others, where you take a train from terminal to terminal. I had to think: How much fun would Ev and a friend have someday getting a ride out to the airport to ride the trains around and visit the gates. I want to think that type of accessibility makes the world a better place but maybe not.

I also had that kind of thought when I went into one of the gift shops after clearing security. I thought maybe, just maybe, out here in the “sterile environment” a gift store might be able to sell one of my all-time favorite surprises my Dad had brought home for me from one of his trips to Denver 50-some years ago: Less than 3 inches long, they were a pair of miniature pistols each with their own little leather holster.  Not a chance.

They did have a nail-clipper in a miniature holster but, where’s the fun in that?

A Little Therapy, Please

My wife says I'm an impatient driver. It's usually when I'm talking to the driver in the car ahead of me-- the one that is being way too cautious in waiting to make that left turn. It's usually when I have somewhere to be and I encounter traffic-- like one other car. I've never really given it too much thought. I'm a safe driver with no history of a moving accident-- except for that one time I slid into the back of a dumb-ass driver who stopped(!) on a freeway on-ramp waiting for traffic to clear in snow. I don't speed any faster than anyone else is going.  All in all, I don't think I'm much different than any one else out there on the road-- except maybe that elderly guy I followed onto the freeway yesterday in his aging minivan who never took it up above 50!

And then I got to the traffic light here at the hotel. I'm on the outskirts of Colorado Springs at the intersection of lost and nowhere. There are about 5 other cars in view and someone in some civil engineer's office has decided they need a left turn signal here. As I approach, the arrow turns red and there I sit. And sit. And sit and sit and sit. I could have been in a 747 and I wouldn't have been obstructing traffic-- because there wasn't any! And I'm sitting there for what seems like an eternity and I'm thinking the light at the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica isn't this long. And I'm thinking about just dodging to the right, going straight and making a u-turn-- or just running it. And then I realized: I am an impatient driver. I have nowhere pressing to be. No one to meet. I really just need to be safe and get home in one piece in a couple of days.

I don't know if I do it because secretly I enjoy it or what drives my impatience. I can be very, very patient in the OR. I can be patient in the kitchen. I guess I just get irritated when I'm waiting for things.

I don't think it's a matter for Ritalin or a beta-blocker.  I do know I grew up around impatience with my Mom at home and my Dad behind the wheel so perhaps I can write it off as a learned behavior. Whatever the case may be, it's a characteristic with little intrinsic value. Impatience never makes anything happen any faster, never makes me feel any better, and always leaves me feeling anxious and somewhere between angry and annoyed.

I guess that's the beauty of writing about it. Keeping a journal lets you recognize a behavior, talk it over, and hopefully put it behind. It's therapy. And the beauty is, I don't have to pay you for "listening."

My homework will be the drive back to Denver International in a couple of hours. I'll be patient-- unless that line for security is just way too long!

The House I Grew Up In

I was browsing through an old acquaintance's photos on Face Book and found she had captioned one photo as "the house I grew up in." It's a great phrase but I'm not sure what it means to her. I have friends who lived in the same house from birth 'til the time they left for college. I have others whose parents, like mine, moved  at least a few times before they finally left on their own.

People ask me where I'm from and I always just want to kind of take breath. "Where I'm from." Invariably I give the cliff notes version and answer that I was born in Portland and grew up in Los Angeles. And that's the house I grew up in. I moved out of that house in LA and on back to Oregon even before I had started high school, before I could drive. But I had my first broken heart there, my first cigarette, my first alcohol. For me that's pretty much the definition: It's not girls, drugs, alcohol, cars, or work. It's not a thing. The house you grow up in is the place you come to realize you are done being a kid. Not that I wasn't still a kid. No, in fact, I was very much still a kid. But a kid who was ready to step out of childhood, to be older, to be old enough.

It wasn't until a few years after leaving LA and that house I grew up in that I came to have grown-up experiences. A real girlfriend who could be a friend and with whom I could experience a real relationship. A real job where I could actually work, make money, and get fired. A real car I could drive around and grind up the clutch without having anyone to apologize to.

It would be several years after leaving the house I grew up in before I would have a vision of where I was headed and what I wanted to do. But the seeds were planted in that house I grew up in. Turns out those seeds took 40 years to produce a mature plant. But still healthy. And still growing. And, I like to think, still blooming.

Rearview Mirror

 land of opportunity

Driving to the airport I heard an old favorite from the mid-seventies: Dust in the Wind. I’ve always liked that song; call it a guilty pleasure. But as most old favorites will, this song made me think about both where I was then and I where I am today. It also made me think about my daughter.

