So what is blogging to you?

To me blogging is all about all about lending cogency to a thought, breathing life into a whim.

Some days the swirling ideas, the tornado of life, whips up the mundane and transforms it into the sublime. At other times, it morphs the exquisitely divine into the muck of everyday existence.

We gather here in this space to share our observations. We laugh, we cry, we titillate, we entertain one another mightily. We commune, we share, we sympathize, we blog each other our humanity. We take the high road, the low sexy road and all the paths that criss-cross like silk-laced panties in-between.

In the final analysis, we are but scribes, bloggers bearing witness to the grace and glory of our own life stories. But always there is a thought, an idea, bursting to be expressed. An intention itching to leak out onto the blog and into our, sweet reader’s, consciousness.

So what is blogging to you?
Can you link an especially nice blog here today and share the love. I, for one, have been absent much lately and would love to meet some new blogging talent.

Today’s topic is about the feeling of apathy. Some people would call it lazy but that’s just apathy with intention. Others would say insouciant but that’s just plain lazy without caring. Lassitude is too dang slow to describe the feeling.

Half-heartedness. That’s it! Apathy is all about heart, really. Or lack thereof. You see when your heart wanders you lose sight of your goal. Without a goal you flounder. Like a flat fish on dry-land flip-flopping for water you gasp for meaning. You need a purpose. A destination maybe. A reason to compel action.

Sometimes you take these for granted. You never notice them. You work to earn a living. You love and create to feel alive. When times are good you function on autopilot and all is right and good with the world.

When crisis erupts, however, you lose your bearing. Like a drunk, you stagger woozily. Disoriented, you sometimes lose sight of your goal. Instead of action, nothing. A profound sense of sadness or frustration or carelessness typically underpins apathy. The result is non-action. Time drags by slower. The world dims. You have urgent desires to eat chocolate or watch re-runs of “I Dream of Genie”.

So what to do?

Turn on all your lights? Ramp up your heat? Or shake it off like a dog waggling off water? Yeah, spray everyone around you. Piss them off. Will yourself into the world and the world will kick you in the shins and it will hurt. But the pain will focus your attention on the big questions: What am I doing? Why am I doing it? The feeling of apathy then becomes a gift of sorts. An opportunity for you to re-evaluate those questions and reinvigorate your response to them.

So have you ever suffered from the feeling of apathy? What brought it on?
What was your response? How did you beat it?
What is Truth North on your life’s compass?

So I decided to investigate this claim in my typical pseudo scientific method for you gentle readers. Herewith are my findings:

The first question we must ask ourselves is what malady is laughter the best medicine for?

I mean, I guess if I had a gangrenous foot that needed lopping off I might get by with a good Saturday Night Live skit or The Onion. But I daresay a good anesthetic might be a tad more efficacious. Then again, the most common anesthetic, is nitrous oxide after all.

So then let’s assume laughter is the best medicine because it remedies the most common illness afflicting the human species. I would have guessed that to be turf toe but according to the internet that would be hypertension.

Previous scientific studies have proven that laughter:
- reduces pain and allows us to tolerate discomfort.
- reduces blood sugar levels.
- improves job performance.
- synchronizes the brains of speaker and listener so that they are emotionally attuned.
- will eventually bring about world peace

And now comes hard new evidence from American College of Cardiology member Michael Miller, M.D., of the University of Maryland that laughter helps your blood vessels function better.

It acts on the inner lining of blood vessels, called the endothelium (I’m not making this word up, I promise), causing vessels to relax and expand, increasing blood flow. In other words, laughter is good for your heart and brain.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. How can laughter compete with the likes of drugs such as Prozac, OxyContin, weed or ecstasy for ‘best medicine’ honors? I guess it boils down to cost performance.

Laughter comes ostensibly for free, whereas both legal and illicit drugs cost a pretty penny. Just try selling laughs on a street corner for a morning and then drugs in the afternoon and you’ll soon understand my point if you’re not gunned down in a senseless act first (and I do mean in the morning).

