Blunt Wit

I was sooooo hungry I could have eaten Irish babies. So I stopped into “The Whistle Stop Cafe,” a little deli not far from my home at the time. All the sandwiches were named after trains. My favorite happened to be the ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ (and not just because I’m from Tennessee) which consisted of homemade chicken salad with lots of dill and huge chunks of meat. I stayed away from the ‘Midnight Express’ cause I’m not that into Turkey. And I don’t know how or why they slipped the ‘Titanic’ onto the menu other than to prey on the odd unsuspecting Leonardo DiCaprio fan.

After grabbing my sandwich and picking up a loose paper I sat down and came to an article on the editorial page written by the Dalai Lama.

It was originally written in the Washington Post but reprinted in this local newspaper. There were two paragraphs that blew me away so I thought to share them with you here today:

“Many people today agree that we need to reduce violence in our society. If we are truly serious about this, we must deal with the roots of violence, particularly those that exist within each of us. We need to embrace “inner disarmament,” reducing our own emotions of suspicion, hatred and hostility towards our brothers and sisters.

And …

Large human movements spring from individual human initiatives. If you feel that you cannot have much of an effect, the next person may also become discouraged, and a great opportunity will have been lost. On the other hand, each of us can inspire others simply by working to develop our own altruistic motivations – and engaging the world with a compassion-tempered heart and mind.”

His message, while simple, was profound. Change begins at home. Peace starts at a very personal level. I wondered, though, if the folks in war ravaged lands like Iraq or Sudan could possibly adopt his credo. And then I thought those folks probably represent less than one percent of the human population on earth. The point is, I guess – for those of us in the other ninety-nine percent – to develop our good-hearted motivations while engaging the world at large.

So on the spot I vowed to change the toilet paper roll without cursing the heathen who left it empty and in first place. Also, I figure writing this blog post should build me some karma points since there is a small chance at least ONE of you reading this will take it to heart, get off your butt and really do something!

Then my entrepreneurial instincts kicked in and I thought wouldn’t it be cool to open deli with a ‘world peace’ motif. The house specialty vegan sandwich would, of course, be named the ‘Dali Lama’. We’d have a hot pastrami on rye called ‘Global Warming.’ My favorite would be the ‘Mahatma Gandhi,’ a curried treat only to be eaten sitting down. And of course there would be the ‘Martin Luther King Jr.’ for those dreamy types who love miracle whip.

On second thought maybe I’ll just propose my own sandwich to the owners of the Whistle Stop: ‘The Peace Train.’

What ingredients should go into ‘The Peace Train’ sandwich?
What small do-able thing can you commit to doing to make this world more peaceful?
If you could add a sandwich to the menu what would it be (name and key ingredients)?

So on a recent flight as I had proceeded to sprawl out in finagled exit row seat luxury, a strange woman of above average looking intelligence saddled into the middle seat next to me and opened up the latest John Grisham novel “The Pelican Boxers” or “The Firm Butt” or “The Wayward Client” or whatever cause after a while all his stories seem to run together and it becomes difficult to distinguish one great tale from the next but then maybe that’s just me cause I just happened to be reading Billy Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Furry” at that very moment and his novels seem to have a very similar characteristic.

Anyway, Liz, which I mistakenly took as short for “Lizard” much to her apparent chagrin, finished the book and laid it thoughtfully in her lap. I personally thought it was an honest mistake.

“So did you like it?”

“Well, actually no, because the bad guys win in the end?” she twanged with and unmistakable English or possibly Australian accent.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I do believe you just did?”

“Ah, right, well, how many novels do you typically read in a year?”

“52.”

“Wow, so what types?”

“Unthinking pap, like this novel, or sometimes non-fiction … but mostly fiction. I love a good story.”

“And why? What do you get out of these stories?”

“I learn, I stretch, I grow, I see the world in a different light.”

“Ah, so I am writing a story and attempting to craft just such an experience.”

She muffled some laughter.

“So basically anything I say now might end up in your fiction?”

“Hmmmm, good question. Yes I suppose it might.”

“So what’s this story of yours about?”

“Well, the never ending quest for meaning in an absurd world.”

“Brilliant, when can I read it.”

“As soon as I finish writing it and assuming I’m lucky enough to get it published.”

“So you will write me up fondly if you do include me?”

“Of course, I will describe you as an exotic beauty with rare intelligence and the wisdom of a female Solomon.”

“Good!”

Are you playing the part in a story? What is it?

There probably exist other folks more qualified than me to write about traditions of the great American South. Local yokels. Jim dandy’s. You see me, I’ve been a carpet-bagger all my life.

Alas, I was born in Saratoga Springs, NY. Hell that’s almost northerner than Toronto, the capital of the biggest northern state, Canada. However, my entire family all hails from the South: Georgia mostly, but also Mississippi, Alabama, Florida and Tennessee. In fact, as I was growing up my extended family chided me for being a Yankee due to my birthplace.

I believe this was the primary reason I developed a deep seated sense of displacement, a sense of never really belonging, the genesis, if you will, of my wanderlust. I left the South like a shot from a cannon. I traveled to and settled down in far flung reaches of the planet. I learned Chinese and Japanese and fully embraced these cultures: reading their newspapers, watching their TV, eating their food and surviving numerous encounters with their law enforcement which we won’t go into here.

