Musings on topics of small or large importance. Especially partial to subjects that include baby boomers, public figures, friends, Corporate America, the Denver Broncos, NASCAR, my previous home towns of New York City and Columbia (Maryland), stupidity (mine and others'), diets and health and who knows what else!

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Long Time Comin'

Much to my astonishment, I heard from an old boyfriend today. "Old" meaning way over a decade ago.

Thank you, Google!

He called me. HE called ME! He actually e-mailed me, but in today's context it's the equivalent of a phone call. He reached out to me. I can't tell you how I would've killed for that, how much time I spent with him haunting my brain, how much energy I spent wondering how it came to be that I was in a relationship with him and he wasn't in one with me.

We drifted apart. No fight. No goodbye. Just kind of stopped seeing each other, stopped communicating, stopped everything. Ran into each other periodically at some function or another. Our eyes would clamp onto each other and we were aware at every moment of where in the room the other was. We'd not always say hi. More often than not, though, we'd hug, we'd hold on to each other a second or two longer than "friendly" would warrant, we'd chat about meaningless things, and then we'd move on in the crowd. I always found myself a bit disoriented for 10 or 20 minutes after one of those encounters. Couldn't walk quite straight, couldn't focus on whoever I was talking to, felt way more warm, loved and wanted than a simple hug would normally convey.

I always knew that we had a special feeling for each other. No matter that it didn't work out. The reasons don't matter -- it was a long time ago. No desire to go back. Didn't feel any desire for him to go back either. But I got a warm, glowy feeling when I read his note.

I have had relationships before that ended in ways that I didn't understand. My intuition told me one thing, but their actions told me another. I'd get over them, but they were unresolved in my mind, and my faith in what my gut told me was wobbly for awhile. Inevitably later, usually years later, nearly every one of these guys would call me or see me and confess to me that what I'd felt had actually been true. They'd fought it or been scared of it or denied it. Their finally telling me that my intuition at the time had been right always vindicated me, restored my faith in my gut, and boosted my confidence. I'd been loved.

This e-mail today was sort of like that. Just his reaching out to me was a victory of sorts. I've been smirking inside all day. Nyah nyah nyah! It is a little gesture but it couldn't have been easy for him to make it. I found myself releasing a breath I didn't know I'd been holding...for well over a decade.

Long live Google!

Friday, December 05, 2008

Shock Waves

Yesterday more astounding news about people I know came to me than in the last few months combined.

McGraw-Hill, my alma mater of 16 years, is going through their annual Thanksgiving/Christmas holiday layoffs. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to who-knows-how-many people, many of them 25-year-plus veterans. I've only heard about a few of them, so far, with more supposedly coming (or, should I say, going), but a couple of them absolutely shocked me. There are always a couple or so in that category each year. I hope they can quickly get to the point of feeling like they have a whole brand new future in front of them. They do. Even in this recession. I have a couple of friends who started their businesses in recessions and they are thriving. Others went on to really wonderful jobs, whether right away or somewhat later. I wish the same for my M-H friends.

Then last night my ex-cousin-in-law called me. DeAnne married my cousin when I was 10 or 11, and we bonded instantly. She (very wisely) dumped my cousin after awhile, he died of heart problems in his 30s after refusing to heed doctor's orders to change his lifestyle, and she went on to marry a wonderful man and has been married to him for the last 35 years. She and I have kept in touch all these years. She is one of my favorite people in the entire world. She's got a fabulous, self-deprecating sense of humor and a laugh that sounds like pealing bells. She is adventuresome, independent, and wise. She runs headlong into life. She's always been able to finish my sentences -- she understands me scarily well, and she's never been judgemental at all. (With me that's got to have been a challenge.) We talk or see each other every two to four years, but every time, it's like we are picking up our conversation from the day before.

My step-daughter Carey and I have that same kind of relationship. In fact, DeAnne was such a gift to me and was so important to me especially in my teens and twenties, and I aspired to be that for someone else. Carey was the answer to that prayer.

It has been a couple of years since DeAnne and I last spoke, and maybe a couple of years before that when she and her husband Jim came to New York City and we had dinner at the Grand Hyatt at Grand Central Station. Jim sat there in amazement as DeAnne and I prattled on about every subject in the world, neither of us holding back in his presence. He certainly got an earful or two, and we all laughed a lot.

DeAnne told me that Jim died in May. Shocking enough. But he died of Lou Gehrig's Disease. He was always so healthy! Just like my dad. My dad was always totally healthy, and then he got prostate cancer, got it treated and it went away, and then it came back and got him. DeAnne is a strong woman, positive, spiritual, and always searching. She and I share one attitude these days: we both feel like the longer we live, the less we know. Things we were sure about when we were younger have been challenged, if not disproven altogether. So she asks what, how, why...and she is willing to let the questions lie there unanswered.

G*d, it was good to talk to her. We covered about 50 subjects in the hour and a half that we were on the phone. Great nourishment for our souls! She's missing Jim mightily but is doing well. I hope it's not another two or three years before we talk again. We always vow to phone or visit "soon" but...well, you know how that goes.

Then late last night I checked my Facebook page, and some good friends who recently got married are having a baby! Great news! Part of me was disappointed for them that they won't have more time to just be newlyweds and get to know each other and have fun. But I suspect this is what they want and I know they'll be great parents, and their families will be joyous at the news.

So the night ended well. I wonder what today will hold.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Enough Already!

Stop talking about the recession! It's only making things worse! The constant media insistence that things are getting more and more grim is making things...more and more grim! Whatever we focus on, manifests. It's a terrible cycle, a self-fulfilling prophecy. So stop it!

I'm thinking thoughts of prosperity. Prosperity. PROSPERITY! Join me?

Friday, November 07, 2008

So Much to Say, But Not Yet

This is the equivalent of sticking my index finger in the air pointing upward, as in, "hold on."

I'll be back blogging soon. But I've got a book manuscript due in early December, so until then I'll be focused on that and not this.

This is more fun but that's better for my career. And probably my soul.

So hold on.... I'll be back.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Has the Media Played a Role in Creating the Recession? YES!!!

Finance is complicated. It isn't easily learned at all, let alone overnight. And that's what many, many media folks have had to attempt to do since the stock market started its record-breaking downhill plunge.

Consequently, they don't know enough to know when their "experts" that they dredge up for such crises are truly knowledgeable or just popular, which isn't the same thing.

Media folks try to get it right. Especially on something like the financial situation, they're not trying to be alarmist. They are just ignorant. "Ignorant" doesn't mean stupid or evil. It means they don't know.

Of course, it doesn't help that nobody's seen this particular scenario ever in the history of the U.S. Even my own financial advisor, whom I trust and know is good, has admitted that this is not a scene that's been played out before.

So everybody's guessing.

But the runs on the banks a few weeks ago -- spare me!! -- were incited by the media. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. "Things are bad. The banks could be in trouble." So people get alarmed. And the media goes from "could be" to "are." They cover people talking about how bad things are. And people panic more. And the media covers the increasing desperation. And if it's on television, presented by the networks we trust or at least rely on, it's gotta be true. Right? So things must be bad. So we start doing whatever we think will cover our butts.

I didn't go to my bank. Any of them. (I'm sure the one where I have all of $100 or so in it is thrilled that I didn't close out that account.)

Look at how the global markets and economies are in reactionary mode. Just a whiff of potentially bad news, not even anything real, sends the markets plunging and people clutching their wallets and stuffing money under their mattresses. And converting cash to gold. And where do they get this bad news to react to? The media.

It takes time to research a subject, especially ones as complex and twisty-turny as the economy; the stock market in our own country, let alone the ones all over the world; derivatives, subprime mortgages; write-downs, etc. When a crisis erupts, most media folks have to go out with a story NOW, not after they've had the luxury of researching it for however long it takes to understand it and get it right. It's just the way our nownownow world is these days. When something happens, I go online and, sure enough, usually within minutes, there's a story from one of the respected media outlets. Maybe one or more of their reporters/editors specializes in that subject and is ahead of the curve, and maybe not. Either way, the story's gotta get out there before the other guys beat them to it. It's a disservice to all, but it's so competitive that there's no other option at the moment, at least that's what they think. No wonder the cable financial news media stations, publications and web sites are more heavily trafficked than ever. Good for "ordinary people" (I hate that term) for turning to them and not relying solely on generalists for their analyses.

As a longtime journalist, I have been lucky (though it was a definite choice early on in my career) to work in specific industries -- first advertising/marketing and then design/construction, two diametrically opposed fields -- for companies that encouraged getting it right, which sometimes meant going against what the mainstream media, including the most respected ones, were saying. Or waiting until the information was truly confirmed and made accurate. Small victory to get it right when it's after the hugely visible pubs/networks have gotten it wrong for weeks. In some cases I know of personally, they never did get it right, so the misconceptions persist.

So what are we to do? My own personal plan is to stay positive, send prosperity vibes into the universe, and follow my own financial advisor. I sure hope he gets it right.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Life on Mars -- Welcome to 1973

Where were you in 1973? I was a year out of college, working in advertising in Denver, driving a Chevy Monte Carlo before the gas crisis and a Gremlin afterward. Talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous! From the elegant to the laughable. People used to pull up next to me in my little lavender Gremlin at stop lights and shout out, "Hey, you're missing your butt!" (referring, presumably to my car). Har de har.