So in conclusion I guess Laughter IS the best medicine after all. So next time you’re feeling blue, take two (laughs) and call me in the morning.

What do you believe is the best medicine?

So the other night with that basic premise in mind I attended one of those mandatory meetings for entrepreneurs grubbing for money in the Silicon Valley. Excuse me while I digress. I think I read in a paper recently that every third person in the South Bay area either is in the process of starting a company or dreams of doing so one day. Hell, the other day my Taco Bell cashier was pitching me up for investment in his IC (Integrated Circuit) company idea while I waited for my Burrito Supreme. We couldn’t agree on valuation so I changed my order to ‘to go’ and skedaddled out of there.

Anyway, the meeting took place in what we affectionately call the ‘Death Star’, (Black Hole might be more appropriate as many an entrepreneur goes in but nary a few come out with their shirts on their backs), the most famous Valley law firm at their sprawling Palo Alto campus. After giving my name and confirming my registration I headed upstairs to join the pre-meeting festivities.

Being a veteran of many campaigns, I knew the secret to effective networking was to be strategically seated and well fed and lubricated – and since this event sponsor was particularly cheap – get to the food and alcohol quickly before it disappeared. I dodged a mine field of glad-handers and smile-effers and put my jacket on the first seat in the front row and then made a bee line to the food.

Trouble. Silver trays arrayed on tables piled high with deep fried gunk that they tried to pass off as ‘Chinese food’. Unfortunately I had not eaten lunch and was thus famished so against my better judgment I ate a heapin helping of some gelid dumplings of congealed fat. This was California, dammit. Land of bean sprouts and healthy food.

What, were they trying to kill us? Harden our arteries on the spot? Cull the entrepreneur herd? I half expected to open the last tray and find triple nicotine cigarettes and heroin needles.

So I settled into a birds nest corner with a glass of wine in one hand and another two placed at arms length. Up walked a thin wiry man with intelligent eyes and a wispy mustache. He introduced himself as Yuri in a thick Russian accent. As he worked his way through his pitch I felt the warm embrace of the wine come over me. I said “Yuri.”

“Vhat?”
“I once had a girlfriend in Japan named Yuri but you look nothing like her.”
“Ves, people are always mistaking me for Japanese or Brazilian bikini models as Yuri is also popuuular name in Brazil.”

I shuttered as I imagined him in a bikini needing more wine.
So I almost imperceptibly and deftly switched my empty glass for the full one in mid sentence.

He resumed his pitch and droned on about algorithms and saving the world when I became aware of a young Chinese-looking girl standing in front of us obviously intent on joining our conversation. Slightly impaired by the wine, I strained to determine whether it was more impolite to break into Yuri’s pitch yet again or leave the poor girl standing there in the cold.

It’s the Southern in me, I guess. Thinking ’she’s darn cute,’ I extended my hand in introduction. She said her name was Christine and while she tried to hide it, it became apparent to me she was the main squeeze of one of the mega-zillionaire speakers.

Thereupon we were all called into the meeting room to begin. The subject was ‘can you successfully fund your start-up on less than one million dollars’. The panel consisted of two VCs and two entrepreneurs. I won’t bore you with the details of the meeting. In short, the entrepreneurs said the VCs were greedy bastards and the VCs, ever slick, said they were not. The VCs then said “We love you entrepreneurs and want to have your children.” They meant it like ‘lets get it on’ but in reality what they meant was ‘we’ll take your first born as collateral on you company’.

In the middle of the debate my stomach began to growl. Not a polite, little, rumbly-in-my-tumbly growl but a real live cross-between-a-bear-and-a-lion growl. I shushed it like I would a wanton child but much like the child, my stomach would not stop. As queasy as I felt I was equally determined to make it to the end and the ritual exchanging of the cards and the perfunctory ’send me your business plan and we’ll do lunch’ comment.

Now besides queasy, I had become somewhat disoriented. When it ended, being in the front row, I stumbled up and took my rightful place at the head of the line, the room spinning and my stomach yelling at me to run.