I was in Ann Arbor over the weekend for the U of M v. MSU football rivalry. I hung out and tailgated at the home of a friend’s college student son where we parked.  I was struck then by how absorbed a college life can become with the peripherals. Ah, those treacherous peripherals: Living away from home, burning the candle at both ends, drinking your brains out, boy friend, girl friend, party on. A dilemma: being of an age and in a place to have the most fun in your life vs. being of an age and in a place where you need to take full advantage of every academic opportunity. It’s not like I don’t remember. It’s what I do remember that gives me pause.

There is really no way for a college student to understand. And, like trying to inform your child of any area of life in which you have perspective and they’re just gaining experience, what you know usually just cannot be successfully instilled in a younger person’s head. What you know tends to be of interest but not of consequence. It just does't go in.

And so it was the other morning: Listening to that old Kansas classic, I thought of how I spent my time in college. And, for me, it’s hard to think of that and not wonder what I could have done better. Could I have studied harder? Did I take advantage of every resource?  Of all the hours in those four years did I spend them well? I think I did okay. I know I’ve managed to land pretty well in life and it’s been a course, for better or for worse, I’ve navigated with little outside help. But, as the song says, we are only dust in the wind. We get only so many hours, so many days, so many weeks and years. And when it’s over, well, you can debate what happens next if you like but for my money, it’s over.

I think it must be a hallmark of advancing age that you start taking a backward glance now and then. You take inventory. You wonder if you’ve done enough, well enough-- can you still do more? And in that, I think of my daughter now as a successful third year student at a first tier university and I feel confident she’s well on her way. I can only hope when she’s my age she looks back confident and secure in the knowledge she did enough, well enough, and left nothing behind. Like me. Most days.

Which Way Progress?

The image above is from the NPR site this morning. It is attached to a program about the evolution of television. There are just so many things about this photograph that speak to American life then and now.

My guess is the photo heralds from around 1965-66. We can see at least half of men are still wearing hats as part of their regular attire. Likewise, the sign on the wall advertises color, a technology that really came to the front in the mid-sixties. But, more than fashion and technology, I read so much else into the picture because it is a time I remember to some degree.

Odds have it, the couple looking at the big color console model are looking to replace a black and white set and will still end up with just one TV in the house. Odds have it that big TV will be on in the evening when the whole family is watching. Together. Odds have it at least the one man in the photo is a husband and has a job. With a future. A lot of assumptions can be made about the mid-sixties/mid-century demographic in this country, stylized in the advertiser's photograph, and much of which is tinted by nostalgia-- a feeling of loss for a past we think was more secure, more understandable, more compatible with our own image of social structure.

The real item in the photograph that gives me pause is the television set: To this day I am in awe of the people who had the audacity to think an image could be sent through the air, into a receiver, and re-assembled to be viewed again. I know I learned about this 1500 years ago in physics but not well enough to lessen my wonder at the imagination and ingenuity-- without computers-- that went into this device. I look at something that's become as common as the television and I have to wonder: Who's out there that could do it today? Do we have, and more importantly, are we producing, the intellectual curiosity to continue to imagine, ponder, and create at the level we saw evolve in the last 3 or 4 hundred years of human history? I'm not talking about new applications of existing technology. I mean new technology.

In as much as necessity is the mother of invention, I worry that we, in modern western society, have exhausted one of our most critical raw materials. In an era when everyone expects to be entertained at all times, in all places, and all within the palm of the hand, what gives rise to the next really big idea?

Acoustic Massage Therapy

When I was a kid we used to enjoy going up to UCLA's Open House weekend offered once every year. We lived within a stone's throw of the physics buildings and the engineering school. We'd walk up and tour the monkey labs in one building and the old aircraft engines on display in another. Two of our favorites, however, were the acoustic chamber and the soundproof room. The former was almost scary as the tour guide fired a pistol and the shot rang out and echoed and reverberated for what seemed like 5 minutes off the roof and floor and walls and impossibly tall ceiling. The latter was eerie for other reasons as you walked into the center of the room, suspended on a floor made of mesh, surrounded on all sides by fiber cones. When the door closed all sound seemed to disappear. When the gun was fired, there was the most insignificant "pop," the sound literally absorbed-- sucked from the room almost before it could meet one's eardrums.

It's remarkable to me how, in real life, we are always surrounded by sound. Whether it's people or machinery, immediate vicinity or way far off, it's extremely unusual when you don't hear anything. Fact is, it's when you seemingly don't hear anything that it usually freaks a person out, as in creaks in the floor, cracks in the wall, a sudden click, thump, or knock: "What was that?!"

I'm thinking about all this because last night I went to bed with the sound of thunder and raindrops on the roof. Rain on the roof, running off and rushing through the downspouts. As I lay there simultaneously trying to fall asleep and trying to stay awake to listen I started to think about all this. Rain on the roof, water running in a stream, and the crash of an ocean's waves-- the latter a sound that, like thunder, you feel percuss in your chest as much as hear. These seem, at least for me, to be among the most comforting sounds I can encounter. While I don't know why, or even if it's been studied, I like to think it's in part because of our biological connection to water. That and, unlike the constant assault of the cacophony that surrounds us, I just don't have the pleasure all that often of lying there, in the still of the night, listening to the rain. It's an acoustic massage. Massage therapy for the soul.