Geez, that was about eight cars ago.

I don't think much about 1973 these days, but I sure recognize it when I see it. ABC's new series "Life on Mars" brings it back, in the best of ways. The long, shaggy hair. The lava lamps (yes, I had a version of one). The bell bottoms. The sideburns. The cars -- that was the era of V8's! The music! The Who, David Bowie, the Stones...ahhhhhh! The tv shows (yes, I remember "Cannon"). The test pattern. Wow, I remember the stations going off the air long before I was ready to sleep. As an insomniac the last 25 years, I love being able to watch 100 channels 24 hours a day.

I don't know which attracts me more, the 1970s setting or the actors. Harvey Keitel is gritty and powerful. Michael Imperioli is gritty and fascinating. Gretchen Mol is gritty and sassy. Lisa Bonet in this role so far doesn't do much for me, but we'll see. Jason O'Mara, the star, might perpetually get upstaged by Keitel and Imperioli, which would be fine with me. The characters will settle into their roles over time. I am setting my DVR to record "Life on Mars" every Thursday night. Let's just hope ABC keeps it on the schedule long enough for it to find an audience.

Thursday, October 09, 2008

One of Those Birthdays

Saturday is my birthday. (We will not speak of age; I'll just say it isn't one of those significant decade changes.) There are only two holidays each year that I personally go bonkers over: Christmas and my birthday. What? My birthday isn't a holiday, you say? Well, kind of. It's one day off from Columbus Day -- does that count? Anyway it's a holiday to me when I get presents.

I'm a logical, practical woman (no, that isn't an oxymoron). I know that my birthday is just another day. So then why do I -- every year -- get squirrely on my birthday? If I don't get calls from the right people -- at the right time, even -- I'm as sulky as an adolescent. If I don't get a present that I feel is expressive enough of the emotions I think my significant other should be feeling, I get quiet, and not in a good way. If I don't have plans on my day, even if I've lived it up for five days before and have celebrations with friends scheduled for each of the following five days, I get restless and jittery. It's quite juvenile and I'm not proud of it but that's the way it's been and probably the way it will be (despite extensive Landmark Education training that would encourage me to react otherwise).

Usually I make sure I'm taken care of on my birthday. On that very day. Who cares about the day before or the day after. One year when I was convinced that nobody would acknowledge my birthday because it was just one of those dry spells, I went on a trip to Mexico. That worked. One year I whined to a good friend that I wasn't looking forward to my birthday and he surprised me by sending a soft, cuddly bear and either chocolate or balloons. I still have the bear on display in my bedroom.

Every year one of my birthday highlights is a phone call -- or voice mail if he doesn't get a hold of me -- from longtime business friend Tom Bulatewicz. He sings happy birthday to me and always ends with "Make a great day." Thanks, Tom, your call is always special to me.

Last week I visited my mom in Phoenix, and she and her boyfriend Lloyd treated me like a celebrity a week in advance. Dinner at my favorite Arizona steakhouse, Black Angus. Lovely cards. Wonderful presents. Shopping and lunch with my mom. Really wonderful! And another longtime friend took me to dinner on Sunday at the wonderful Macayo's Mexican food restaurant. Fabulous chile rellenos!!

On Saturday, my birthday, I have brunch plans with a special friend. And I have an evening outing to look forward to with friends and neighbors. Two or maybe three of them. A movie of my choice, dinner at a restaurant I choose and a trip to Baskin-Robbins. I always get Pralines 'n Cream. I may have two scoops. It's shaping up to be a very good birthday.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Sugarland Concert -- How Sweet It Is!

Last Sunday was WPOC's Sunday in the Country at Merriweather Post Pavilion. I have lived less than a mile from there for a little over a year but have not gone there until this all-afternoon concert. Between 1:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m., there were five acts, topping off with Sugarland. Wow.

Sugarland was awesome. The electricity generated by Sugarland was palpable, and few people sat from the moment they came onstage until they left the stage after returning for an encore demanded by the screaming, clapping, whistling fans.

Jennifer Nettles has a fabulous voice and incredible energy. She's generous to her partner Kristian and other fellow musicians. She's beautiful -- I love her tousled hair!! -- she has a light-up-the-room smile, and she's good to her fans. Their song "Stay" moves me every time I hear it, and I love rocking out to some of their up-tempo songs, though I'm not wild about "All I Want to Do-oo-oo-oo-oo" other than in concert, when it's great fun to dance along with.

Rodney Atkins, the second to last (and therefore he had second billing of the five acts), also was impressive. The other acts -- Billy Currington, Jason Michael Carroll and Laura Bryna -- were entertaining, though I absolutely hated Laura's overly big, overly curly hair. Uuuuuuugh-ly!!

Okay, so the music was great for a country music fan. But there was so much more to the day than the music.

I went by myself -- you get better seats that way, in my experience -- and I had a lot of time to people-watch. Most noticeable to me was how big everyone was. The guy next to me lopped over halfway into my chair and I didn't have that kind of room to give, not being a small person myself. His wife was large. The young couple next to them was large. All over the place I saw super hefty people; I was especially concerned to see how many large young people there were. I felt bad for them on all counts: aesthetics, health and peer pressure/judgement. Many baby boomers I saw, especially the older boomers, had trouble fitting into the seats. If we as a nation are going to keep increasing our girth, will we keep squishing ourselves into too-small seats (or stop going), or will the venues accommodate the wider butts with bigger seats?

Merriweather Post Pavilion has great acoustics. The music and voices sounded full-bodied, clear and crisp. That was the upside. It also had only porta-johns. That was definitely the downside. I stopped drinking liquid the minute I found out that there was no indoor plumbing (except for one facility marked for handicapped folks, but two women who tried it bolted out and opted to stand in line for one of the outhouses, having been nearly overcome by the stench). I only had to head to the lined-up porta-potties once in seven hours and was glad for that. Nooooo fun!! I marveled at the people drinking the very large beers because they probably had to go back more than once.

The whole Columbia Town Center, including the entire Merriweather Post Pavilion acreage, is due to be updated and revamped under the master plan being worked on by General Growth, which owns most of Columbia. It's all supposed to be walkable, with plenty of spaces for gathering and sitting -- and presumably will include indoor johns. That will be welcome in all respects -- a lot of us had to walk across uneven ground in really dark conditions back to our cars parked at Columbia Mall. But it was a fun walk with other friendly, chatty concert goers, and we were all still high from the music. In fact, six days later, I still glow when I think of that sweet Sugarland experience.

Saturday, September 06, 2008

Social Networking (Online) Rocks!

With my book deadline looming, I could hardly afford to take a day off. But I am today. I braved the rain (thanks, Hanna, for sharing) and drove to George Mason University in Fairfax, VA, about an hour's drive from where I live, for a "Push the Electronic Envelope" seminar put on by the American Independent Writers group.

Fabulous!

I've got 13 years of Web experience. In Internet years, especially in the B2B (business-to-business) world, that makes me a Web granny. I brought blogs to McGraw-Hill Construction a year or more before most anyone there or in the construction industry even knew what blogs were. I've been on LinkedIn for years, MySpace, Facebook and even Gather for awhile. So I know some stuff but figured I could learn a whole lot more today.

I was right. Whew! Social networking is da bomb. I'm in the seminar now on a lunch break, and I've been online (thank you Verizon Wireless wi-fi broadband) during the whole thing. I'm now on Twitter too. I've got widgets on my blog(s) but now I know more about them. In fact, I've already, just in the morning sessions, learned enough to more than justify my $89 investment for the seminar and the drive in the nasty rain. (We'll see if I still feel that way after I make my way home at 4:00, when Hanna is expected to be at her fury here. Hopefully she'll be pretty well spent here by 4:00.)

One of the speakers talked about our network outside of our family and friends who know us well. He called it our "weak ties" and quoted somebody-or-other as touting "the strength of our weak ties." In other words, it's the people we know a little or knew well but don't so much anymore or used to work with or know professionally but not personally who can help us connect with the people and resources that can help us do what we want to do and get where we want to go.

I definitely agree. My "weak ties" are fabulous, and I've loved reconnecting with them through LinkedIn and Facebook especially. No matter what their e-mail address du jour is, those social networking sites keep us linked. How great is that?!?

Funnily enough (a British phrase, seems a little awkward to me, even though it works), it's almost like e-mail is passe with people I'm socially connected to. People who used to e-mail me now send me messages through Facebook notes instead. And I've definitely been surprised to see who's on and not on these sites. Some curmudgeons are quite active and some young, hip folks are nowhere to be found. Huh! But then, I haven't mastered the art of finding people who are already on these sites yet. I did learn how to find the NY Times sports and movies and business feeds on Twitter, thanks to this seminar. Very cool!

So look for me and I'll look for you, and we can use our "weak ties" to help each other out or just keep in touch. I'm all for that, especially since -- loner than I am, though people think I'm a social being -- we can eavesdrop on each other's lives without having to do that pesky thing of actually talking to each other. Then we reach out when we want to and if we've been keeping up with each other, or even if we just know we're able to, we tend to respond much more quickly and positively than we would if we saw their name and thought, "Haven't heard from him/her for a long time -- what does HE/SHE want?!?" So, link up, tune in, let me know you're there, and come see me on LinkedIn or Facebook or Twitter (I don't keep up my page on MySpace much)...or wherever might be the next great place.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Football's Back!