But the traditions of my upbringing still exerted a mighty pull over me and I thought to expound on them here for those of you not lucky enough to have been born and raised in the South. There are literally thousands of idiotsyncrasies that set us apart but for the purposes of briefing down I will limit myself to the following: caning, black eyed peas, sweet iced tea and wet T-shirt contests.

So I remember oh so well pulling out the mason jars and boiling them with those funky holy vacuum seal lids. We then fixed up huge boiling pots of veggies and overly sugared fruit. Wait, that’s canning. Caning, on the other hand, occurred on the numerous occasions we were bad. Parents would pull out that rattan cane and beat us to within an inch of our lives. Dammit, memories as fine as these are nearly forgotten or possibly blocked out by deep psychological trauma. Makes one feel Singaporean, or possibly Catholic, although every southerner has a bit of Baptist blood running in their veins.

Next, every New Year’s we would all gather round the boombox and sing the Pea’s “My humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps” together. Kidding. Not those peas silly, the other black eyed peas, the ones you eat.

This tradition dates back to the U.S. Civil War when Union troops, especially those in areas targeted by “Scorched Earth” General Sherman would typically strip the countryside of all food, crops, and livestock and destroy whatever they could not carry away. At that time, Northerners considered black eyed peas suitable only as animal fodder, and as a result they didn’t steal or destroy this infernal food. Many Southerners – my ancestors in fact – survived as a result of this mistake. And thus, to celebrate this fact, we’re forced to eat peas that have the consistency and general taste of dirt at least once each and every year.

But at least we can wash it down with sweet iced tea. We never had air conditioning growing up – or at least that’s the myth my parents had us believing to conserve electricity – so the only way to keep cool in the hot, humid summers was to drink iced tea. And since sweet desserts are a decidedly southern trait, any self respecting tea comes laced with cup upon cup of heaping sugar. I think you can actually hear the sound of teeth rotting in their gums on those warm southern breezes of summer.

And of course there is that hoary tradition of the wet T-shirt contests. Every spring the entire school population of the South spills into Dayton Beach, Florida for their Spring break. And all up and down those shapely beaches, young women enter wet T-shirts contests by the million pairs. Lithe, nubile bodies made wet by testosterone induced spillage. The vibe makes one nostalgic for coliseums and lions. I’d have to say that of all the southern traditions THIS is the one that captures my attention and interest the most, even to this day.

Have you ever participated in a wet t-shirt contest?

Can you share any funky traditions (sordid or not) from your part of the world?

So a painful admission. I am such a lemming when it comes to the latest management fad. You know, the ones that get immortalized for a few months or days when a particular book outlining a particular passing fancy gets hot like “In Search of Excellence”, “From Great to Terrible”, “Who Cut the Cheese”, and the granddaddy of them all, “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.”

I don’t just buy them, I devour them.

After reading so many over the years I have noticed one huge negative: most are written solely for the successful CEO’s and Captains of Industry. They are not written for a much, much bigger market. That being the unsuccessful people of this world. Seeing this as an under served niche I have decided to step into the breach and write my own management conceit.

I’ve entitled my treatise “Seven Habits of Highly Ineffectual People.” I realize this lacks a little originality but these days, honestly what doesn’t. I mean seriously, was George W. Bush’s invasion of Iraq original?
Duh, his Dad … ten years earlier … been there, done that.

Is TomKat original? Hell no, you had Branglina and HillBill (or was it Monbill I get confused) before that.

You see, creativity serves no master and knows no bounds.

So without further ado here is a sampling of my Seven Habits for your critical review:

1. Be Lazy. Aren’t you tired of stressing! We live in a go-go world of drive-through Starbucks, 24 hours news and non-stop demands on our time and our soul. It’s ok to say ef it every once and a while, kick back, open cold one, and space out.

(terms of service: by reading this sentence you are agreeing to absolve this author of any and all responsibility for loss and/or lowering of income due to following his advice.)

2. Begin from the beginning. Who ever heard of starting with the end in mind. If we knew the damn ending we wouldn’t need to suffer through the beginning and middle. Hell, if you knew your life were to end tomorrow in some horrible vegetable peeler accident would you even try hard today to be a good person. No, you’d raise all sorts of Cain. So just take it from the top and see whatever the hell else develops. Your battle cry: c’est la vie.

3. Put firsts thing whenever. Priorities Smiorities. When did completing priorities get you anything other than more work. Just use your gut. Like, I’m hungry so I’ll eat a sandwich. Failing that, have a coin handy and flip it. I find fate the best judge of what anyone should do next.

4. Think Win/Lose. Face it, Win/Win is a strategy for suckers. Like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy it only exists in the minds of naïve babes. We live in a Dog eat Dog world. By the way, do dogs really eat dogs? Anyway, make sure you’re standing triumphantly atop the hill kicking all the other wannabes back down its slippery slope as you polish the brass ring.