Express Box

I got a package delivered to the office the other day. It came in an "Express Box" from UPS. It's a small box with dimensions of 13X11X2 inches. Its size makes it hard to figure just what it could be that needed to be express forwarded to me: A new shirt? New boxers?? Couldn't be. The box rattled inside.

As it turns out I'm glad it wasn't anything too important. I just hope the sender didn't pay a premium to have it shipped express-- although the box is marked "Extremely Urgent." If it were extremely urgent, or a premium was paid for express delivery, then there is a problem: It took longer to figure out how to open the damn box (and only then with the attendant risk of getting a nasty paper cut and/or stabbed with my little utility knife) then it took to ship the thing in the first place!

What was so important? Well, the first line of the return address is "Fulfillment." Dang!! That seemed rather Zen-like. Seems like that package should require something of a much larger box! Nope. Wrong on that one. Just ask Evan. The box contained 3 passes to Disneyland and 3 passes for a "character breakfast" on a Saturday morning. Actually, probably not worth the additional cost considering my son gets to have breakfast with a character almost every Saturday morning! Da dun dunt!!  Thank you. Thank you very much. 

As I think about a package marked "Fulfillment" it's a good question to ask yourself: How big a box would it take to ship you fulfillment.

First, speaking for myself, there isn't a box big enough to hold all the crap I've variously collected and discarded in the course of 50+ years in pursuit of fulfillment. Likewise, I'm happy to report that I need nothing more to obtain "fulfillment." I think I'm a pretty well "fulfilled" guy. Second, I figured out some time ago that "fulfillment" doesn't arrive in packages, people, or things: You hold it in your head, not your hands.

Now, if only I had received that information via package express a lifetime or so ago.

More on Big Tex

Christian pilgrims from throughout the United States and around the world are beginning to descend on the Texas State Fairgrounds in Fort Worth. This, following reports that the arms and hands of the 50-plus foot statue remain in place, out-stretched, and welcoming all.  Amid civil engineering reports that claim the survival of the appendages seems "absolutely impossible," church officials have called the partially incinerated icon "miracle work." "The Lord works in mysterious ways!" said Father Rialdo Peligrini. "The image is both that of the cross as well as the welcoming arms of the Lord. This is no coincidence,"said the 78 year old priest who remains free while awaiting trial on charges brought by several altar boys from his parish over the past 40 years.

Among the faithful, belief in the miracle was further buoyed by reports of a voice coming from within the skeletal remains of the one-time giant cowboy, nee Saint Nicholas. Witnesses said a voice could be heard in the early evening hours calling out to all who would listen, "I bring you good luck! I am the one! I am the one!" Skeptics claim the voice was saying, "Help me, I'm stuck! Call 911, call 911!"

Services will be held at the site this Sunday.

Candidates Weigh In On Big Tex Tragedy

In a presidential election that is fueled with bullshit and hyperbole, I can almost imagine the reports that could be forth-coming:

As most Americans by now know, Texas State Fair icon Big Tex, the 52 foot tall cowboy statue that has greeted fair-goers for the past 60 years, met a fiery death on Friday. Both campaigns were quick to respond to the tragedy.

The governor's campaign was quick to state this was quite possibly the work of an al-Qaeda terrorist cell acting to strike at the heart of former President George W. Bush's home state.  "Once again our President has been caught flat footed in the face of terror." From Washington, the Obama administration responded sharply that there was no evidence whatsoever that any terrorist organization of any kind was behind the tragedy. "Sure. That's what you say when you can't run on your record" an official of the Romney campaign replied when told of the president's comments.

Both camps were also quick to point out the value in the tragedy with respect to the sluggish jobs market. "This will provide real jobs for the good people of Texas. Electricians, metal workers, fiberglass fabricators. Good union jobs for good people with families" said the President in a statement released late Friday. While the governor's campaign said, "If the governor is elected, this type of thing is going to happen all the time as we rebuild a financially strong America. In his experience as a businessman, Mitt quickly came to recognize the value of utterly destroying things as the starting point to prosperity."

Meanwhile, in Texas, the former President George W. Bush was quoted as saying, "This is retribution! This is terrorist infiltration in my own backyard. This is exactly the kind of sh*t that led me into Iraq in the first place, goddammit!" Sources close to the former President reportedly had know idea what the hell he was talking about.

C is for Citizen, D is for Dope

It's old news and I don't even hear that much about Lance Armstrong -- although that could be because I can't stand to have the news from any source on for more than a millisecond what with all the campaign b.s. underway. I mean, I know Lance has been booted down the stairs by Nike. And stripped of his 7 Tour de France titles. And had to resign as head of his charity foundation. But, really, does he deserve all that? Does he deserve to loose lucrative endorsements? Does he deserve to suffer public humiliation? Should he really loose his place in cycling history?