It's Friday night. I've been out to dinner with my three usual Tuesday night buds, a spontaneous make-up night since we didn't go this past Tuesday. We had our usual laughs and hoots, some at others' expense, most at ours. Our young waiter was obviously a real neophyte and we confused the poor guy by trying to use two coupons when the coupons clearly said "one coupon per party per visit." Guess who won that round. Yep, us.

We always tip a minimum of 20% so imagine our surprise when the waiter, a desperate look on his face, hurried out the door when we were in our car and ready to leave the parking lot. He looked all around for us. He was followed by the manager. What's wrong? we asked. They thought we hadn't paid our bill. Yeah, right, all of us over 50, three over 60 (I'm the youngster, don'tcha love it?) and we're gonna dine and dash? I don't think so! Turns out that when we questioned something on the bill, our dear waiter brought us another one of those plastic bill folders so we had two on our table, and he picked up the wrong one. We straightened that out in a hurry but it was pretty funny, probably more for us than them.

So now I've got the Olympics on with the sound down so low that it's merely a murmur. I just checked out the winner of the NASCAR Nationwide race. Brad Keselowski. Don't know him. I follow the Sprint Cup series, rarely the Nationwide series (which is kind of like the B team, though several Cup racers also compete regularly in the Nationwide races). I was just glad that Kyle Busch didn't win. He was 7th. He's an awesome driver but he has the charm of a mackerel on a good day and the personality of a jackal on a bad day, and he has a lot of bad days. Can you tell he's not my fave?

But my big thrill tonight is the Denver Broncos-Greenbay Packers game. I can't see it on TV. Both our D.C. and Baltimore stations have Houston at Dallas. Darn. I love getting both sets of network stations because often they have different games on. Not tonight, though. So since I rarely am able to see the Bronco games on TV, I "watch" the action (little lines that move on a stationary green rectangle that represents the field) on the NFL.com site. I can only stand a whole game of that if I can hear the audio, and that means getting a "Field Pass" every year. It's audio, live during the games. It's $29.99 for the whole season, including preseason and postseason games -- for all 32 NFL radio feeds. I usually stick to the Bronco games, but I could hear any and all of them, even simultaneously, I believe, though I haven't tried it.

The "Denver Bronco Network" is wonderful. The same guys -- who knows their names -- have been announcing the Bronco games for as long as I've been listening, and they know their stuff. Even better, they're not annoying, either in tone or constant blather like John Madden is, at least he is to me. I sometimes listen to my Field Pass audio when he's on, that's how much I don't like listening to him.

So, at the moment, just at the end of the first quarter, the Broncos are ahead 17 to 13. It's preseason and I know it doesn't count, in many ways, but I am enjoying that they're playing well. They just got a surprise touchdown when QB Jay Cutler completed a 49-yard pass to Brandon Marshall, who nearly bobbled it but saved it at the last second. And kicker Matt Prater got the extra point, so all is good in my world.

But...why oh why did the Broncos let Jason Elam go to the Atlanta Falcons??? The superkicker won more games for the Broncos over the past 15 seasons than anybody else except John Elway. He holds nearly every record a kicker can have -- longest field goal kicked, highest extra point conversion percentage, and many more, all with the Broncos. So they let him go??? I thought they were idiots for letting Clinton Portis go to the Redskins, but letting Elam go, I truly believe, was idiocy!

But hey, it's early in the season, which hasn't even officially started. Let's see what happens.

As of today, I'm an "officer" (duties: zero!) representing Maryland in the Facebook group "Displaced Denver Bronco Fans." So it's my duty and obligation to tune in to the Bronco games. I wonder if that means I can write off the $29.95 Field Pass fee on my tax return.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

A Fine Line between Agony and Ecstasy

As I've been glued to my chair and computer, writing my book on building housing for baby boomers (deadline loooooooms!), I've had the Olympics on much of the time. Their schedule matches mine lately -- on all the time, including in the middle of the night.

Sometimes I can write with the sound on, but sometimes it's too distracting, mostly when I am stuck on something. So sometimes I keep it on but hit the mute button.

And I've noticed something. I've been aware of it before, but in the Olympics emotions are heightened to the extreme and, especially with the sound off, it's even more evident.

Agony and ecstasy pretty much look the same. I know they don't feel the same but our bodies and faces (especially) look the same when we're screaming in emotional or physical pain and when we're shrieking with delight.

Look at Michael Phelps -- God knows they play everything over and over and over -- at the end of the 400-meter relay race that clinched his 8th gold medal. His mouth is wide open and his eyes are nearly squinted shut. If you didn't know, would you think he was freaking out-upset or freaking out-ecstatic? Angry or disbelievingly joyful?

When contenders' parents are shown in the stands as their kids triumph or flounder, they look pretty much the same. Their faces scrunch up, their eyes close, their jaws drop, they shake their heads in disbelief, they collapse. And they burst into tears.

Maybe that explains why sometimes we are sobbing and end up in giggles, or we are hooting and end up in choking wails. The extreme emotions seem to unleash the other emotions that have been bottled up next to them.

Okay, back to writing. Just had to note that. I'll try to keep my emotions in check as I write, just to avoid confusion.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Important Men and their Peckers

So...After months of saying it ain't so, John Edwards has admitted that he lied all that time as he repeatedly disputed the National Enquirer's claim that he had an affair with Rielle Hunter, a video producer he worked with in 2006 prior to launching his campaign for president. The Enquirer contends that Edwards is the father of Hunter's 5-1/2-month-old daughter, though Edwards maintains that he's not.

Hey, I don't begrudge men their libidos. Au contraire! Men over 40 who have good libidos should, in fact, be congratulated, and the ones over 50 who still do should get a standing ovation as far as I'm concerned. Over 60ers who've still got it should have a monument built to them. I am probably in the minority in that sentiment, but I have found that men with healthy libidos are generally high achievers, greatly energized and hugely interesting.

I frankly don't care about Edwards' sex life -- who he has it with or doesn't. It's his words in the AP story prior to the airing of a story on him tonight on Nightline that really make me shake my head in wonder, and not in a good way.

Here's an example. When the Enquirer story first broke in October 2007, he said, "The story is....completely untrue, ridiculous." Last month, the Enquirer ran a story accusing Edwards of having a "love child" and reported that he had met with Hunter at the Beverly Hills Hilton Hotel in Los Angeles. Edwards at the time called the story "tabloid trash," but since has admitted that he did meet with her at the hotel, unbeknownst to his wife. But...he still maintains that he didn't really lie. The AP story says:

"He said in his statement Friday he had 'used the fact that the story contained many falsities to deny it,' and he called that 'being 99 percent honest.'"
Oh, brother! Talk about Clintonesque sex logic!

Another example from the AP story:
"He denied fathering a daughter, born to the woman with whom he had the affair, and offered to be tested to prove it. A former Edwards campaign staff member professes to be the father."
A former Edwards campaign staff member? What did they do, pass her around? I don't think so! Not credible.

Maybe this is the most believable thing Edwards has said regarding the affair:
"In the course of several campaigns, I started to believe that I was special and became increasingly egocentric and narcissistic. If you want to beat me up feel free. You cannot beat me up more than I have already beaten up myself."
I personally think the French have it right. French President Nicolas Sarkozy's rather intriguing sex life hasn't seemed to affect his political popularity. He was allegedly unfaithful to his second wife and went on to marry former model Carla Bruni, who's had a rather colorful past herself.

A word about Clinton's relationship with Monica Lewinsky. I read her book, Monica's Story. The relationship she described with then-President Clinton was not all about sex, in my opinion. He was getting something from her that transcended the physical. Something that seemingly filled a hole in his life that aides, friends and his wife were not filling. According to her account in her book -- and I found her very credible -- Clinton really talked to her in their many phone calls, about things that mattered to him. That isn't sex. It isn't foreplay and it isn't afterglow. It's a man with a void in his life and a friend who's filling it. A friend with benefits, perhaps, but a friend nonetheless.

In fact, I think many times affairs may start out being all about a guy's pecker making the decision to "go there." But a man of substance -- and most important men are men of substance -- isn't all about his love muscle. He wants to talk to the woman he's intimate with. If not, he's a hit-and-runner, not a returner.

Important men do have a skewed vision of their place in the world. They get treated differently from most men. Men and women both pander to them. They get upgraded to first class on airplanes. They get invited to private boxes at athletic events and concerts. They get fed shrimp and lobster so regularly that they get tired of it. Their jokes get laughed at, their expensive clothes get replaced often, their wishes, desires and orders get fulfilled, usually nearly instantaneously. So they see themselves as powerful and important.

Yet, most important men aren't totally sure they deserve to be as important as they are. They need assurance that they are from someone they really trust. They also find that it can be lonely at the top. They can't be pals with the people lower down on the totem pole at work -- that doesn't usually work well. They often have outgrown their wives or they've grown in different directions, especially if they've been married for many years and he's traveled a lot and she's learned to live her own life largely without him. So along comes someone who looks at him adoringly, hangs on his every word, can't wait to hear his stories, is impressed by the accomplishments that his wife and staffers roll their eyes at, is a sweet, discreet, caring and trustworthy person...and she desires him. If there's a spark between them, the temptation can be overwhelming.