“No,” I yelled back in my mind, I have to complete my mission. As I reached out to exchange cards with the alpha VC a wretch in my stomach brought out all of its contents as I projectile vomited congealed fat and red wine on the floor splattering his shoes and pants. The room stopped spinning for an instance of stunned silence.

After feeble attempts to apologize and clean up the fetid mess, I slinked out of the room a mixture of embarrassment and misery. Come to think of it, I did, however, in the end, get his splattered business card.

Have you ever encountered a more embarrassing situation?

Should I email him and request a lunch meeting or not?

I felt strangish from the moment the first light of morning woke me from a mildly unfitful sleep. I made my way down, bumping somewhat bleary-eyed into the kitchen and straight for the coffee maker. As usual I had set everything up the night before so all it took was a ginger press of a lone button and soon the soothing drip and savory smell of coffee was filling the room.

I took an English muffin out of the package, broke in two and slid the halves into the toaster. You know, one of those silver, rounded faux friendly looking devices that produces oh so heavenly toast when you pull down the manly black lever.

I poured myself a grailful of holy water /coffee and slurped a hot mouthful. I took the knife out the drawer and began cutting an apple to put into my Greek style yogurt to partner with the English muffin. Making it what? A Greeklish breakfast?

I slid on my slippers and headed out to get the morning paper. Upon returning I smelled smoke!

Rushing to the kitchen I found the toaster burning my muffins mercilessly. I tried forcing the black lever up to free my poor, enkindled muffs but it would not lift as if some unnatural force were holding it down. Smoke billowed uncontrollably and flames licked up the sides of the toaster.

Suddenly awakened, the fire alarm began a high pitched squealing. I grabbed a fork and pulled the flaming muffins out and doused them with water while simultaneously trying to cover my ears. Soon thereafter I tossed the cool retro looking silver toaster into the trash and took up eating a safer breakfast … cereal.

Why, I have to ask myself, do these appliances have it out for me?

So my question for today is … Do you have any morning rituals – must have coffee, morning paper, specific breakfast, exercise regimen, or sacrificing a small goat, etc.?

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?

What I noticed first were her high, proud cheekbones. Rosy to match her cascade of crackling red hair and bright eyes that beckoned me to come over. I’ll stay above the neckline as I’m happily married and from experience know that to peer down below there only invites trouble. Let’s just say if she were a gun, she’d be loaded.

I had my son in tow and we had a simple mission. Deliver my old friend visiting from Tokyo at the A and F store to my wife at the appointed time. Anyway, because I’m not fond of malls this was a precision strike: in then out. Quick. Enjoyable in fact. No money to be exchanged. No needless items to be purchased. At least by me.

We were almost home free when she appeared all red hair a flamin, smilin, in her cute little black get up in front of a stall in front of the mall side Macy’s entrance, selling … salt.

“Come here and let me wash your hands,” she cooed.
“Do you know the Dead Sea.”

She practically grabbed my budding teenage son but he was only too willing to sidle up to her. I had to follow. I could tell immediately she was Israeli. The lilting accent, the hard body … typical of young Israeli women who compulsively join and train hard in the IDF.

“Face, JD, focus on the face, above the neck line,” I screamed at myself in my head. Ack, I was breaking my own ironclad rule!

Anyway, she captured both mine and my son’s attention and the next thing we knew we were rubbing salt on our hands and listening to her list all of its therapeutic properties of Dead Sea salt. She took my hands gently into hers and poured water over them and presto, they actually began to feel considerably softer and suppler with a strangely pleasant smell.

“Ma shalom ha,” I said jovially in my broken Hebrew. She immediately corrected me, “Ma shalom mesh” since I am a girl and you are addressing me.
“You speak good Hebrew,” she lieingly complimented me.

“No, I once ran an Israeli company and thus I spent the equivalent of several months in Israel.”
“Ah then you have you been to the Dead Sea. It is some 1300 feet below sea level … yadda yadda yadda.” She switched back into sales pitch mode.

