Alyans

Lauren&rsquo;s having turned 18 yesterday and set to become a college freshman in the fall gave me all the [nostalgic] feels this week, throwing me back to the first time I was a freshman.&nbsp;
I also happened to be spring cleaning my office and came across dozens of ancient photos, each of which further rocket-fueled more than three decades of memories and cast me deeper and deeper into a wormhole. Or is it a spider hole? Or a rat hole? Or a rat&rsquo;s nest? Or ratted hair? Or maybe it&rsquo;s a rabbit trail? Eesh. Similes I can remember, but I can never seem to keep my metaphors, analogies, or allegories straight. Hopefully you get the idea: I&rsquo;m down a hole or trail of some sort and you&rsquo;re comin&rsquo; with me!&nbsp;
As fate would have it, of the MANY common injuries, illnesses, or ailments likely to befall a high school senior (mononucleosis, anyone?), I had the distinct privilege of contracting Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, dropping from 165 lbs to 117, missing graduation and summer, then driving southward to the sleepy metropolis of Waco, TX using one of my two crutches to mash on the accelerator because I&rsquo;d thrown my back out doing rehab in July to regain muscle mass.
How&rsquo;s all this for irony?&nbsp;
Senior Year &rsquo;88 is therefore a somewhat squishy memory for me, vaguely fugue-like from about March forward, and I remember it primarily as a blur and total bummer because it lacked closure on every front: few goodbyes, fewer explanations, then presto-blammo, wacky Waco here I be!
All this being the case, whenever I do think of high school, it&rsquo;s 1984 that tends to hit my memory bank the hardest.
For 2020 freshmen, what a year to be launching, yes? I mean, gee, if only the year coulda been more auspicious, more eventful, more pivotal, more memorable, more momentous somehow.
&ldquo;May you live in interesting times,&rdquo; right? And it&rsquo;s barely June!&nbsp;
But back to 1984, and a quick time-capsule for you&mdash;
FASHION: Freshman year began awash in a sea of squeaky parachute pants, Vans, Air Jordans, Doc Martens, Ray-Ban wayfarers and mirrored aviators, Panama Jack and OP tees, ropy gold chains, countless rubber wristlets, preppies, new wavers, punks, skaters, metal-heads, skinheads, Benettonites, hip hoppers, rockabillies, and fanatical leotarded aerobicizers.&nbsp;
TV was dominated by: Cagney &amp; Lacey, Cheers, Dallas, Dynasty, Falcon Crest, Family Ties, Highway to Heaven, Hill Street Blues, Knots Landing, Magnum, P.I., Miami Vice, Murder, She Wrote, Newhart, Night Court, Remington Steele, Riptide, Scarecrow &amp; Mrs. King, Simon &amp; Simon, The A-Team, The Cosby Show, The Fall Guy, Trapper John, M.D., and tiny guy Webster.&nbsp;
The big MOVIES were: Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Against All Odds, Amadeus, Bachelor Party, Beverly Hills Cop, Blame it on Rio, Breakin' (and Breakin&rsquo; II!), Cannonball Run II, Children of the Corn, Conan the Destroyer, Dune, Firestarter, Footloose, Friday the 13th Part IV: The Final Chapter, Ghostbusters, Gremlins, Irreconcilable Differences, Johnny Dangerously, Missing in Action (Norris!), Moscow on the Hudson, Police Academy, Purple Rain, Red Dawn, Revenge of the Nerds, Rhinestone, Romancing the Stone, Sixteen Candles, Splash, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, Starman, Supergirl, Teachers, The Cotton Club, The Evil That Men Do, The Flamingo Kid, The Gods Must Be Crazy, The Ice Pirates, The Karate Kid, The Killing Fields, The Last Starfighter, The Muppets Take Manhattan, The Natural, The Terminator, The Woman in Red, Thief of Hearts, Tightrope, Top Secret!, Unfaithfully Yours, Up the Creek, Weekend Pass, and Where the Boys Are '84.&nbsp;