Men being men, they think it's all about sex. They think their pecker led them there. But it's about so much more. That's why men have continued to have affairs all these many centuries. That's what makes them risk it all to drink that ambrosia. That's what makes them lie to their families, their colleagues, their friends and everyone else to keep it quiet, so nobody will find out and make them end it.

So for important men, their affairs are often born out of a combination of a naturally high energy level (in all areas), a big void that has been unrecognized or ignored for years, and a false sense of immunity and invincibility that will keep them from getting caught. When the affairs are exposed, the men first deny them, then (if forced to admit the truth) downplay them ("It only happened once" or "I didn't love her" or "It's been over for a long time"), then express shame and regret over their "mistake." It's more like regret at getting caught and it being over.

Interestingly, even though Edwards denies fathering Hunter's child, Hunter somehow has been receiving financial help for many months. Edwards says he didn't pay her a cent and had no knowledge of anyone on his staff giving her financial help. Ah, but after the Nightline interview tonight, they reported that one of his staffers admitted to providing her with some financial aid but claimed it was solely his idea and said Edwards had no idea he was doing it.

Yeah, right.

Well, one thing about important men is that they often have henchmen to do their dirty work for them. And protect them. Well, it didn't work too well for Edwards this time. I bet he keeps his pecker in his pants now (other than at home) for a long time.

Thursday, August 07, 2008

Beheaded on a Bus -- Can You Imagine?!? What Civil Rights Will We Lose Now?

There are some strange people in the world who do some inexplicable things. And with the instant blast of electronic media, we hear about them whether we want to or not.

The latest of these incidents occurred last week when a man was sleeping in his seat on a Greyhound bus in Canada and some deranged sicko (is that redundant?) sat next to him and at some point just turned to the guy, a stranger to him, stabbed him over and over and -- unbelievably -- actually beheaded the guy. On the bus!! Holy cow.

How incredibly traumatic that must have been for the other passengers on the bus (not to mention the victim, who hopefully was already dead before the beheading started). You just can't imagine that something like that could happen on a Greyhound bus, for God's sake.

Greyhound has pulled the ads they were running in Canada touting the calm comforts of bus riding. The theme was "There's a reason you've never heard of 'Bus Rage.'"

The campaign was already over before the attack, though a few straggling outdoor billboards in high traffic areas hadn't yet been pulled down.

I feel bad for Greyhound. When there's an airplane crash or incident, the airline always gets the black eye, and often they deserve it. Well, sometimes, at least. But in this case, the bus company didn't do anything wrong. Nevertheless, you know this will hurt them. (Can you imagine unknowingly sitting in that [replaced] seat on that bus? Would you feel the vibes? Gives me the willies!)

Let's see -- when one terrorist wannabe put a knife in his shoe before boarding a plane, suddenly we all have to take off our shoes forever more when going through airport security. When one other nut boarded a plane with some liquids that could have been blended to create an explosion, suddenly we all can't take any liquids or gels (or even mascara, for cryin' out loud) over 3 oz. on a plane unless we buy it at the airport after going through security.

So far we all can board trains and buses without being X-rayed or strip-searched. What should happen after one guy goes crazy on one bus? Should we all now have to turn our pockets and luggage inside out before boarding? Should they buy expensive screening equipment and hire thousands of people to run it all and turn a 5-minute boarding process into a two-hour endurance contest? Will "officials" thus overreact as they usually do, edging us even more toward becoming a police state?

Fortunately, this wasn't a terrorist incident, just the actions of one sick bastard. So probably we'll all retain our civil rights on buses, at least, for awhile longer. At least I hope so.

Saturday, August 02, 2008

Whining about Word, Media Monkey and "Progress" in General

Grrrrrr!!! I want to throw Word 2007 out the window! And whatever idiot created the so-called simipler user interface. What the hell were you thinking?!?!

I got a brand new Dell laptop a couple of weeks ago, fortunately with Windows XP. (Thank you, Dell!) Vista's there too, or at least the disks if I want it later. But at least I didn't have to learn a new operating system. Whew!

Then...I opened up the Word program. You've gotta be kidding! I didn't recognize anything in the user interface. The toolbar and, in fact, the whole top is entirely different. I can't find out how to do anything that I used to do quickly and easily. And it's not like Microsoft Office is the most intuitive suite of software on the planet. PowerPoint is about the most intuitive, at least the old version was. I haven't tackled the new one yet. And I've got this book deadline....

The author's guidelines are helpful -- for Word 2003! They don't translate to Word 2007. Grrrrrrrr! Fortunately, by searching on Yahoo (I prefer it to Google) on "hate Word 2007," I came across the Word 2007 Cheat Sheet, kindly put together by Computerworld. I knew I was in the right place by just reading the first paragraph: "Baffled by Word 2007's new interface? Join the club. Making the switch to Word 2007 can be exceedingly disorienting -- like coming home and finding out that not only has all your furniture been rearranged, but the house itself has been moved to the next county." Thank you, Computerworld! (There's also a cheat sheet for Excel 2007 and PowerPoint 2007 accessible from that page.)

Then there's Media Monkey, which I use to keep my music organized. I love Media Monkey. But...I have run into a snag. Media Monkey on my new laptop doesn't recognize my iPod. It always did on my old computer; why not this one? Grrrrrrr!

Whenever there's a new update for one of my software programs, I used to automatically install it. Now, after getting burned a few times, I am more suspicious and hesitant to just say yes. Those sneaky software folks often "upgrade" and "simplify" their software by cutting off some of our abilities to do what we want. That especially holds true with anything that allows a person to move data from an old computer to a new one. It's like the software makers are afraid we're going to steal something from them, not use the same data from the same program on our own new computer. Grrrrrrr!

Okay, I'm done whining. I'm not really, but I have to get back to work. Well, not get back to work on "work," but get back to work on figuring out how to make my work work with the dastardly new "simpler" Word. Grrrrrrr!

Thursday, July 31, 2008

The Real Deal vs. Generics

I like real drugs. Of course I'm talking about prescription drugs. As a clean and sober person for 23 years, any other kinds are irrelevant to me. But I do take a couple or three prescription drugs as my body dictates. I could probably eliminate them altogether if I'd eat fruits and veggies, fish (broiled or baked), and organic lotsa things, but I'm too hooked on the stuff that, as far as I'm concerned, make life worth living. But I digress. Let's not get into that right now.

My doctors prescribe whatever they have ascertained will work to get rid of whatever we're trying to get rid of. Sometimes there's a generic available. They call it the generic "equivalent." I'm no expert, but from what more than one doctor over the years have told me, generics are not equivalent to the real thing. At least not all of them. So I choose to stick with the real deal even if it costs me more. And oh boy, does it cost me more!

One of my prescriptions erroneously got filled with a generic, and it was dirt cheap. I can't remember how much ir cost but it wasn't worth budgeting for. The brand name, the original, the real deal cost me $75 for one month's worth. Whew! And that's with insurance that includes prescription coverage!

Worse, when doctors do prescribe brand name drugs, often those busy doctors get called back or faxed back with the question, "Do you REALLY want to prescribe this and not the generic?" It's a pain in the ass for the prescriber, and somebody has to pay the pharmacy staff person who has to follow up to confirm that the idiot prescriber really, really, really means to pass up the wonderful generic. One of my doctors speculated that somebody's gotta be paying somebody something (graft, premiums, bonuses) for that to happen as a matter of course.

So what's my objection? I'm a lay person; I don't know squat about drugs. But enough of my doctors have said that generics aren't the equivalent of the original forumla that I believe them. Generics (some, most, whatever) often have different (usually more) fillers; they don't have the exact same active ingredients; they don't work with everybody's body. So give me the one that we know works, I say.

Even with OTC, as they affectionately call "over the counter" drugs, I buy the brand names. Anacin (hard to find nowadays) over aspirin. Robitussin over just tussin. Etc.

Same with other types of products -- food, bottles and jars of creams and lotions, cleaning products, etc., ad infinitum. I like brands. I trust them more and I like their appearance better. (Typical of a Libra)

I looked just now and out of several hundred products I probably have at home, I have exactly two generics: Duane Reade Alcohol Prep Swabs (sexy name, eh?) and America's Choice Tall Kitchen Bags (since Glad changed theirs to a thinner bag, and Hefty's always been Flimsy, Flimsy, Flimsy, not Hefty, Hefty, Hefty). That's about all there will ever be in my household.

So that's what 15 years in the advertising business did for me. Although...a friend of mine who's been in that biz far longer than I recently bought something generic, which I gave her a ration of shit for. (But she's not a Libra)

Anyway, I'm paying more for my real-deal drugs and, at least for me, it's worth it.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Divorce - The gift that keeps on giving

I just got back from dinner with one of my neighbors and a friend of hers who's visiting from a nearby state. I'll change the names to protect the innocent as well as the guilty.

Jane, my neighbor (and friend), I knew had been married for 38 years when her husband one day pretty much out of the blue said he was leaving. And he did. Jennifer, Jane's friend, had been married for 34 years when her husband totally out of the blue said he was leaving. And he did. This happened to both of them about the same time, about two years ago.