Mostly yes. He does deserve all that. The really amazing thing is that the whole episode has become an indictment of a man. What's lost in that is the indictment of organized sports at large. The fact that winning and money have become the sole objective in so many competitive sports, from high school to the pros, is an indictment of who we are, what we value, and how we live.  College scholarships, professional contracts, commercial endorsements; the purpose in pursuing the game has become the pursuit of money for far too many.

Steve Miller was a feisty little SOB gym teacher I had back in the day at Emerson Jr. High. He was beyond an enthusiast and well liked by most. Mr. Miller was a competent teacher, loved all sports, but most of all taught sportsmanship. The lesson learned was that if you don't do it honestly than you haven't done it at all. He taught us that there was honor in honesty. If you're out of bounds, admit it. If you touched the net in volleyball, you're honor bound to call it. You remain a good citizen at all times. Today when I watch football I am disappointed at how infrequently a member of one team helps a competitor up after a tackle. I am equally disappointed about how frequently a competitor gives some showy demonstration after blasting an opponent to the ground. Poor citizenship.

As for our fallen hero Lance? He hasn't lost his place in cycling history. He will be remembered as a liar and cheater, a poor citizen of epic proportions.

Got Spit?

Please Watch Your Step When Exiting The Dugout

Baseball has got to be one of the most sentimental and romantic American sports. The Boys of Summer. The Boys of October. Dodgers, Giants, Yankees, Tigers, Indians, Cardinals..... There aren't many American men who can't relate to a baseball team. Come to find out there are a whole lot of women who love their Royals, Mets, Cubs, Sox, and so on.

That said, even as a guy, baseball can be hard to watch. It seems like after about 15 minutes I want to get up, grab the windex, and give the screen a good wash. It is a constant parade of spitting, chewing, and blowing-out nostrils. Tobacco chew, gum, and sunflower seeds. Not something you would ever want to experience on smellivision, if it existed. I'm not sure which would be a more difficult task: Cleaning off the sidewalks on Division Street in Chicago on a Sunday morning or cleaning out the floor of a dugout after a game.

And then there's the nail-biting-- theirs and mine. Getting through the last inning of a close game with the tying run on second base is a manicurist's nightmare. I mean, how long does it take to set-up and throw the damn pitch already? Last night in Tigers game 3 it became almost too much. Who needs hot dogs and beer? I need a beta blocker.

At least we don't have to wait through commercial timeouts. Unfortunately, I'm thinking replay review and manager challenges are not more than a winter away. But that's not all bad. At least it will give us time to clean our TV screens.

Go Tigers!

The 8 Traits of Highly Ineffective People

Need I say more?

Being employed by a corporate system I am being given a crash tutorial in ineffective management. Not ineffective in the sense that these behaviors get the person fired from their job. Not at all. No, these appear to be the techniques that are embraced by those who are enthralled with their status as a middle manager, enjoy having authority over others, and, even if they hate their job, they realize it sure beats doing real work.

1. They love to schedule meetings.
2. A meeting that runs on beyond all reasonable boundaries of time is to them, well, just another meeting.
3. They have no respect for anybody else's time or calendar needs.
4. They are unable to give a simple answer to a simple question. In fact, they don't seem to know what is meant by the phrase, "a simple question."
5. They always reference other peoples work and theories as a rationale for their behavior.
6. They give good face: Always pleasant and positive in public.
7. They behave like an insecure, rude and selfish person in private and behind other's backs.
8. Finally, they live with the (hopefully) secret knowledge that, if their job should be eliminated tomorrow, nothing would change for the worse where they work.

These traits keep this body of highly ineffective people busy all day and all week. But it leaves them despised by their subordinates. In the wake of their "work" they leave a trail of unhappy employees who are frequently compromised in their productivity owing to the distraction of a constantly interfering manager.

So far my involvement is only peripheral. But coming from a self-employed background running my own business, it's impossible not to notice the immediate and compromising effects of "stratified" management. There'd be some real savings coming about on the cost side of the equation if it were my business.  But it's not. And there are certain advantages to that, as well.

If you, after reviewing the above, you think you have what it takes to launch a career in middle management you might want to check this out:

                      http://www.videojug.com/film/how-to-speak-management

Taking A Walk

So here's a funny thought for the day: It's funny how you can take a trip or two around the block and think you've seen it all. You think you really don't need to go around the block again because you've already seen it all, it wasn't that interesting a trip, and there are better ways to spend your time. And then, without expecting so much, you step outside, look down the street, and you notice something you hadn't seen before. And you decide to head down the sidewalk to check it out and see just what it is you had overlooked in the past.