At the roller rink, top TUNEMEISTERS included: Adam Ant, Bananarama, Billy Joel, Billy Ocean, Billy Squier, Bruce Springsteen, Chicago, Christine McVie, Christopher Cross, Corey Hart, Culture Club, Cyndi Lauper, David Bowie, DeBarge, Duran Duran, Elton John, Eurythmics, Genesis, Hall &amp; Oates, Huey Lewis and the News, Irene Cara, John Cougar Mellencamp, John Waite, Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson, KC &amp; the Sunshine Band, Kenny Loggins, Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, Kool &amp; The Gang, Laura Branigan, Lionel Richie, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Mike Reno and Ann Wilson, Nena, Night Ranger, Olivia Newton-John, Pat Benatar, Peabo Bryson, Peter Schilling, Phil Collins, Quiet Riot, Ratt, Ray Parker Jr., Rick Springfield, Rockwell, Rod Stewart, Run-DMC, Scandal, Shalamar, Sheila E., Steve Perry, Stevie Wonder, Stray Cats, The Cars, The Go-Go's, The Jacksons, The Pointer Sisters, The Police, The Rolling Stones, The Romantics, Thompson Twins, Tina Turner, Van Halen, Wang Chung, Wham!, Yes, and the long-beards themselves, ZZ Top.&nbsp;
In the NEWS: AIDS, Ethiopian famine (and Band Aid to help solve it!), Apple&rsquo;s Macintosh (and Sony&rsquo;s first 3 &frac12;&rdquo; disk, plus the introduction of commercial CD players!), the Summer Olympics (and the Soviets&rsquo; boycott), the first untethered space walk (Space Shuttle Challenger, followed in August by Space Shuttle Discovery), and the overall feeling that George Orwell mighta been on to something in his dystopian Nineteen Eighty-Four, though, admittedly, by today&rsquo;s standards, 1984 feels rather quiet and quaint, if not altogether na&iuml;ve.&nbsp;
It occurs to me that today&rsquo;s freshmen might as well be launching amidst their own dystopian prophecy of sorts, perhaps Aldous Huxley&rsquo;s masterwork being the order of the day, as it is fast becoming a Brave New World indeed, though hopefully for the [much] better.&nbsp;
Coincidentally&mdash;in case you have time for a couple final factoids and a dozen metaphors that endeavor to tie the whole room together!&mdash;Huxley died within hours of C. S. Lewis (November 22, 1963), though, understandably, too few of the citizenry were able to fully commemorate their passing and reach closure when it happened, as a progressive young President on the other side of the sea also happened to lose his life that day, in his case when the motorcade crept past the Texas School Book Depository and changed the course of history forever. Again.
History often has a rather odd way of sensemaking and putting things into perspective for us, does it not? Three renowned, notable Men of Letters had lost their lives in a single day, and two more thought-leaders would die violently at the hands of small-minded bigots in April and June of 1968.&nbsp;
Of this I am certain, though: The struggle is real, and it continues until The Very Bittersweet End.&nbsp;
Transitions, changes, passages, epochal eras, and especially upheavals rarely come on time, are frequently messy, disorganized, and open-ended, and can also be jarring when not outright violent. The status quo rarely goes quietly into some good night, nor does it simply fade away. In my experience, new order comes kicking and screaming loudly into the world and tears lotsa social fabric along the way.
What is &ldquo;fashionable&rdquo; is, by definition, temporal. It comes and goes, becoming something frivolous and perhaps even small by comparison, especially in retrospect. We learn first-hand that time marches on&hellip;waits for no man&hellip;and we cannot step into the same river twice. To not learn this would be ignorance, denial of truth, and intellectual/social/spiritual death.&nbsp;
Granted, I cannot predict what firefly fashions, sights, or sounds may catch our eyes or ears in the future, but I do agree that though the arc of the moral universe is long, it does bend toward justice, and progress will eventually carry the day.&nbsp;
But perhaps more importantly than all this, I believe in the scriptural promise that a child shall lead the way.
This being the case, I can think of no more auspicious, eventful, pivotal, memorable, momentous year than 2020 to launch our offspring out into the world to seize the day.
I pray they can blaze a better trail than we have, and eventually show us the way.
#LeadOn

Metamorphosis

&lsquo;Tis the season of commencements galore (tonight our family had to divide and conquer to attend concurrent graduations), so the once original &ldquo;Oh, the Places You'll Go!&rdquo; has now become tired and trite, BUT, I must say: Seeing a tight-knit group of 52 graduates whoop, holler, embrace one another, and eventually cry with joy&hellip;is a breathtakingly beautiful sight to behold. Especially right up close.