Neither Jane nor Jennifer have remarried. Both of their exes have, both to women they were seeing before they left. Both ex-spouses denied that there was anyone else when they left. In both cases, the grown kids dislike their dad's new wife. Jane's kids go with gritted teeth to events that include their dad's new wife (whom they wouldn't ever even consider calling their stepmother). Jennifer's kids aren't too receptive to going much of anywhere with their dad and his -- until today -- fiance.

Yes, Jennifer's ex got remarried today. Jennifer has a boyfriend of over a year so it wasn't as tough as it could have been. But her daughter -- we'll call her Jill -- had a rough day. Jill refused to go to dinner with them awhile ago -- I don't know the details -- and apparently the new wife-to-be (who is only a few years older than Jill) didn't take it very well. Jill didn't get an invitation to the wedding. Her brother did. Not cool.

It gets worse.

Daddy asked Jill if she was coming to the wedding. Jill said not if she didn't get an invitation, though privately she had already decided she wasn't going. Thursday, two days before the wedding, Jill's invitation came in the mail -- torn in two inside the envelope. That prompted Jill to decide to go -- wearing black. So she did. Must've been a fun day for all.

One of my male friends years ago got divorced and married the love of his life whom he'd met years before when he and his wife had been separated for a time. They never got over each other and finally he got out of his unhappy marriage and was free to marry her. I remember him telling me that he felt like he was in the corner in his living room watching the rest of the family live their lives. I said to him, "How sad for everyone," and he told me later that my comment had gotten him thinking and helped him to realize that he wasn't doing his family any favors by staying when he was so unhappy. His high-school-and-college-age kids had a problem with that. It got pretty bad. His daughter stepped in front of his car in the street to stop him one afternoon when he was on the way to her soccer game and screamed at him not to ever come to another of her games again. The good news is that a year later, she chose to go live with them. And, the jilted wife found someone she loved and also remarried.

I think the worst story I know of first hand came from a woman with an unusual name -- let's call her LaDonna. Her brothers also had fairly unusual names -- let's say Damian and Oscar. All were over 35. When it came out that their dad had been having an affair with a woman for some 20 years, it also came out that he had had three kids with her, one girl and two boys. Guess what their names were. Yep, LaDonna, Damian and Oscar. Can you imagine?!? All six kids were at that wedding. I lost touch with LaDonna so I don't know if that story had a happy ending or not, but I vividly remember the look of grim resolve covering up a soul-deep sorrow the day before the wedding.

I thought my divorce was bad, and it was, in its own way. Aren't they all? But it was 26 years ago so I'm long over it. People who get divorced from people with whom they have children have an especially challenging road. Like my friend Jennifer said tonight, "Divorce -- the gift that keeps on giving."

Friday, June 13, 2008

Tim Russert Gone? Say It Ain't So!

Returning from the grocery store awhile ago, the news was on and the graphic on the screen was "Remembering Tim Russert." The Washington, D.C., NBC affiliate I just happened to have on, WRC, was showing a clip of him talking about his father, about whom he'd written a book, Big Russ & Me, which became a best seller in 2004. I was confused. There he was, yet "remembering" means someone's gone.

Sure enough, Tim Russert collapsed at the station today and died. He was 58. I can't believe it.

Tim Russert was not only the absolute best and most knowledgeable political journalist on the planet, I believe, but also a warm, compassionate, dedicated, family-oriented guy who had a sense of humor and, most importantly, a sense of decency. He also was blessed with common sense above and beyond levels usually found in anybody, let alone a journalist (and I am one, so I can say that), let alone a political journalist.

Who could forget Russert explaining the 2000 presidential election with a white board and black marker, using low tech and common sense to make it all clear. Talk about unpretentious! And he knew his stuff. He understood the political system, the characters and the games inside and out. I always felt that I could trust anything he told me -- and I did feel like he was talking to me -- when it came to politics.

I lived and worked in the D.C. metro area for 18 months in 1996-1998. Before I moved there, I didn't watch the political talk shows on Sunday mornings, but his "Meet the Press" hooked me then, and I've been watching it ever since. Faithfully.

One of his best shows was in October when he devoted half of his program, as I recall, to interviewing presidential "candidate" Stephen Colbert. It was smart, clever, downright hilarious and just plain fun. How great of Russert to take a risk like that.

As I hear the tributes of colleagues, competitors and friends on WRC as the news of his death sinks in, people are saying he was "tough but fair," one of the greateset compliments anyone can pay a journalist, and that he listened to what his guests said, which too few do.

Tim Russert will be missed by people far and wide. I feel this loss personally. I will miss him for purely selfish reasons. How will we make it through this presidential election without his insight, without his translation of the gobblety gook, without his balance, without his passion and compassion, without his common sense? He is truly irreplaceable. It's so ironic that he died right as the election year heats up, and two days before Father's Day.

People are leaving flowers and mementos at the D.C. station for Russert. One is a small white board similar to the one he made famous. This one has written on it, "Tim, We will miss you." Amen.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

New Orleans Up Close and Personal

On Monday about noon, I got to New Orleans with my journalist hat on to cover a conference -- "Building for Boomers and Beyond," put on by the National Association of Home Builders (NAHB) -- and had a few hours before the opening reception. On impulse I thought I'd rent a car for the afternoon and drive all around to see how the city was faring nearly three years after Katrina. But I hadn't reserved a car, and the only thing most of the car rental companies at the airport had were panel vans and trucks. Hertz quoted me a price of $177/day. Say whaaaaa????

I passed on that.

My conference was at a Sheraton, which I have nothing against, but I'm loyal to Hiltons and Marriotts for the points and because they fix things that go wrong and treat me well. My hotel, the Hilton on St. Charles Ave. downtown, was architecturally majestic and beautiful (especially inside), comfortable and close to where my conference was. They took great care of me, from the young, tall, good-lookin' hunk with the soft brown eyes who politely and sweetly opened the door for me every time I left and came back, to Ticara (sp?), who checked me in and gave me a beautiful room before the official check-in time.

Once my conference started, I figured there'd be no chance to see the city. But fortune shone down on me and my ENR correspondent colleague Angelle Bergeron (read her "Gumbo" blog on enr.com) was available last night and took me on a personal tour in her little red truck that people would kill for (the tour, not the truck). She knew where to go and gave me vivid descriptions of how things were and what the political landscape was and is. I felt like Linda Blair in The Exorcist; my head was spinning round and round trying to take in everything as we motored along. Thank you, Angelle!

Angelle took me all over, showed me the lower-income housing that's being rebuilt and the lower-income housing that is being demolished (for political reasons?), the mom-and-pop stores and hollowed-out fast food places that will never again open (adjacent to a sprinkling of ones that have), the blocks-long concrete slabs where a big shopping center used to be, the houses in the poorer sections and the middle-class sections that are still boarded up and dark, many with the big X'es on them that the government agencies put on early on to let everyone know what date they'd been there and what they'd found, including the number of dead. Fortunately, all of the houses we saw had "0" for the number of dead.

The skeleton of Six Flags amusement park is sad for the kids (of all ages) who don't have that fun place to go to anymore, and won't, apparently. The latticework of the roller coaster structure, the huge lidless eye of the ferris wheel frame, the deserted field of giant tinker toy-like rides.... It was ghostly. But it would be a great set for a scary or futuristic dark movie, especially if they blew it up. Then it wouldn't be a constant reminder.

The entire city and environs are just one big checkerboard of light and dark homes and buildings, the cleaned-up, occupied ones side by side with the boarded-up, X'd ones. Angelle said they call it the jack-o-lantern effect. Even downtown, which did not suffer that extensive damage, there are buildings with boards for doors. Nearly three years after Katrina! How do people live and keep their spirits up when every block has such in-your-face remnants of life as it used to be but will never be again. It's heartbreaking. But hopefully those people who are no longer there are living happy, prosperous lives wherever they are, and everyone is just where they should be (...and all of that Celestine Prophecy-like stuff).

After it got dark, we went to the gorgeous, historic Columns Hotel to hear live jazz. Angelle knew one of the guys who was playing and the name of the oldster who had his trumpet with him and just started playing from his seat in the small parlor-type room where they were playing. He wowed everyone and, of course, he was invited to join them. Everyone seemed to know who he was. As they were playing the dreamy, creamy jazz and my foot was tapping, I was also enraptured by the 20-foot ceilings and elaborate crown molding in the place. What must life have been like back when it was built, in 1883? And why did they have such high, high ceilings? I should ask one of my architect friends.

I was last in New Orleans two weeks before Katrina and have not been eager to return. I'd rather remember it alive and well. But I'm glad I saw it again. It's like seeing an old friend 30 years later. "You look just like you did - you look great!" Uh huh. But we love them anyway.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

I Just Don't Get It

I was on a New Jersey Transit train, the North Jersey Coast line, going from New York City's Penn Station to Woodbridge, N.J., where my car was. It was late last night, about 11:30 p.m. Most every seat had at least one occupant in it but, fortunately, it wasn't crowded like it gets after Madison Square Garden has a concert or a Rangers hockey game.