Next thing you know, you think you're headed back around the block. But this time it turns out you're not headed around the block at all. No. You're headed off on an adventure and every step of the way you think to yourself, "I've never been on this block before. This is really a lovely walk."

And so it is. Happy anniversary to my better half.

Lucky Dog

I guess this picture just about says it all. Tam posted it on fb Saturday after taking Ev to a giant Lego show in the Detroit area. Was it fun? I'm thinking' so.

Every 5 year old in the entire world should have have the pleasure of experiencing this kind of joy. By far most don't. But no apologies. Today I'm just happy to see my son having this kind of fun. I'm also happy he's lucky to have a Mom who cares enough to make sure he gets down to Detroit to experience it all-- at 7 in the morning on a Saturday. Does it get any better?

Well, maybe: Here's the view from his big sister's seats at Michigan Stadium-- the Big House-- this year at school. Not bad. Not bad at all. He should be glad to know there's something to look forward to long after he no longer fits in a Lego fire truck.

Trickle Down?

The photo above accompanied a front page story in our local paper about the struggle the local Salvation Army was having trying to stock their food pantry. It seems the demand is high and the number of those donating is declining.  Part of the reason for the latter is that the people who are most steadfast in donating are now among those in need.

Talking with a physician colleague of mine, he commented how in his childhood home-- low income working class-- there was always enough for others. Donations to church, taking folks in that needed a place to stay, having those in need over for a lunch or dinner-- his parents took helping others as a personal duty. His parents had just enough but, somehow, always had enough to provide for others less fortunate.

My parents were much the same way. My parent's were always on the lookout for college students or others who needed a place to roost on a Sunday afternoon. Our door was definitely always open. A monetary donation to their church was always in the budget. My parents were far from flush but, they too, always had enough to share with others.

Somehow, going forward, this seems to continue to be the case. It's easy for those with large incomes to throw money in the pot: United Way or some other large collecting pot. But, somehow, the critical need at the local level still suffers a lot of shortfalls. Somehow it still seems to fall to those who know what it is to want to look after those in need.

In the case of our local food bank I followed up the newspaper story with a short letter to the editor. In it, I suggested those who believe in trickle down economics need to pull out their checkbooks. More than hospital gala fundraisers, more than charity runs and bicycle rides, more than pink ribbons, real people are in need of real help-- the kind of help that comes from dropping off a case of food at a food bank. Or a couple hundred dollars.

People don't seem to look out for one another so much as what I remember growing up. We've become a fairly selfish society as a whole. And, if there is a change in leadership this November bringing substantial cuts to social welfare programs of all types, it is only going to get worse. Some of us are going to have to stand at the ready to write checks, keep an eye out for those in need, and do what we can to help out. Trickle down economics will only offer relief if those with money are willing to turn on the faucet. So far, that doesn't seem too likely. And those who have historically done the "looking after" in this country, people like my parents and my friend's, are not likely to be in any position to help.

Continuing Education

Here was a good use of 2 minutes

When I turned this thing on this morning I was surprised to see the news feed on the European Union winning the Nobel Peace Prize and Forest people becoming tour guides. Nothing about the Vice-Presidential debate last night. Then again, I watched a bit of the debate last night and I guess I'm not so surprised.

My life and work requires I attend a fair number of continuing educational programs through the course of a 3 year credentialing cycle. By this point I have learned to steer clear of the "fluff" and spend my time at meetings that offer substance. Believe me, there's a lot of fluff out there but I don't have time for fluff. I'm hungry to both stay current and learn what's new and coming next.

The debate process has become fluff. I'll acknowledge there's value in realizing an individual doesn't have answers or seeing their weaknesses exposed but, for my time and money, the process has become fluff. Tuning in to the debates is not where you go to learn about what a candidate and his party have to offer.

In fact, the entire campaign process has become fluff. The danger here, however, has more to do with failing to learn than with wasting one's time. Political fluff leaves people dependent on spin and deceit and manipulation of information. It's not about informing a democracy, it's about winning an election.

Perhaps with respect to informing a constituency the debates do succeed on one level: You may not receive much of substance with respect to what, how, and why of a particular candidate but you do get to observe behavior. It just may be that, in this age of political spin and slight of hand, behavior-- a person's ability to converse, their carriage, that wholly subjective sense a person gets of another based on sight and sound-- is all we really have to go on. The good news is this: in the case of the televised debates, you can leave class after the first 5 minutes and still get an "A" in the subject.

43 Degrees and Falling

Hello 43. It's nice to see you again. It's been a while. Hello blanket lined jean jacket. And soft-as-down butter yellow sweatshirt. Leaves done to a crispy gold and brown. And tonight, leaving the hospital, the scent of a wood fire in the air to bring it all together.