I interrupted her mid-pitch and deadpanned, “My brother was there last year and floated in the Dead Sea. He was looking for some scrolls but never found them.”

She didn’t even blink. Israeli’s with their sense of humor

She sweetened her offer. “A free body lotion to go along with a years supply of Dead Sea salt to exfoliate and cleanse not just the body but the soul all for the low price of $50.”

Having been (a rather poor) salesman myself in the past I clearly recognized her tactics and attempted to repulse her entreaties.

“You seem very special,” she said to me in a sultry voice.
“Well I’m starting a company and all of my money has gone into it. So while I have enjoyed washing my hands with you, alas, I cannot afford your wonderful sea salt.”

“So I give you $10 off along with the free lotion.”
So I asked my son, “Do you think Mommy would like this?” clearly hoping he would play along and say ‘no’.

She had him smell the lavender lotion placing her hand gingerly on his shoulder as he leaned forward.

“Technical foul!” I thought.

“Yeah, I think she would,” he said.
Damn!
Sensing my weakness she moved in for the kill.
“I’ll give it to you for half price. It will make your wife so happy.”

Betrayed by my own gullibility I had no fight left in me and acquiesced.

I walked away with a jar of Dead Sea salt and lotion from the Israeli woman with the pretty face.

Have you … ever succumbed to the charms of a pretty face? Please give us some details.
Have you ever bought something you didn’t need due to a salesperson’s flair?

Gerrard, his loquacious father, said in a toasty French accent, “Nice birdie!”

I winced (while chuckling inside). Jokes that bad should come with a money back guarantee. I missed my subsequent real birdie putt. Damn lame joke!

But this is all digression.

My story begins a few minutes later on the tee box of the 9th hole as I sized up my many options. A sneaky little hole.

Meandering stream to the left where vagabonds straight out of a Mad Max movie hung out on the banks and prayed for you pull your tee shot so they could collect your ball out of the creek and sell it to the Pro shop (for you to buy it back the following week).

Fairway for Hole One on your right where you risk bodily harm and a lawsuit if you slam your tee shot into any one of the approaching unsuspecting golfers. No, the only play on this hole was right up the middle. The arguably weakest point of my game!

Thus lost in my Tiger Woods moment, without warning, I felt something hit me on my back, just under my right shoulder, hard. I spun around half expecting to see that I had been hit by a ball but to just catch out of the corner of my eye three geese flying overhead.

My back/shoulder suddenly felt … warm. So I pulled my shirt around and lo and behold I had been pelted with goose shit! Dive bombed! Seriously, I didn’t know geese could do that. Be that resourceful. Be that vengeful (as I think his or her load was meant for Benjie’s head and I, an innocent bystander, was caught in the goose shit crossfire). Most of it, greenish in color, still clung to my yellow shirt.

My son laughed up a storm as he helped me scrape it off. Needless to say that night at the dinner table my son reported the entire incident to the rest of the family who laughed uproariously.

I was still pissed I missed that birdie putt.

Have you ever been shit upon – either literally (like me in this case) or figuratively?

So the other day I headed up to one of those high power VC soirees on the Pier by invitation of a friend, the Philmeister. Wouldn’t you know that on this day like some latter day Moses parting the red sea of traffic, I somewhat miraculously sailed through and arrived a full twenty minutes early.

So I parked my car on a side street near some restaurants and apartments and….shhhhhh…tried to ‘borrow’ a loose wifi signal to hook in to the net. Alas, nothing. So I wandered into a super market just as a tall, well-dressed African American male (model type) was completing his purchase. I thought his shoes might crawl off his feet, the alligator skin looked that fresh.

I asked the gruff looking Pakistani cashier if there was a nearby café with wifi –in my best Pashtun. Ok, in truth, maybe I just imagined I was speaking Pashtun. The attractive customer (ok, yes I admit he was handsome) chimed in to suggest a café a few blocks down. I thanked him and hit the road.

