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 a little updating of Shakespeare “All the World’s a Stage” soliloquy similar to my last attempt (“To Blog or Not to Blog”) for your reading and commenting pleasure …

All the world’s a blog,
And all the men and women merely writers:
They have their posts and their reposts;
And one blogger in the Blogosphere writes of many farts,
His acts being seven ages.
Like a kid in fact, he spews and pukes on other’s blogs.
And then like the wine-drinking schoolboy, blogging with his Gallo
And red morning face, creeping like a drunk snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover, signing the girl’s privates guestbook, with a sad blog dedicated to T and A.
Then a soldier, full of Iraq angst and bearded like the bard, jealous of Petraeus’s seat, secret and quick in quarrel, seeking no trouble or reputation.
Even there be a sharp comment near Bush’s mouth.
Ah the justice, on a fat tummy, a capon (castrated cock),
With a tough guy visage and a bikers beard,
Full of shit and modern contrivances;
And so he writes in his blog. The next,
Old man, thin in fuzzy bunny slippers,
With spectacles on nose and paunch of belly,
His unyouthful member, Viagra driven, a world too long
For his shrunk shank; and his manly blog,
Turning toward kid again, music players
Crank out the songs. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful blog,
Is second childishness and the internet down,
Sans readers, sans comments, sans blogs, sans everything!

The question for today is which of the Bard’s seven parts (kid, schoolboy, lover, etc.) are you playing these days?

Oh yeah, here’s the original passage from “As you Like It” so you can see for yourself how badly I butchered it …

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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?

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 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?

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?

You cannot help but notice when that happens and you wince when you hear it. No, the breaking heart, from the perspective of the hapless bystanders hearing on, just beats near imperceptibly faster. And the faintest of tears registers, picked up possibly only by acute dogs without the capacity or reason to fathom what they have just heard.

Let us assume you are the breakee. For you it is a much different story. For you it is like death warmed over. The tiniest of fissures grows with the gravitational force a black hole. For a split second all the world’s light and love and beauty get sucked through to nothingness. The vacuum left in that wake creates an ache of devastating loss. It ranges from pit of your stomach to the nadir of your soul. That chasm grows ever wider and deeper.

You blame, you curse, but no one hears. You poke, you punch, but no one hurts. You seek solace. You seek that whole feeling again. Instead you find anguish. Instead you fall into that pit and wallow in your own sorrow.

Now let us assume for a moment that you are the breaker. For you it is easy. For you it is like a sunny walk in the park. You go about your life as if nothing happened. Like a molting snake you squeeze out of the skin that had been constricting your freedom. You come out all shiny and new and fresh. Your leavings draped across you ex-lovers lap.

You dance on their grave. You leap with joy. Little do you realize in those flush first few moments that a part of you died as well. That you, too, were fundamentally shaken to your core. Your recovery time is faster, but your scars will tell a far different story.

You see when two hearts come together and keep time they synchronize. Their fluids mix. They take on an auricle familiarity. So any separation process is bound to cause trauma, leakage, and pain. The leading cause of this separation is an imbalance in pumping power. This has to do with a mismatch in timing more than anything else. One heart invariably beats faster, stronger for the other.

As a result even the minutest of tears can lead to a painful rendering that produces the faintest of faint audible sounds, the sound of a heart breaking.

What is the sound of heart break to you?
Have you had your heart broken and how would you describe the experience?

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?

I might be considered a late bloomer as I did not find alcohol all that appealing until my early twenties. In my teens I think maybe I held myself in too high moral regard. While she cavorted with my friends, I smugly watched them fall under her spell. Or maybe it was sheer indifference. Either way she eventually caught up with me and extracted a painful retribution for my youthful insolence.

Not in my twenties though. Those were the halcyon days when our relationship thrived. I developed a penchant for sultry foreign beers that tickled my tongue and went down smooth. I was a promiscuous little jack-o-nanny. I experimented with luscious reds and soft liqueurs. The kinkiest I ever got was mixing Kahlua and vodka in a fit of frenzy. But I always came back to the warm embrace of beer. In those days we enjoyed each others company in relative moderation.

Then came my thirties and China. Things got a bit out of hand. I suffered abuse and bear wounds that still plague me to this day. I got caught up in the vortex of China’s rush to modernize its wireless infrastructure. Growth in the business was akin to shooting Koi in a barrel (I know that’s Japanese, just testing your oriental knowledge).

The key moment in any business negotiation came down to ‘The Dinner’. After long, tedious negotiations it always distilled into two or three sticking points that ‘the bosses’ had to resolve over a meal. Thus I would sit at these grand banquet tables and engage in a sadist ritual: see who could get the other drunk thus impairing his or her judgment and winning better terms.

The weapon of choice … Laojiu or a clear liquid that makes rot gut whiskey seem like bottled water. I think the old lady doubled as rocket fuel in the budding Chinese Space industry. She smelled of trouble. Older, experienced, with a harsh acidic burn as she went down. You didn’t drink her as much as inhale her. Small glasses. Large thimbles. They seemed harmless at first. But with each ‘ganbei’ or bottoms up, the thimble got heavier, the room swirled faster, and I lost my steadying grip on reality.

Eventually my morning sickness signaled something had gestated in me. I visited the doctor to find my stomach lining had just about been eaten away by her lavish attention. An ulcer just months away from birth. I took medicine to control it. But my job required the dance. So I improvised (but that’s a story for another day). In the end she had her way with me. My stomach has never fully recovered.

I’m now to the point where I can drink a beer or wine or two. If I let myself go to that third, however, I begin to sense that gnawing feeling again. So I live under a kind of a forced peace. A balance restored in the relationship by fiat at last.

How about you? What is your relationship with alcohol?