It will probably be a long dark time before we see an evening fit for shorts and a t-shirt. Half the state over the age of 60 will soon be leaving for points south and west 'til sometime around April. Or May. Most of the other half will be here complaining about the cold. I'll be here mostly smiling.

One of the most lame phrases of all time: "Change is hard." Lame, and inaccurate. Change is change, Good, bad, or indifferent. What happens next is often up to the individual. What's the old saying? A door closes, a window opens? For sure-- just might want to close that window a bit this evening as the night gets deeper.

So, for me, it's all good. There are days coming that will be miserably cold. But it's all good. And a night that looks, feels, and smells like tonight just really makes a guy believe it.

Floating Through Life

I get to see a lot of aging and elderly people in doing what I do. It is beginning to impress me that there are three common approaches people seem to have toward aging.

The first way I see is not so common but, then, not all that uncommon. It seems to affect men more often than women--- at least men seem to be more committed about the whole deal. Or maybe the term is enthusiastic. Or desperate. And the deal is this: These people seem to hit a certain point, say late fifties, early sixties, and they want to get “back in shape.” They seem to long for a return to physical pursuits from their former days; or at least those pursuits that reassure them of an intact link to youthfulness. These folks come in with sore shoulders, hips, backs, and knees. They are the guys and gals who return to the gym after a hiatus—of 20 to 30 years. They seem intent on reclaiming a physicality from their past that, more often than not, I’m pretty sure they never possessed in the first place. They lift too much, they ride too long, they run too far. They are frustrated and depressed when their boat starts to take on water.

The second group I see with some frequency is usually a little further along in life. This is the group that seems fearful and/or resigned to their lot. They feel old, they hurt, and they seem preoccupied with the fact that their ailments are a sign of advancing years and the progress of decline. They say they want to keep going but their words sound hollow and they show little interest in making the effort. They believe they are old. They don’t want it. They don’t like it. But they believe it. They seem resigned to the fury of the falls that rumble in the distance.

The third demographic is made up of people who are aging but don’t really have time to fixate on their circumstance or condition. They are busy living life. They have progressed mile by mile and continue traveling along the river with seemingly no thought toward reaching the end of the journey. It’s such an adventure they are just happy to discover what lies around the next bend in the river. As the old saying goes: They’re too busy to get old.

I don’t know what or how many variables are at work to place an individual in one category or another. I do try to pay attention to the people I meet in the last group. My family, I’m happy to report, is filled with people who populate that latter group: There’s not a lot of time to talk about aches or pains or illness. Even when physical issues interrupt the flow, the stream of life seems to remain within its banks, the rapids calm, and the ride continues. They may get wet from time to time. They may have to portage the canoe a spot or two. But the journey continues and they look forward to what’s next.

Seeing this in my family, and observing the courses that others follow, I think the secret to aging gracefully is this: Love your life and live your life. Don’t waste your time with fear. Don't waste your time wrapped-up with images, ghosts, and reflections of the past. And don’t retreat from the future. Stay in your canoe. Paddle when needed. Float when you can. But, most of all, enjoy the ride.

Car Please!

It's not mine but I'll take it!

The other morning I stood out in front of our hotel waiting for a friend to arrive for a lunch date. It was a busy time of day at a busy hotel-- a popular lunch meeting spot. The valets were running coming and going and the cars were arriving and departing with carousel-like frequency.

Then, off to one side, I noticed a couple of valets who were not moving with any haste. Quite the opposite: They were fixed trying to explain to a rather upset woman what they were going to do about her car. It seems they had brought the car up and had it waiting when another customer, who drove the same type and color vehicle, hopped in, said thank you, handed over a tip, and drove off in the wrong car. I found the whole chapter entertaining as well as educational. I doubt I'll ever drive off in the wrong car.

When my friend arrived I related the story which he found amusing and unbelievable. But then he tells me how, a few months ago, while at a terrifically boring function he and his companion decided to slip out a side entrance, get their car, and get the heck out of Dodge. He said he made it about four blocks before he noticed he was in the wrong Prius! Geez! I guess this does happen.

After a casual lunch I walked my friend back up front to claim his car and get on his way. As he drove off I heard the sound of a distressed woman yelling at someone. It was the poor woman whose car had been hijacked. She was yelling at the lady who had only then returned the car-- like 3 hours later! As frustrated as I would be in the same circumstance, I had to think two things: First, this episode will be funny some day. Some day she will have tears rolling down her cheeks as she tells her friends about her lunch at that hotel. Second: She's obviously not a writer. That event and the time it took to recover the car should have been more than enough time to outline an entire 90 minutes of action or comedy, writer's choice.

The Silent Killer

The phrase "the silent killer" has been around for quite a while. Originally it referred to high blood pressure: You can't feel it, smell it, hear it, see it, or taste it, but people with high blood pressure are at significantly increased risk of heart attack and stroke.