These kids have worked SO hard, for SO long, and often in concert with one another, that it really is rewarding to see them graduate. Something so deceptively simple, but 18 years or nearly 158,000 hours in the making.
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I do hope they will pause, though&mdash;savor the moment&mdash;before leaning their shoulders into whatever&rsquo;s next.
I don&rsquo;t know about you, but I spent three decades too many looking ahead, living in the future and rarely in the moment&hellip;when all we REALLY have is now, and now, and now, and now. The future is merely a concept, a mental construct, until it manifests in the present as another now.
&bull; &bull; &bull;
&ldquo;I'm trying to free your mind, Neo. But I can only show you the door. You&rsquo;re the one who has to walk through it.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.&rdquo;
&ldquo;Worry is interest paid in advance on a debt that never exists.&rdquo;
<img src="https://res.cloudinary.com/leath-group/image/upload/v1558224469/z3kzy404nuurhi7czrsb.jpg" width="270" />
"If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended: that you have but slumber'd here while these visions did appear."
&bull; &bull; &bull;&nbsp;
Sure, carpe diem, but stop and smell the roses for cryin&rsquo; out loud. You&rsquo;ve earned it and will never be as young again as you were today.
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My Charge to Graduates

<blockquote>
&ldquo;For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.&rdquo;&nbsp; &mdash;1 Timothy 6:10
</blockquote>
&bull; &bull; &bull;
Beneath the stars and beside a roaring fire, I stood and listened to the words of a wise man the other night; one who has literally seen it all. &ldquo;My mentor told me,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;that all manner of depravity&nbsp;can be traced to five simple sources: sex, substances, money, power, and pride.&rdquo;
All my life I'd heard about pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, and sloth.
I don't care how one counts these things,&nbsp;as they&nbsp;feel like "six of one, half a dozen of the other," be they five or seven!
The bottom line is that&mdash;after 49 years on this&nbsp;giant, orbiting hairball&mdash;I'd say&nbsp;the&nbsp;path to peace is&nbsp;not paved with good intentions or great deeds, but rather, with contentment.
Faith, hope, and love are the inward and outward manifestations of a life deeply rooted and well-lived,&nbsp;but&nbsp;contentment is a consequence of self-control (one of nine fruits of the spirit) or, said another way, without self-control there&nbsp;can be no contentment.
Happily, contentment also leads to peace (and peace is a force multiplier), so consider it a two, three,&nbsp;five, seven, or ninefer.
Want for too much more, and one welcomes the wrath of self-destruction into his&nbsp;head and heart.

Contentment

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To everything I wrote last year&nbsp;<a href="http://bit.ly/1ZBAK04">http://bit.ly/1ZBAK04</a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;which still holds true&mdash;I would add "what a whirlwind your 13th year has been." Each June comes and goes more quickly than levels on a treadmill. Since the dawn of time, people have warned, "Enjoy every minute of it; before you know it, they're grown and gone." We listened, and we do, but nothing stops time, least of all the observance of each grain slipping through the hourglass.
God willing (every day being a gift), I guesstimate we have perhaps 214 Opening Night Movies together, then you'll kick us to the curb or fly our crazy coop and be gone to the winds.
In the meantime, I relish being passed by, for it means you are growing up, and that is good, necessary, and inevitable.
I notice now that you tromp me regularly in our conversations about movie trivia, answering at the buzzer when my mind drifts off toward, "What was that actor's name...you know...the one from...."
And you know all "the lingo," teaching me yesterday that BAE is not quite British Aerospace Electronic, as I thought it was, but is, in fact, something altogether different.
You're faster, sometimes forty steps ahead; you're taller, though not quite taller than me (yet!); you're quicker<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;almost always getting to the punchline or answer before your old man.
I love it. We've come a long way, kiddo, a very long way indeed.
As your 14th year begins, I pray it's the best yet.
Though often I'm right beside you, and sometimes farther behind, I am always here.
Now let's go see a show.&nbsp;

Happy Fourteenth, Lauren!