A few rows behind me, I could hear, in fact we all could, three or four very loud black young men, probably around 20 years old, talking loudly, clearly with the intention of aurally hijacking everyone in the car. One in particular, clearly the ringleader, was cursing to the point that "muthahf*ckah" was about every fourth word. Everybody else in the car, probably 60 to 75 people, were quiet or talking softly. These guys dominated the space. I never looked back to see what they looked like.

They didn't get off at Newark, which was about 20 minutes out of New York. I then hoped they'd get off at Elizabeth, about 10 more minutes into the ride. That would at least leave me 10 or 15 minutes of peace before my station at Woodbridge. Elizabeth just seems to be the station where a lot of rowdy kids and adults (of all races) get off (and on), so that's why I hoped for Elizabeth.

Sure enough, four surprisingly clean-cut, well-dressed, nice-looking black kids filed up the aisle to get off at Elizabeth, with the loudmouth spewing his f*ck-you attitude all the way out the door. (Usually venomous loudmouthed kids look the part more than these did.) I was relieved.

But it was short-lived. The white, quite-unattractive 30's-age woman sitting one row in front of me and across the aisle and the 50's-ish, Joe-normal-looking man sitting with his wife in the seat in front of me commented on how obnoxious the guys had been who'd just left. Fine. But then they got carried away and talked INCESSANTLY and almost as loudly, though with no vulgar language, about things people on trains pontificate about, namely complaints about nearly everything and how wrong, sleazy and corrupt everyone in government is, especially in New York and New Jersey. I tried to ignore them, zoning in as much as I could on the paperback murder mystery I was reading.

They got to talking about Donald Trump and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg and some other rich, famous or political figures. Ignore, ignore, ignore. I looked around. We were nearly to the Rahway station, just one before mine at Woodbridge, and the crowd had thinned considerably. The only other person near me other than the whining, intrusive, loud, abrasive white folks in front of me was a quiet, nice-looking young black man in the seat across the aisle from me.

I went back to my book. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

Then the man in front of me pierced my concentration when he said, "I'd vote for him before I'd vote for that black guy." I have no idea who he was referring to, but his derisive tone made it clear that he didn't like either one. I really couldn't believe this white asshole had said that, regardless of who he was talking about, in a public venue in a loud voice to someone he didn't know with other people he didn't know around him.

I glanced over at the young black man across the aisle from me. He'd been minding his own business, as had I, but that one sentence jolted us into attentiveness. His eyes locked with mine. I pursed my lips, shook my head and rolled my eyes. His expression back to me was nonverbal also, but it was clear. He'd heard this kind of thing before. He considered the source, just like I consider the source when an ingorant chauvinist makes some comment about some woman's knockers in front of me as if I'm not there and he's not offending anyone.

The young man rose from his seat and walked up the aisle to get off at Rahway. He was peaceful in who he was, not angry or vengeful. He and I smiled at each other, making a brief soul-to-soul connection. It was a nice moment.

I only had about five more minutes left to endure the obnoxious white people before we hit Woodbridge. I got off the train, not looking at them. I left them behind. My world was quiet again. It was a nice moment.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Screw It. Let's Ride

I don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of hearing about the recession, about the murders, about the rapes and the burglaries and the Internet rip-offs and the divided Democratic party. I've had enough of the bad news about outrageously high gas prices, soaring food costs and pregnant, drug-addicted, shoplifting starlets. I'm tired of war and hunger and poverty and tragedy. I am sickened when I hear about shady merchants, screwed-up troublemaking kids, cockroaches and rats in beloved restaurants, defective machines and gadgets, and projections of skyrocketing numbers of us who will end up with Alzheimer's if we live past age 80.

Every day is a 24-hour visit to the Disneyland of bad news. It's depressing, upsetting and disheartening to just watch the news on tv. At least on the Internet, you can get amusingly distracted by stories that suggest we are close to teleportation, and that eating chocolate/drinking alcohol/watching tv for 20 hours a day are really good for you after all. We can get diverted from the heaviness of the world by stories about the latest sports scores, or a dog nursing motherless kittens, or that Will Ferrell will be taking over from Conan O'Brien when he takes over from Jay Leno.

Our own lives are challenging enough. I am a great advocate of escape: 300-page mysteries and thrillers, tv comedy-dramas, action-packed movies, plentiful chocolate (or Baskin-Robbins' pralines 'n' cream), long phone calls to confidantes, quick dinners with friends, impulse golf on a weekday, luxurious sleep. And I'm also an optimist. Somehow I do think things will work out okay. A book that inspires optimism and is thought-provoking as well is The Black Swan: The Impact of the Highly Improbable by Nassim Nicholas Taleb. I love the premise, namely that the events and happenings that have the greatest influence in our lives are neither probable nor predictable. The greatest example in recent years is 9-11. Okay, so that's not very uplifting, but the point is that because the biggest influencers in our world are neither probable nor predictable, there's no use worrying about the future. Whatever we're worrying about will probably be trumped by something we have no idea will happen.

I believe in the power of the positive. I sometimes fall into a pit but overall, I think if you keep good thoughts and pictures in your head of what you'd like your life to be like, you stand a better chance of living those pictures than if you wallow in the negative. So I love it when somebody has the balls to go against the popular whine of the moment and take a stand for us as strong conquering heroes! Sometimes I think that people think anyone who's positive is stupid or at least unenlightened. It's much more fashionable to complain and badmouth everyone and everything.

So kudos, I say, to Harley-Davidson. Baby boomers' favorite motorcycle company, the one whose cachet can turn a 145-pound, pale-skinned accountant into an intimidator just by giving him some shades, a leather jacket and a Harley, has a new in-your-face advertising campaign that reeks of optimism. And macho cheekiness.

The print ad shouts: "We don't do fear!" It explains: "Over the last 105 years in the saddle. we've seen wars, conflicts, depression, recession, resistance, and revolutions. We've watched a thousand hand-wringing pundits disappear in our rear-view mirror. But every time, this country has come out stronger than before, because chrome and asphalt put distance between you and whatever the world can throw at you. Freedom and wind outlast hard times. And the rumble of an engine drowns out all the spin on the evening news. If 105 years have proved one thing, it's that fear sucks and it doesn't last long. So screw it, let's ride."

Yes!!!

I will probably never own a Harley or any other motorcycle. But whenever I see a Harley rider on the road, cloaked in a t-shirt or leather jacket with the distinctive Harley insignia on his back (or her back), my heart flutters and some part of me leaps out, grabs onto the back of his seat, and flies away from the ugliness and the weight of the world into some stunning sunset ahead, and freedom! So thanks, Harley-Davidson for this we-don't-have-to-take-it-anymore message. Yes, I'm a baby boomer, and it takes a Harley-Davidson to remind me of my rebellious, adventurous, give-em-hell baby boomer heritage. So screw it, let's ride.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Give Me My Personal Space (Whatever That Is)

Right now as I wend my way to Boston to serve as a judge for the Society for Marketing Professional Services' (SMPS) annual Marketing Communication Awards, on this Amtrak train, I've just had my personal space violated. So did the man across from me.

It's a Friday afternoon, so the train is crowded. A tall, imposing, serious-looking man and his well-mannered college-age daughter boarded somewhere north of Manhattan and looked for seats together. I am in a window seat so he nabbed the aisle seat next to me. The rather distinguished older (about 70-ish, I'd say) gentleman across the aisle was sitting in the aisle seat; the window seat next to him was free. Mr. Imposing said to Mr. Older, "Would you move over." Didn't ask, told. After just one "Pardon?" the gentleman moved over. The daughter sat down. I found it fascinating that after shoving aside the older, weaker man, father and daughter didn't exchange two words all the way to Kingston, R.I., where I concluded she went to college.

So Mr. Imposing sat next to me, whipped out the latest issue of Newsweek and proceeded to read it, not like a considerate passenger but more like King of the Hill. He did the obnoxious male thing of splaying his legs at nearly a 90-degree angle so his knee encroached on "my" space about three inches, which my leg had already claimed. I didn't like playing kneesies with him but I am not a stubborn German for nothing, so I didn't concede the space. Eventually he almost imperceptably pulled in so that he only crossed over maybe an inch.

Personal space is such a relative thing. When I routinely rode the New York subway, there were days when violating my personal space meant that the man whose body was crushed into mine in the sardines-like crowd didn't put his hands directly on me. Other days it meant leaving an empty seat between me and someone else.

In Manhattan, people are so used to limited personal space that it always amazed me when in a not-very-crowded movie theater, people would squish in between strangers in the same row 1/3 of the way back in the middle when there were rows and rows of empty seats.

My men friends report extreme discomfort when they're alone at a urinal in a restaurant or sports venue and another guy enters and chooses the urinal next to them rather than one farther away. For women, we feel that someone just within listening distance in a fairly empty public rest room is a violation of our personal space.

Then we can go the other way entirely when we have a close relationship with someone. How many people complain that their significant other won't enter their personal space, the very lack of which indicates that the relationship has some healing to do? An involuntary recoiling from a spouse's touch says, "Get out of my space!" much more powerfully than words. It's beyond me how married couples can go weeks or months or even years without touching beyond what a stranger or casual acquaintance might get away with. But that's another subject. And what do I know -- I was only married long ago for two years anyway.