I think there is a new silent killer on the loose. Like hypertension, it is virtually invisible. Unlike high blood pressure it doesn't kill the individual. It is, however, significantly disabling. And, unlike hypertension, it affects the community as a whole. Odd as it may seem this new disabling condition is disability.

My office is being inundated with a stream of patients who are either on disability (Social Security disability, i.e., permanent public support) or are actively seeking disability. People in their 20's, 30's, 40's, and 50's. I'm not talking about people in wheelchairs or with walkers, I'm talking about people who walk, talk, dress and toilet themselves. People who drive. The sources of disability I have personally encountered include dyslexia, carpal tunnel syndrome, chronic back pain, fibromyalgia, and -- swear to God-- one who said, "I'm not sure. I think I have a learning disability or something."

The reason I consider this a killer is because our current disability system turns otherwise healthy individuals into dependent victims. It has become a refuge for the unemployed and, more and more, it appears to be a refuge for the under-employed: Those individuals who can't find the kind of work they used to have in manufacturing, clerical, or other work that is meaningful and pays the bills. So I hear, "Doc, I'm just thinking of going after my disability. I'm 46, I've got a bad back and neck and I just can't do this anymore. At my old job I was fine but now...." I recently saw a patient in their 30's who was permanently disabled for a seizure disorder although they hadn't had a seizure in over 10 years. The person had recently broken a bone and all they wanted to know is when they could get back to aerobics. The patient stressed to me the need to get back to exercise because they were "addicted to working out." I saw another patient, already on permanent Social Security disability for a bad knee, who was in seeing me for an injury to the hand. It happened while working on the engine of their truck. With rare exception they all seem to manage to pursue their recreations, it's just work: They just can't work.

Entitlement comes in all forms these days but from where I sit growing the ranks of the disabled is one of the greatest disservices we offer. From where I sit the greatest source of contemporary disability is not some epidemic of physical injury or disease. Rather, it's a lack of opportunity coupled with a lack of obligation. Once the disability payments start no one feels any obligation to contribute.

Driving around my small home town and around a major metropolitan area recently I see mountains of public work to be done. Small stuff like litter and trash and general picking up. I see seniors that need rides or assistance with shopping. Kids that need care. There must be hundreds of jobs the new generation of disabled could do, if even for 3 or 4 hours a day. Jobs that need to be done but public budgets can no longer fund.

By and large we are not caring for disability as much as for depression. The value we need to add is not so much to ensure we get something for our public investment as it is restore a sense of dignity and value to the person receiving the aid. It's the only treatment I see that can eradicate this pernicious silent epidemic.

Lessons From The Tar Pits

One of the literally ancient tourists traps in LA is the La Brea Tar Pits. I should really say the tar pits have trapped a lot of tourists over the past 40.000 years or so. The tar pits are a series of small lakes where naturally occurring asphalt, tar, and methane bubble to the surface. The water is a mess of oil slicks and tarry debris while the floor is coated with a thick layer of tarry goo. If it were a candy bar it would be a dentist's dream.

Instead, the tar pits are a paleontologist's dream. Over the course of the past 40,000 years animals, and a few humans, have walked into the tar pits in search of water or prey, only to become mired in the goo where they eventually became entombed. Talk about getting stuck in LA.

We took Ev there the other morning as the area now includes a museum where a number of complete skeletons of Ice Age creatures have been recovered and reassembled. It's a great little museum and worth a stop; especially considering the LA County Museum of Art shares the same campus. Looking at the collection is amazing, though, considering the volume of animals that have met their death on the property and the work that has gone on at the site since around 1910 in an effort to recover those fossils-- all so well preserved in their thick petroleum-based coating.

The most important feature of the site comes from the lessons to be learned from the tar pits and their hapless victims. More than lessons about geology, climate, and zoology, the best lessons are those to be gained in the social sciences-- psychology and sociology. Certainly the best lessons Evan could learn from the tar pits are these:
   
    1. Things are not always what they seem. Never ignore the warning signs: If you smell sulfur and see oil slicks and giant gas bubbles rolling to the surface, it's probably not a good place to take drink even if you are thirsty.

    2. Even if everyone else is doing it, it doesn't mean you should. Assess the situation and make the smart decision. They have recovered thousands of primitive wolf skulls. Obviously a species of slow learners.

    3. Don't let others drag you into their problems. Sometimes they can't be helped. Some situations, often of their own creating, are so involved, so engulfing, that you will only get dragged-in to your own demise.

    4. Don't take advantage of others' misfortune. Their plight might just as easily become your own. There have been more than a few skeletons recovered that indicate a predator became entrapped while trying to attack or feed on a creature already trapped in the tar.

    5. And finally, considering the plight of the Mastadon trapped in the re-creation above: Just because you're big/smart/fast/clever/whatever doesn't mean you can't become a victim.

Drop by if you visit LA. Just don't get stuck. The traffic on Wilshire is killer.