<div id="id_55721d576333b0056849918" class="text_exposed_root text_exposed">"Happy Anniversary!" &gt;8,395 dawns Spring 1989&mdash; Every Tuesday/Thursday at precisely eight o&rsquo;clock in the morning for thirteen weeks, I find myself in a sea of more than one hundred beleaguered Baylor freshmen. I sit in the center of the classroom for &ldquo;Earthquakes &amp; Natural Disasters,&rdquo; halfway in and halfway up. Three rows ahead&mdash;between me and the professor&rsquo;s obnoxiously bright overhead projector&mdash;I see the back of your haloed head, perfectly lit when he flips the switch and casts transparencies describing lava, Charles Richter and tectonic plates. You are ponytailed, routinely late, and always in sweats. You look like Courtney Thorne-Smith&rsquo;s sister and, naturally, I&rsquo;m smitten. October 1989&mdash; Alone, as has been my pattern, I go to a cinema one Friday night to see Look Who&rsquo;s Talking starring John Travolta and Kirstie Alley. I sit in the center here, too, halfway in and halfway up. Moments later, I notice you enter, accompanied by three or four girlfriends. I make a mental note, &ldquo;Find that girl.&rdquo; Days later, after some ferreting, grapevining, scouting and recon, I divine your name. In my dorm, I find a yearbook of sorts, scan to the D&rsquo;s and, jackpot, there you are. One nervous and awkward phone call later, we find ourselves on a first date. It is Monday, October 16th. Starting at the suspension bridge overlooking the Brazos, we walk, make our way to the grassy bank, toss a football, and eat and laugh at Wendy&rsquo;s for the better part of two hours. I have perhaps nine dollars to my name, worry that you&rsquo;ll order more than I can afford, but eventually think to myself, &ldquo;A girl who loves movies, runs post patterns in Levi&rsquo;s without batting an eye, and scarfs down a burger and Frosty instead of a salad...where do I sign?!?&rdquo; A few dizzying weeks later, I describe you to my dad by saying, &ldquo;With her, every day feels like Christmas.&rdquo; (We shall later use that as an excuse for leaving our Christmas tree up year-round.) For the next two decades, we&rsquo;ll experience our fair share of April fools, but it remains a lifetime of thanksgiving. May 30, 1993&mdash; You make me the proverbial &ldquo;happiest man alive.&rdquo; 1992-2015 We live in the desert. We live in an apartment the size of a shoebox with two sheddy cats. You endure my &ldquo;exercise&rdquo; phase, during which Weider home gym equipment cannibalizes precious bedroom space in three consecutive residences. You support me when I teach taekwondo in the evenings for extra cash. You wait patiently for years while I continue school, ceaselessly reading and writing and studying and striving to become a more able and stable provider. We win some, lose lots, tread water, and move a few times. You hold the fort, pay the bills, and subsist on 5-minute nightly phone calls courtesy of my worn and faded MCI card while I travel more than 2,500 days in the first half of my career and our marriage. In time, God willing, you bring two beloved children into this world, the first whom remains the light of our lives and the second whom we consecrate to memory and commemorate with steadfast friends and a laurel tree that now stands twenty feet high in the backyard of one of your girlfriends whom accompanied you to Look Who's Talking twenty-seven years ago. In all things&mdash;travel, business, residency, relationships, hopes realized and dreams periodically dashed, you trust me. You follow, accompany, lead, stand behind, stand beside, or carry. Despite my panoply of oddities and eccentricities, you&mdash;as in &ldquo;Earthquakes &amp; Natural Disasters&rdquo;&mdash;perennially stand before me and, now, for me, too. Often ponytailed, frequently in sweats, sometimes late, but forever there. Faithful, true, kind, gracious, grounded, funny, whip-smart, encouraging, warm, competitive, mischievous. In sickness and health, always loving and cherishing and leading and serving and supporting me and countless others. On those unfortunate but inevitable occasions when life, the economy, health, or people spat in my face and kicked me in the groin and burned my world to the ground and I found myself spent and rent and reeling and kneeling in ash and covered in soot, I have inevitably looked up and ahead to see that you remain, every time, my constant lighthouse in the storm. When the winds die and the smoke clears, you abide with a palmful of soil and seed as if to say, &ldquo;It&rsquo;ll be okay. God has a plan. Here, let&rsquo;s plant this, pray, be patient, and see what is re-imagined or restored.&rdquo; Time marches on; seasons come and go. And then one morning, up through the black arises a spritely shoot, then a meadow, then a forest. It reliably works this way. &ldquo;It will work out. It always does.&rdquo; *** 2016&mdash; Though I accept we cannot predict the future, I remain optimistic about it. We are guaranteed no tomorrows, but as we lie in bed at night, I run my fingers through your hair until you fall asleep, gently remove your glasses from your warm face, place them quietly on my bedside table, lock up, turn off the lights, ready our home for rest, and give thanks to the good Lord above for one more day. Perhaps tomorrow I will awake again, extravagantly blessed another time to be and do with you and buoyed by the hope that arrives with dawn.</div>
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Happy 23rd Anniversary to My Beloved Bride

Prince died today, age 57.