5. Seek to Obfuscate then run like hell. Ever heard that a rolling stone gathers no moss. Keep your friends close and your enemies in another country (preferably without extradition treaty with the US).

6. Sexercise. Most management guru’s focus totally on the mind, the ego, and human motivation. They totally neglect the fact that physical health is critical to any individual’s or organization’s success. So I figure combine the ultimate of human motivation with a good healthy aerobic exercise … sex. I plan to add plenty of visual graphics to assist the beginner and professional alike.

7. Sharpen the hammer. If you’ve ever tried to sharpen a hammer I’ve got some choice inexpensive oceanfront property for you (please write me at arkansasbeachviews.com for details). Saws are used to cut things and must remain sharp while requiring ridiculous amounts of sharpening. A hammer on the other hand is a much more versatile device requiring little upkeep. You see it, pound it, done. Always use the hammer.

So there it is. Please let me know if you see this as sage advice for failed or semi-failed CEO’s, Captains of Industry or the normal joe down on his luck in the streets in our rat-a-tat-tat world or crap.

Do you read management advice books?
Which do you admire the most? Which one sits on your shelf collecting the most dust?
Which of the seven habits do you think epitomizes management today?

So I gotz ta thinkin the other day that the Jihadists and Muslim fundamentalists seem to have cornered the market on suicide bombing as a method to furthering their political aspirations. This seems slightly unfair. Something drastic needs to be done to level the playing field.

So I thought to create a rival system and organization to recruit a new crop of self-destructors for the purpose of promoting hope and world peace. No more will we sit idly by while some devout crazies attempt to sew terror and foment anarchy. Nay, we will rise up and meet ka-boom with ka-boom! Will you consider joining my crusade to save the human race?

The notion of self sacrifice is as old as civilized man itself. Wherever there has been an imbalance of power the siren song of asymmetric warfare has called. The Palestinians ratcheted up the Intifada with the destructive force of human negation. Of course the granddaddy of the cause has been Al Queda. These jokers took it to new levels of heinousness. Their main goal is to suck hope out of this world. But we needn’t let them.

So all of this leads us full circle to the state of the world today. War, mayhem, and bad television cause tremendous human suffering everywhere. What are we, as individuals, to do? Is loving thy neighbor enough? Is donating money, time and energy to good causes enough? Isn’t there more that can be done? YES, I say!!!

Join the Suicide Bombers for Hope or SuBoHo today. Our competitive advantage over traditional suicide bombers will be our use of advanced undetectable yet powerful PETting or personal explosive technologies. Sexy huh? We’re talking C4 and sophisticated spread spectrum radio devices. You will be custom fitted to the nines. We want you to look really, really good when you go explode.

Your demise will detonate hope and goodwill everywhere. Of course, your goal will be to harm as few good – while giving the most joy to as many – people as possible. You’ll be like a giant roman candle, a fourth of July fireworks display for peace – striking a blow for amity over annihilation everywhere. Think of the good you could do.

While we will not be offering you 72 virgins in the afterlife, we will, in conjunction with Walmart (yet to be positively confirmed), be offering great discounts on merchandise for you and your immediate family.

So whatdaya say? Will you join SuBoHo today and spread a little incandescent hope and goodwill?

Have done anything out of the ordinary to promote peace and goodwill toward men?

This story only makes sense if you know a little secret about me. I’m clueless.

Really.

I put on this act of worldly sophistication but in truth I’m just a country bumpkin. This means I trust far too easily and am pretty much blind to the wicked ways of the world.

Well, most at least. Words like ‘quaint’ and ‘gullible’ only go so far in describing my singular ability to misread the most obvious signs and step into danger.

Today’s story took place years ago on a cold winter’s day in Beijing near the Wangfujin district.

My mane had grown long and shaggy and in dire need of a haircut. So one Sunday afternoon I strolled out into the frigid Beijing air and set off for the barber pole not half a mile from our hotel.

A cute, bouncy girl two funky pony tails sticking out the sides of her head and too much make-up on greeted me. She asked if I wanted ‘full service’. Thinking this meant a wash and cut I said, “Why not!” matching her infectious enthusiasm.

I was then ushered into the back and handed off to a more demur woman named Xiaomei. She proceeded to wash my hair and cut it. Timid with the scissors, I couldn’t help noticing that it seemed as if she’d never cut hair before.

I watched her botch my haircut right before my eyes in the mirror. At one point – I guess when she inadvertently snipped off a piece of my ear, drawing blood – I thought about stopping her. But I was mesmerized by her complete lack of skill. When she was done I looked like Sid Vicious on an off day.

At this point she started to massage my shoulders. Hmmmm, I thought, this is weird, but it feels pretty good so I let it ride. I got so comfortable I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew she was attempting to unbutton my pants. Startled I jumped out of the chair.

She seemed genuinely crestfallen when I refused her ‘full service’ and skedaddled out of there looking a bit worse for wear.

Later in recounting the story to my colleagues at work they howled in laughter at my naiveté. Apparently, the barber pole was the common symbol for brothel in China. To think I went there for an actual haircut and left after paying for services not rendered.

Have you ever had a haircut, perm, etc. go awry? Watched it befall a loved one?