I found the café, went in, ordered an iced tea, fired up my connection and hunkered down to get some work done. I had just gotten comfy when out of the corner of my eye I spotted, Mr. GQ walking in. He ordered his half-calf/half-decaf skinny mochachino and then sashayed over to make sure I was “OK” and began to chat me up.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t gay since he was so damn hospitable. And truth be known, I was trying to get up the nerve to ask where he got his shoes.

So after some polite conversation, I begged out to go to my event which was just across the street at a nautical-themed home décor wharf. A place where you normally buy scented biodegradable soaps, Alpaca handtowels, kayaks and I’m pretty sure, whale blubber. The VC, who has an office one wharf over had rented it for the evening.

You see these days the Web 2.0 conference was lighting up the San Francisco conference center. Eight thousand people applied and a lucky 1000 were actually invited. This was one of those fabled “after parties” for all the technogliterati. I figure Norad must have picked it up on their radar due to the concentration of high power electronic devices.

I got a florescent blue nautically- themed drink with rum in it (the drink was a manly skipper’s drink since it came sans umbrella) and started to mingle. There were hundreds of professor types triangulating on moneyed Mr. Howell VC types. I met the guy who writes a top 50 blog (worldwide and yes it’s techy), a hulking 6′7″ guy who used to write for Forbes and now drives mini’s cause they’re easy to park in SF (I know I had a hard time imagining it myself), and a famous VC in a wolf’s costume. Or again maybe that was my imagination getting the best of me.

Just then two booth babes, kind of hot Ginger types distinguished by their stunning looks and vacuous demeanor, sauntered up and diverted his attention away from moi.

Anyway, I digress. Sorry, it’s the rum. I swear. Gin might make you sin but rum makes you dum.

Eventually I struck up a conversation with the event organizer. She had a quaint Mary-Ann quality about her until I asked her if I might not be able to get some whale blubber to go. She screamed, “You’re such a Gilligan!” and chased me out.

And I spent the next two hours in a traffic jam driving home.

Yet for some cosmic unknown reason, I’m a magnet for high drama and complication. I can mutate the most innocuous of situations into danger and intrigue.

Take my recent road trip to the Tarheel state for instance. That day the sky had the distinct look of the opening sequence of the Simpsons: whipped cream fluffs of clouds dappling a sky blue horizon. Fall hung lightly in the air, the ups and downs of hilly trees lining I-40 all acrispining golden hues, fiery reds and chocolate browns.

We were all lulled into a false sense of happiness. Little did we know what awaited us over the next hill, the upcoming dale? Maybe we should have paid attention to the signs. First there was an exit for Batcave, NC. Is there a Gotham City in North Carolina? Anyway, I began to feel like God was a messin with me cause the next exit was Mocksville.

Shortly thereafter we rolled into the Piedmont Triad area. I always knew China had a big issue with organized crime but never considered they were a pernicious problem here in the U.S., especially in rural North Carolina. Next we came upon the Yakin Pee-Dee river basin and I got an unnatural urge to talk and pee at the same time.

Then I noticed a tan expedition bearing down on us ominously. I clipped along at a healthy 74 explaining the ten mph rule to my daughter, “Just so long as you keep at nine miles per hour under the speed limit you’ll never be caught.” She was the first to notice the SUV passing us was an unmarked police car. So there began a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

On moment slick willy copper was ahead of me.

The next I would find myself unconsciously accelerating past 75 and he would come roaring up from behind causing me to hit the brakes setting off red brake lights of guilt and shame.

Just then we passed a truck that had “To walk on water you have to jump out of the boat” stenciled on it’s side. This just fed into my growing sense of invincibility. Distracted by a fascinating story on NPR about ‘sex lives of sloths’ I nonchalantly passed 80mph. The next thing I knew lights were aflashin on the damnable tan expedition behind me. I started to move over conceding abject defeat. And he just roared past me. Thank God for small mercies.

So have you ever been pulled over for speeding?
Do you ever hanker for a simpler existence?
Ever traveled on I-40? Ever notice they are endlessly fixing that damnable road?