It's been a rough 2016. We've already lost a lot of great artists this year, and it's only April 21st.
One would be hard pressed to find anyone under, say, 65, who either doesn't know who Prince is, or who doesn't have a story or anecdote about him. Prince didn't perform the soundtrack to my life, but if my life had a soundtrack, he would certainly be on it.
I have recollections of his music dating as far back as 1979, and I can remember<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;clear as day<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;the ratty little theater and the names and faces of high school friends who sat, equally enraptured, watching 1984's breakout movie&nbsp;Purple Rain.&nbsp;
Not twenty feet from here I have a turntable, and against that turntable is a stack of Prince vinyls.&nbsp;
On January 12th of this year, I sat at Burgers and Brew on the UC Davis campus, downloaded HITNRUN Phase Two,&nbsp;mashed earbuds deep into my ears, and must have played the buoyant new song&nbsp;Baltimore&nbsp;about two dozen times in the span of ninety minutes, noshing on a guacamole burger with pepper jack cheese, sweet potato fries, and that elixir of life, Dr Pepper. It was a typically gorgeous California evening and, as one thing leads to another, I eventually found myself on Wikipedia, then on site after site after site recounting his childhood, his musical influences, his recording contract difficulties, his litigious copyright attacks on fans and others who surreptitiously used his content without permission, his infamous record deal emancipation, his inscrutable moniker (TAFKAP era), his recent health difficulties, his religious beliefs, his concert dates, his forthcoming autobiography, his on and on and on.
I came across countless photos, of course, but one, in particular, caught my eye. He was standing on a tarmac beside a small private aircraft, just a few weeks prior (circa December 2015) to perform a private concert for some queen or socialite. Beside him was his bodyguard, who held his black leather duffel bag and personal effects. And in Prince's hand was a snazzy walking cane.
It made me feel sad, worrying a bit<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;for perhaps the first time<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;about his health.
I read of rumors regarding his recent ailments, including chronic difficulties with his hips (having performed so physically over the years in high heels, and periodically coming down wrong on one stage or another). As the tabloids would have you believe it, he allegedly refused to pursue double hip replacement surgery because it would require a blood transfusion, verboten among Jehovah's Witnesses.
Interesting as it was, he had denied it all.
No matter; it's irrelevant.
As we each do, I wandered and puttered and clicked and investigated one story after another while the music played and college kids and professors out with their families swirled around me on this gorgeous deck beneath an enormous swaying tree, eating and imbibing, everyone warming her and himself beside outdoor heaters like moths beside flames.
I remember thinking to myself, "He has outlived Michael Jackson. I'm glad he's still with us. He's endured a lot."
I then recalled a story from a friend, Bonnie, who had once seen Prince perform in some small, sweaty bar in Minnesota, years ago, in the early 2000's. Apparently, it was during a low point in his career, and what he preferred as an 'intimate venue' sounded, according to her, more like a literal dive. "Everyone was ignoring him, carrying on, shouting over his music. He was standing right there. It was bleak."
Oh, how times change.
In the years immediately following Purple Rain, he could have filled something as large as an AT&amp;T Stadium to the rafters. As recently as the past few years, he sold as many shows as he wanted.
But yes, he was known for being reclusive, and for playing lots of private gigs, but also for recently appearing on TV and at random theaters and awards shows. It would seem he was becoming less 'shy,' if that's a word one might associate with Prince.
Clearly, all careers<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;particularly public ones<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;have their fair share of ups and downs, highs and lows, springs and winters. Prince was no different in this regard; no one is immune from failure, much less the changing tastes and aesthetics of a fickle public. Everyone tires of most everyone and everything after a while, particularly when they are as omnipresent as someone like Prince or, say, Phil Collins, once a darling of radio, now a virtual clich<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; color: #666666; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-size: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial;">&eacute;d schlocky pariah.