So Mr. Imposing and his daughter got off the train and the gentleman across the aisle wordlessly moved back over to the aisle seat. I put my purse, my book and my empty small Utz Cheesier Nacho Tortillas bag on the seat next to me as a deterrent and a "leave me be" message so I can enjoy my personal space invader-free for the last hour and a half of my trip. Hey, it's not that I'm selfish, inconsiderate and rude. I'm an only child, used to lots of privacy and personal space. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Penn Station at 2:00 a.m.

I had a reason to be in Manhattan today and, as the weather was rainy and messy where I live, I decided to take Amtrak to New York Penn Station rather than drive. I didn't get finished until 11:00 p.m. and the last Amtrak train south leaves at 10:00ish p.m. The next one isn't until 3:00 a.m. Amtrak, what in the hell are you thinking?!?!? Or not thinking, is more like it.

Anyway, so I opted to sit in the Amtrak "lounge" at Penn Station for 3-1/2 hours, from 11:30 p.m. until my train boards a little before 3:00 a.m. The people I was with invited me to stay with them "just 10 minutes away" rather than go to Penn Station ("Penn Station" said with a curled lip and a disgusted tone) at this hour.

Well, that was a gracious invitation, but 1) there's no such thing as "just 10 minutes away" and I'm more up for navigating Penn Station at this hour than the New York City subway, 2) I am prepared with my laptop, a good book (David Baldacci's latest paperback, Simple Genius) and my journal to keep me entertained, 3) people watching is best done solo...and, of course, there are The People of Penn Station, who are a story (or 100 stories at this hour) unto itself. This is actually a higher-class crowd at 2:00 a.m. than at noon or 6:00 or 8:00, probably because pickpockets and other ne'er-do-wells thrive in crowds, and there are sparse clusters or singles solo but close by others, and it's harder to sneak around and do ugly things in this atmosphere.

The Amtrak "lounge" is hardly that. It's made up of two sprawling sectors, a bigger one for Acela Express passengers, and the other, the one I'm in, is smaller, though it still has more than 40 rows of 6 blue not-too-comfortable-not-too-uncomfortable padded chairs with steel (not plastic, yay!) arms and frames, a sprinkling of monitors displaying Amtrak and New Jersey Transit trains statuses (stati? -- hey, it's late), a handful of 2-1/2-ft-dia. black round cylinders that people use as tables for their laptops or fast food. No restrooms (though the public ones are close by), no food or drink vendors or machines...oh, and a spectacular view. The view is of Penn Station's middle area where the big board is that's in all the movies. And usually throngs of fascinating humanity. Just not at 2:00 a.m.


Hmmm...I just popped out of the "lounge" and took a picture of the big board, several, in fact. An Army trooper came up to me and said to me, "Ma'am, you're not allowed to take pictures of the big board. It's very sensitive, who sees it." Wow, haven't heard that before. A zillion people must take pictures of that board every year. Well, the good news is that he didn't ask me to delete the pictures or take my camera away. I'd have a big problem with that. By then I already had my pictures, so I choose to think he was being kind by letting me finish before he said anything.

Penn Station at 2:00 a.m. probably isn't what you picture, even if you live here. There are always people sleeping in the doorways, along the walls (one or two -- it's not like a line-up of 'em) and on the stairs in Penn Station (and many other public places in Manhattan), and they're no scarier at 2:00 a.m. than at noon. They just want to sleep. A few of the food and coffee places are open and the place is as brightly lit as during the day. It's like Las Vegas -- you can't tell what time of day it is by looking.

Classical music plays in Penn Station 24/7. Some classical music can be dreary and dirgy, but they tend to keep it on the livelier side here, so that's a combination of soothing and energizing. I always picture it as calming the unruly crowds when the trains are late, which is all too often. The worst I remember was on St. Patrick's Day night a couple of years ago. I was working at Two Penn Plaza, right here at Penn Station, but I had my movie class that night and got back to Penn Station about 9:00 p.m. to take New Jersey Transit. Trains were hours late, St. Patrick's Day celebrants were rowdy, impatient, drunk and (some were) sick. Oh joy. The trains finally started moving and we crammed into the car...and...didn't move for half an hour. Longest half hour of my life. Not fun. Could've used louder classical music that night.

Anyway, I'm inexplicably awake at this hour, even as people doze and wobble as they nod off and even snore loudly around me. I'm waiting til I get on the train, and then I'll try to catch a 3-hour nap if I can.

A very nice, smart, charming, good looking and interesting man has been trying to chat me up as I've been writing this. He's been asking me lots of questions and making little comments to try to draw me out -- I can relate to that; that's what I do myself. I've been only semi-responsive because I'm focused on writing this. He's dying to know what I'm writing about him. It's not about him, but just to note that he's part of my experience here, I asked him his name. Thanks, Glen, for your flattering attention.

Okay, I'm finally getting tired. The train'll be here, God and Amtrak willing, in half an hour. I think I can make it until then....

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Target #8 and Love Potion #9

Earlier this week, my neighbor and co-conspirator Cathy and I were chatting with one of the two fabulous high school kids we're mentors for in our Knowledge To Go mentoring program at a local high school. We asked him what he was going to do this summer. He said he might get a job. He's 16. Good for him!

So of course she and I got to reminiscing about our first jobs. My very first job at 16 was as a cashier in the ticket booth at the Valley Drive-In Theater in Denver. It was in Southeast Denver on E. Evans and S. Monaco, as I recall, which wasn't yet a thru street. The Valley Drive-In is looooong gone now. That was quite a summer. That job was a movie lover's dream. I got to see all of the movies in the Wolfberg Theaters chain for free all summer. (Scroll down to the comments section when you click on the link.) I pretty much only went to the movies at my own drive-in, and that was after my shift was over. In those days, the drive-ins replayed the first movie after the second movie ran. Ah, double features. And a cartoon first. A long lost mem'ry.

My manager, Dave M. (I'll not use his last name to protect the guilty) was just 24, which seemed very old to me at the time. Well, very mature, at least. Ha! He loved to catch kids who sneaked in by hiding in the trunk. He was always suspicious of a car with just one person in it, and, sure enough, he caught many by just nailing the one-person cars.

He also loved to catch lovers in the act. One of my fellow high-schoolers would come to the drive-in nearly every Saturday night with her boyfriend, and Dave was laying for her (so to speak). Finally one night, he struck it rich. He caught them -- he told me he wanted to tell the guy to move over so he could take a turn -- and hauled them into the office and gave them a serious talking to. He knew he wasn't going to turn them in to the police -- he just wanted to scare them. He really got a charge out of doing that. Dave also drove me around in his red Mustang and showed me where the used condoms were on the ground -- I'd never seen a condom, new or used -- and he'd lament if he hadn't caught the wearers. I don't know if he was some kind of a pedophile or just a horny 24-year-old. I certainly didn't think about it at the time, innocent and wide-eyed as I was. (I didn't share anything in this paragraph with my high school mentee.)

The next summer, between high school graduation and the start of my freshman year of college, I worked at Target. I was a "floater," someone who filled in for people who were on vacation or out sick or worked in departments that were short-handed. I worked in nearly every department in the store that summer and got to know where everything was. Men's was probably the most fun department, even though many more women shopped in Men's than men. Wigs was the worst department because it was so dead. Working at Target that summer was fun. I flirted with one of the stock boys, who was also there for the summer before starting college. His name was Lanny, as I recall. He flirted back, but we never progressed beyond that.

Target had really cheapo clothes back then, so I didn't stock up. It's come a long way.... I go to my neighborhood Target quite a bit, though still not for clothes.

A friend of mine accused me of making it up that I worked at Target back then, since she insisted that there were no Targets back in those oooooold days. Well, I knew I did work at a real, genuine Target (same distinctive logo all these years). I ran into a construction exec from Target shortly after that and told him what my friend had said. He said that store, on Colorado Boulevard in Denver, was Target Store #8. So there, Michele!

Oops...I just remembered what my very first job was. I was probably around 9 or 10, 11 at the most. I sent away for Parchment Charm All-Occasion Cards and sold them door-to-door in the neighborhood. In those days, you could do that, even if you were just 10. I was not good at sales then. I think my pitch was something like, "You wouldn't want to buy some Parchment Charm All-Occasion Cards, would you?" Aaaaargh!

By the time I sold Avon door-to-door at the Coronado Club singles apartment complex in Denver when I was 21, I had a little better sales pitch. I consistently sold a whole bunch of Wild Country men's after shave and cologne (which, amazingly, they still sell) but just a handful of other products, and my district manager wanted to know why. It was quite simple. I really liked Wild Country -- I thought of it as Love Potion #9 -- and the guys in the complex figured, "If it has that effect on her...I'll try it." Sales -- and life -- were so simple then. But no, I wouldn't want to go back to that era. I'll take now.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Google to Earth: April Fool!

Every April Fool's Day, Google's creative types come up with a doozy of an authentic-looking page for their Gmail e-mail sign-in page. Every year, some people believe it's real.

This year's is brilliant! Who's not wanted this: "Gmail Custom Time" -- where their system will allow you to pre-date e-mail messages so they appear to be sent on time or in time instead of late. Handy for birthdays you forgot, deadlines you've missed, appointments you blew off and other things that clog up your prime time that now you can handle whenever you damn well get around to it. Wow!