   

A Farewell to Hickory Cheese (?)

It's been about two years since I've had any real meat. I'm not into crazy vegan level avoidance but I try to steer clear. Get it? Steer clear. No beef, no chicken, no pork, no fish. And the biggest reason is because I feel so much better with animal meat out of my diet. There have been temptations but, usually, one good sniff or nibble and I'm over it. Big time.

Until yesterday. Yesterday I felt the need to introduce Ev to the Apple Pan, a westside LA institution where I have scarfed down dozens of Hickory cheese burgers and well done fries. Last time I was there I stuck with the egg salad and left feeling a bit melancholy.  Great egg salad, but not what the doctor ordered. Well, it was what the doctor ordered, just not what he wanted.

So yesterday it was one hick-cheese for Tam, one steak-burger with cheese for Ev, and one egg salad on white for me. Turns out Tam likes steak-burgers with cheese not hickory cheese. So what could I do?? We ordered another steak-burger with cheese and I ate half my egg salad before Tam's hick-cheese sat there in front of me, forlorn and with just a few bites missing.

It wasn't the egg salad on white, or the well done fries, or the half slice of coconut cream, or the half slice of chocolate cream. No, it was the four bites of hickory cheese burger-- four glorious bites of hick- cheese-- that kept me tossing and turning until midnight. So far no worse effects.

The really terrible part of it all is that I think I'm over it: As pathetic as it sounds, I think feeling good is better than a hick-cheese from the Pan. Worse still, Ev barely touched his steak burger. I'll return for egg-salad on white but will cast no jealous eye toward the burgers.

Dog Walks and Train Rides

Having a dog includes the joy/pleasure/responsibility/annoyance of having to take him out a few times every day. For me it's become the last duty of the day: Grab the lesh and the the flashlight and make one more trip out. Although we don't go far, a flashlight is pretty handy when it comes to avoiding potholes, fallen branches, and cleaning up dog messes in the dark.

Last night while walking the dog I was reminded of a trip I took about 40 years ago. Back in the 70's I rode the train by myself from LA up to Salem, Oregon for summer work in my brother-in-law's supermarket. (Came to find out I could have saved the fare-- I only lasted a week.) At any rate, the ride up on the train was amazing. I don't know quite how this worked but I know I got served a beer or two in the lounge car. What I remember most, however, is sitting up in the dome car late at night. I somehow had become part of a party that ended with everyone konked out except me and an elderly couple sitting up there, in a glass dome, riding through the Siskiyou Mountains, under an amazing canopy of stars, watching the night world go by. No sound, just stars and the swaying of the train. And up ahead, the only illumination came from the headlight of the engine cutting a swath of light along its path through the mountains.  It was a gorgeous moment, removed from everything-- a timeout, as it happened, as a chapter in my life was about to end.

All that from a dog walk. Seems like a pretty reasonable trade-off for having to follow my dog out in the dark of night.

Just...Let...Me....Sleep

It's more than just once in a while I wake early and wonder why I ever chose the job I have today. Medicine? Sure. It's just that surgery always starts early and being up and out the door by 6:30 is not uncommon. Nor fun. Nor anywhere in my realm of being before the age of 25.

Not that it matters much anymore. I don't think I could sleep much past 8 without a general anesthetic. For all the fond memories of staying in bed 'til 11, noon, or later during my school days, I seem to have lost that ability. Ev hasn't yet learned the fine art of wasting a morning in bed. Kels can still pull it off now and then when the opportunity presents itself. And Tam, well Tam can kind of do a half-hearted imitation-- 8:30 is pretty much her best effort at this point.

And then along comes the change of seasons. The sun cools down, the wind picks up, a few clouds roll in and, suddenly, nobody's moving very fast these mornings. Somehow our primitive brain parts are telling us to start thinking hibernation. I'm getting up at the same time-- it's just taking a whole lot more effort (and an additional 30 minutes to feel alert).

Now, maybe if I just had my old med school bed made from concrete blocks, a sheet of plywood, and a cheap mattress, maybe then I could sleep until noon. Lord knows the brain is willing these cool dark mornings.

A Bit of a Hurry

Fall is the most beautiful time of the year. It comes, it glows, it usually doesn't raise havoc with roadways or rooftops. It doesn't usually create medical emergencies or environmental hazards. It beckons a wardrobe change (all the cool stuff: sweaters and flannels and sturdy corduroy trousers). It does require yard work, at least in these parts. But, most of all, it's a technicolor feast for the eyes.

This year, however, it seems to be showing up a bit early. Maybe it's a sign of my age but it just seems it shouldn't be looking like this quite yet. I don't mind the change but, like a date that moves too fast, it's great but I fear it will be over too soon and then: Done and gone.

For now I'll take a few pictures and enjoy the show. I just hope we can keep it join' for more than a weekend or two.