Prince was always, however, timeless. A true maestro; master of the hook, the beat, the wonderful riff and soaring guitar solo, and dominator of some thirty-odd instruments. He was similarly a starmaker, a ghostwriter, album producer extraordinaire, and the flawless performer of Purple Rain&nbsp;the single which, clocking in at nearly seven minutes, was good enough on stage to make the released album in one single take.
Whether writing something as bare, sparse, and stripped down as Sinead O'Connor's Nothing Compares 2 U or producing something as elaborate as a multi-city concert with pyrotechnics and thirty musicians in tow, Prince was a luminary, a whistling thrush, a virtuoso from whom music emanated as naturally and essentially as from a songbird.
He always sang his little heart out, all 5' 2" of him.
I shall miss him dearly, as shall hundreds of millions more, evidenced by his breaking both the internet and every streaming music service today.
Public controversies, private and personal missteps, and periodically profane musical pursuits notwithstanding, he had talent galore, voice, and something to say. He had a point of view. In a world of same-same and derivation, it is refreshing to hear someone who, like he, continued to grow, to evolve, to create, to challenge convention; to reinvent and remain relevant, releasing as many as three new studio albums in the past two years alone, each of which possesses one gem or another.
That's remarkable. Lots of artists become jukeboxes, repeating their hits into oblivion, snapping the record needle off the arm. Prince created anew again and again and again. I admire that.
Say what you will about his shortcomings and failings; he lived. He produced songs as iconic today as they were thirty-nine years ago, and I doubt very much that's something we'll be saying about Bieber, West, et al. in 2049.
The music industry has changed to its core, and we've lost lots of great folks recently, but I thank my lucky stars<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;as perhaps you do, too<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;that I got to experience Prince in his heyday. At the height, dancing as a dorky teenager to amazing songs played on someone's thunderous boombox at a summer of '85 barn party at Babler's. And at the lowest, retrieving an ejected cassette from my CJ7, totaled in '86, just relieved I'd snatched the slippery tape before the wrecker hauled the larger muddy mess away in the rain.
Lots and lots of memories with that guy.
Good and bad, I treasure them all.
Thank you, your Purple Bedazzled Highness.
May you rest in music, forever bathed in His light and surrounded by fluttering doves that coo and never cry.

The Day the Music Died. Again.

I remember at about age 11 or 12 standing in our Morgan tool shed&mdash;searching for God knows what&mdash;and Dad remarked, &ldquo;You find what you&rsquo;re hunting for in the last place you look.&rdquo; He was absolutely right, and I don&rsquo;t think he was talking about pliers.
Success or cessation.
When we believe we have found what we are looking for, or actually have, well, I guess we have &ldquo;succeeded&rdquo; and, naturally, we stop searching.
When we don&rsquo;t find the thing, well, we often quit, having failed. Or, said another way, having &ldquo;ceased,&rdquo; and perhaps too soon.
I&rsquo;m not necessarily suggesting we search forever.
&nbsp;
But I am suggesting the hunt and the find might very well be one and the same.
###

Searching

Ego, "the 'I' that distinguishes us from others," including "our self-esteem and self-image," but also "our conceit and self-importance" is a tricky, tricky&nbsp;beast.&nbsp; A devil on our shoulder, a gremlin in the machinery.
On the one hand, it is necessary, essential.&nbsp; Without it, we are paper dolls, folded by the least life has to offer or brings our way.&nbsp; But too much of it and we are rigid, always right, enrobed in our self-righteousness and sense of entitlement or destiny.
In its extremes<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;too much and too little<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;it is&nbsp;as easy to spot as the peacock.&nbsp;
Too Little, Exhibit A: The abused, who apologizes for her abuse.
Too Much, Exhibit A:&nbsp;The tyrant, whose way is the only way.
In between, we find a&nbsp;diorama of figurines, from the insecure who, like the puffer fish, make themselves appear larger than they really are as an act of self-protection.&nbsp; Or bullies,&nbsp;the&nbsp;hyenas of humankind, who identify those whom they perceive as a step slower or out of sync with the herd, catching them alone at the watering hole or in a wild turn on an open field.&nbsp; Or the indignant.&nbsp; Or&nbsp;sometimes even martyrs, who originally felt called to champion a cause in someone else's name, or on behalf of others, but who&nbsp;may lose their way once they close their ears and become tone-deaf to the changing landscape or situation at hand.