That page looks legit, if you go just by looks. Same style as the usual page, etc. So if you don't really read the words carefully, you could (well, some could) think it was real. But for people who didn't get it the first time, the page you click onto to "learn more" should wake them up. The fake testimonials are so far out there that even the dimmest bulb should realize it's a joke.



My favorite faux testimonial:
"I used to be an honest person; but now I don't have to be. It's just so much easier this way. I've gained a lot of productivity by not having to think about doing the 'right' thing."
Todd J., Investment Banker



Happy April Fool's Day!

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Remorse? Or Regret for Getting Caught? Either Way, It's Also an AFOG

"The remorse I feel will always be with me." When New York Governor Eliot Spitzer delivered that line in his resignation announcement today, my eyes rolled.

Remorse? I don't know how much remorse you can have for something you've been doing for a decade if the only reason you stopped was that you got caught.

One thing is for sure: The Spitzer family has been thrust into a transition from one family dynamic to another. What that ends up being is up to them. In one well-known 12-step program, I've heard it called an AFOG -- another fucking opportunity to grow.

Silda Spitzer was inches away from her husband during both his Monday press conference and his resignation announcement today. She had her neutral to grim mask in place -- who wouldn't? People criticize wives for "standing by their men" in public when those men are labeled by many as cads, cheaters and liars (those all usually go together). No one knows why those women do that. They are probably in shock at that time and don't know why they do it either, other than that's what their man wants and everyone wants to look as "less bad" as possible.

I think it's nobody's business whether the woman sticks with her husband after this kind of thing or not. We all spend so much of our lives striving to "be right" and "look good," and there's more than that at stake. Hillary Clinton made her choice and stuck with Bill. People say that's because of her political ambitions and make jokes about her freezing him out from that moment forward. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. Relationships are complicated living things, and how they are depends entirely on the people involved, not on convention, mores, laws or other people's expectations, though we often succumb to those things in the process.

Forgiveness is powerful. So is communication. Love is most powerful of all. I believe those three things can conquer anything. Not necessarily "will" but "can."

I know of a couple -- he cheated on his wife with multiple partners and one of them ratted him out to his wife. They were set to split, but she ended up asking him to go with her to a couples retreat as a last-ditch effort. He went just to humor her and to be able to lie to himself that he'd done everything he could. He had no intention of fully participating in it. Well, surprise! He cried for 3 days and they communicated on a real level for the first time in a long time. He ended up recommitting to his marriage and they are still together. Part of that involved coming clean to her about everything, not easy for him to reveal or her to hear, and then they could, with counseling, deal with everything. They became truly close as a result and their marriage was transformed. I know of another couple in a similar situation where the wife was the one who strayed -- with more than a dozen partners, in fact -- and it had a similar outcome. Rare, but possible.

Right now all of the Spitzers are devastated. They'll find out who their real friends are, that's for sure. I guarantee they'll be shocked both at who turns their backs on them and who supports them. Each member of the family probably feels as though they won't live through this. But they will. They don't have to fall apart and get caught up in the rightness, wrongness and how it all appears. With time and a lot of help both from friends and professionals, they can forge a completely new family dynamic that's real and strong and completely transformed from the one they've had. I wish them the best!

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Sex Nails Another Politician

I just happened to be in Manhattan yesterday when the story broke that New York Governor Eliot Spitzer, the Mr. Clean of New York politics, was linked to a prostitution ring. It takes a lot to shock New Yorkers, but this definitely did the trick (pun intended). Now a lot of people are calling for his resignation. We'll see what happens.

Should he resign? As a former attorney general who went after all kinds of illegal behavior, including prostitution, a lot of people say yes. I say he falls into the same category as Richard Nixon with Watergate and President Clinton with Monica Lewinsky. Some of their predecessors did the same thing -- they were just the first ones to get caught and punished for it. I mean, c'mon, could he possibly be the first big-city-governor-who-used-to-be-an-AG to enjoy the services of a hooker?

I wonder which is perceived to be worse in the eyes of the public: Spitzer visiting hookers or Clinton getting a blow job in the White House. Both show poor judgement, given their political position. But both are just sex, and why should sex between two consenting adults, whether for pay or not, be illegal? I don't think it should be.

In this case, obviously Spitzer showed poor judgement. When men think with their little head vs. their big head, that happens. And that happens all the time.

As a journalist, over the years I've gotten to know well a lot of powerful men. They have several things in common: They live outside the lines. They get special treatment wherever they go. They get sheltered from bad news, especially about themselves. They are high energy people, which often includes a high libido. Many of them have dutiful wives who make great lieutenants but lousy lovers, or at least that's what they'd have you believe. Their power and/or money attract a lot of seductive women. And a lot of their business happens behind closed doors -- in the form of all variety of meetings -- and they're used to their confidentiality being protected.

So, of course Spitzer thought he was playing in the same arena as he has been for years, and he no doubt thought he would be protected by the people who've always protected him. But sex is a great divider. People who will put up with other shenanigans and even participate as buddies in illegal ventures can take a very different view of sexual behavior that's outside the socially acceptable norm, which usually equates to illegal. Their self-righteous little angry devil on their shoulder stabs them and they're liable to do something out of character, like rat on the guy. Who knows what happened in this case. But no secret is truly safe, especially when it involves something as juicy as a sex scandal.

It is beyond me why so much about sex is illegal. In some states, oral sex or anal sex is illegal, even between married people behind their own closed doors. Prostitution is illegal in many places but not illegal in others, especially outside the U.S. (Too bad Spitzer didn't just go to the Chicken Ranch or its equivalent in Las Vegas. Then it would have been poor judgement, but not illegal.) In my opinion, sex of any kind between two consenting adults in the privacy of their own home or a hotel room is none of the government's business. The key words are "consenting adults."

Why are some of our laws regarding sex so arcane? Well, what legislator wants his or her name on a bill that legalizes anal sex? So in many areas, they just don't enforce those statutes.

Tonight Eliot Spitzer is in serious, deep pain, and he knows that pain will not go away for a loooooong, long time. The searing, numbing pain that Silda Spitzer is no doubt going through is made worse by the fact that it was probably a complete surprise until a few days ago. Her dream world -- past, present and future -- is shattered. Plus, all of this is public. My heart goes out to her.

Tonight a lot of married men who have gone to a hooker or who are having sexual relations outside of their marriage are probably not going to sleep as well as they did last week, between the guilt and the fear and the gratitude that it's not them -- this time.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Living as My Higher Self

Living as Ego is tough. Ego expects me to be successful in corporate America as I was for most of my adult life. Ego wants me to be everything in my bio that I send to groups before I am the featured speaker, but not anything that I fear they will find out about me that could wipe out my "p.r. persona" -- stuff like that I sometimes don't get dressed until noon, and I sometimes eat a pint of ice cream within an hour's time, and I sometimes actually watch daytime TV now that I don't have to go to an office every day (though I haven't sunk to "Maury," "Jerry Springer" or "General Hospital"...so far). Ego cares about what people think of me and will go to great lengths to not let me look bad. Ego keeps telling me how I'm failing, that I'm bad, that things are going downhill, that I've not done my life right and it "shoulds" on me relentlessly. It also has gallows humor and ends up laughing at me and cracks me up. Thank God for comic relief.

I've long wrestled with my ego. My ego wants to prevail over my higher self. My higher self whispers and gently floats in the air. My ego is large and heavy and has more arms and tentacles than an octopus. My ego in the form of my relentless, chattering, whining, battering, screaming, judgemental mind often seems to envelop me and render me unable to move. My ego wants me to think my way into and out of things. My ego barrages me with critical, negative, scary, exhausting thoughts, interspersed with less frequent gifts of gratitude, delight, peace and love. At night I go to sleep with the TV playing softly because my mind starts in on me with all of its wranglings, so the TV helps to lull it into behaving itself so I can sleep. I know I'm not the Lone Ranger because friends -- positive, successful friends -- describe similar scenarios.

Oprah is leading online "classes" discussing Eckhart Tolle's book A New Earth. I didn't watch Monday night's first Web class live and didn't intend to watch it at all. But yesterday I got curious. Tolle also wrote The Power of Now, which is heavy reading but awesome. So I watched it on Oprah.com. (You can also download it and watch it on a video iPod.)

The discussion was inspiring. What I loved most was Tolle's reminder that we are not our thoughts or our minds. We are separate from them. We are miraculous spirits no matter what we think or even do. No matter how far down we sink, that spirit, that goodness is still there and available to us in an instant. My arm immediately stopped thumping on me.

So I ordered the book. I may even watch the first class again, especially since my arm started beating on me again within hours of my good thoughts. Maybe minutes. Retraining our minds is about as easy as running a marathon with a broken ankle.

My higher self really would love to triumph over my ego. Tolle says that it starts with allowing ourselves to bathe in silence. Often. I am allergic to silence. I have the TV or radio on in the background while I work or do chores or read or do nearly anything. But yesterday while driving, I turned the radio off and stayed off my cell phone. Driving was an entirely different experience. I was aware of new details, sensations and sounds and was surrounded by a spirit I was unfamiliar with. My own? I even slept with the TV off last night too. This could be the beginning of a whole new relationship with my higher self.... Oops, my ego heard that and is already mounting an argument. Stay tuned.