There are dozens and dozens of archetypes smeared across&nbsp;our little&nbsp;stage, each of us&nbsp;having played many such parts in the course of our life.
I see it every day; we all do.&nbsp; For all his "honesty" and "straight talk," Donald Trump is periodically behaving&nbsp;rather badly: mean, divisive, sometimes employing hateful speech that borders on bullying, leaving very little room for the gray of life and which is, to my way of thinking at least, sexist, racist, superior, bigoted.&nbsp; I'm as ready as the next guy for a transparent leader, for spin-free and politics-free zones.&nbsp; Gosh, our country needs&nbsp;this desperately.&nbsp; We are lost; marooned.&nbsp;&nbsp;There is no America, just islands, camps, tribes, parties, factions, lobbyists, separatists.&nbsp; And Trump's absolutely&nbsp;right: political&nbsp;correctness can be a blight.&nbsp; But to lump entire people into&nbsp;categories, to deride said&nbsp;categories, to marginalize others, to be dismissive about what Warren Buffett succinctly describes as "the lottery of birth" (having been blessed, due to grace or chance alone, to be born in the United States or any progressive country) is absolute foolishness.&nbsp; Trump's&nbsp;name is so fitting, because his ego trumps everything.&nbsp; He appears to believe that he is right about everything and is equally intolerant of&nbsp;contrary opinions.&nbsp; I cannot fathom the circus his governance style would&nbsp;create.&nbsp;&nbsp;As much as people might like it&nbsp;to be&nbsp;the case, government does not operate like business.&nbsp; There are times I&nbsp;absolutely wish it did, but our government is a legislative democracy, not an autocracy or private venture or profitably oriented enterprise with shareholders and so, on the face of it, his approach will always be unsuitable.&nbsp; We need a statesman or stateswoman, but one who can, in fact, effect change to create unity, whether through the next figurative moonshot or something else larger than partisan politics.
But he is not alone, for if we are not careful, and when we are our worst selves rather than our best selves,&nbsp;a great many of us could be castigated for our example.&nbsp; It's not just politicians who believe they are above the law, or professional athletes, or celebrities.&nbsp; No, in&nbsp;a world that Andy Warhol would have loved, we are each enticed to create, proliferate, and maintain a cult of personality, be it through Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or&nbsp;Tumblr or wherever.&nbsp;&nbsp;
And the irony is not lost on this writer,&nbsp;who named a company after himself.
But we shall get to that.
Whether we lack ego, and&nbsp;forfeit ourselves to others' pleasures or dominion, or overcompensate for our shortcomings by bullying, or believe we are the smartest person in the room...chosen, designated, called, destined, whatever...and adopt a narrow-minded and "me-centric" worldview, we all fall short.
When things must be our way, or our way is the only way, or our way is the right way, well,&nbsp;one's world becomes very tiny indeed.&nbsp; It is inclusion, involvement, collaboration,&nbsp;diversity, delegation,&nbsp;even situationally appropriate submission that&nbsp;returns oxygen to the room, enlarges the table, leads to variety and better ideas and more amazing outcomes.
The "heroic manager" (be it a command-and-control throwback to 1955 or Steve Jobs himself in his early days before his dismissal and wandering in the desert which led to contrition)&nbsp;is a dying breed.&nbsp; I still stumble across it now and again, but even in the&nbsp;military, and paramilitary organizations, and the church itself<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;organizations which have every right to practice bureaucracy, considering they are among our oldest and were originally designed as hierarchies<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;I see&nbsp;autocratic management&nbsp;becoming all the more pass&eacute;.&nbsp; People are simply too aware, too educated, too empowered to abide it.
So where does this leave the leader?&nbsp; How does he or she strike the right balance, the right chord?&nbsp; How much ego is too little, and how much is too much?
As was put to me yesterday in conversation, "Perhaps like all things, Blake, it's a matter of moderation.&nbsp; One must constantly shift and find the right gear."
Well said.&nbsp; I couldn't agree more.
In hindsight, and with foresight, this is true.&nbsp; There are certainly issues in life which are black and white, but it is also true that most are quite complicated, and with complication comes&nbsp;different perspectives on&nbsp;the same issues, alternative paths up and out and, therefore, a whole lotta gray.
Among others, which are arguably too esoteric or spiritual for a business blog, two northern stars which have often guided my own sensibilities are derivatives of The Golden Rule and&nbsp;The Craftsman's Pride.
Regarding the former, I often ask myself, "In this situation, how would I want someone to treat my daughter?&nbsp; If she were to come home and share this scenario with me, to describe others' treatment of her, how would I feel about that, about them, about her behavior in this situation?&nbsp; And what would I do if the shoe were on the other foot...if I was 'the jerk' in her story?"&nbsp; It is true: only at my best am I so enlightened, but it's a star nonetheless, one which usually compels me to pause, to breathe deep, to ponder, and which later convicts me to re-think my ego, stance, position, or sense of self-righteousness or indignation.
Regarding the latter, a craftsman's pride, the company is called Leath Group because we are a group.&nbsp;&nbsp;And foremost, one that stands behind&nbsp;its work<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;so much so that we are willing to sign our name to it, like a silversmith or cobbler of old who put his initials on the bottom of his&nbsp;wares or inside a pair of boots he'd lovingly stitched.&nbsp; It's not&nbsp;ego behind the name, its personalization and accountability and a nod to simpler times.&nbsp; We could have named ourselves ACME Inc. or Consortium Consulting but, honestly, I prefer buying from Jim or Bob or Steve, not some faceless conglomerate, and so we began our work in that vein, and it stuck.
Our ethos, however, which may fly in the face of our branding<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;and gosh, I hope it does not<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;is generally one of anonymity.&nbsp; We are, at our core, creators and cultivators commissioned to plant and grow something small which, if successful,&nbsp;becomes our client's, not our own.&nbsp; Like any parent, our ultimate success and joy&nbsp;are best revealed in the well-being of our child.&nbsp; Try as we might, there are always genetics and internal/external forces beyond our control with which we must contend, but we strive mightily to be good examples, good role models, and to love unconditionally and without bias.&nbsp; To create great work products, deliver great services, then let them go.
Along the way, whether one is a politician, business leader, military leader, church leader, parent, you name it, one is constantly shifting gears while also remaining consistent and directed and pulled toward a northern star.&nbsp; This creates the much needed sense of stability, for oneself and others, while also fostering adaptability, malleableness, suppleness to bend in the wind without breaking.
To know oneself, one's strengths and weaknesses, and to be confident in his or her being, while also being willing to become invisible when it is the right thing to do, or to take the reins and grab the mic and take the stage when it is the right thing to do is precisely the shifting of gears that I'm describing.&nbsp; And as you know from personal experience, there is no rulebook, it is often gray, and it requires a deft touch, an ability to read the room and the situation, and the courage to vanish or show-up and absolutely represent.
Sometimes, it even requires we, as told to me by a former mentor, "Know when to lay it down and walk away."
I find, and perhaps you'll agree, that sometimes "the I" that is in each of us can become an Idol.&nbsp;&nbsp;Or, something that we do, or are, or perceive we stand for can become idolatrous because it means too much to us, it defines us, is addictive to us, or we cannot walk away from it when we should.&nbsp; We become obstinate, intractable, stubborn; we cannot let it go.&nbsp;&nbsp;
Consider these examples, all of which are complicated and have 50/50 sides:
If the day came, weeks or months from now, that Donald Trump found himself unsupportable or unelectable as the Republican nominee, would he fade quietly into the sunset, returning to his enterprises, supportive of those who remain, or would he bash the remaining and perhaps choose to run Independent, thereby splintering the country further and weakening his professed party in the process?&nbsp; In his rulebook, what comes first: self or the greater good?&nbsp; And what is right?&nbsp; Is there a right?
If a County Clerk found herself in violation of the Supreme Court's ruling and refused to issue marriage licenses to&nbsp;same-sex couples, should she stand her moral ground or yield to public opinion and let someone else do the job?&nbsp; What is right in this situation, who determines it, and what's the proper gear for the terrain?&nbsp; These are thorny issues for our Republic, the sort that define church, state, and the separation thereof.
If a hygienist in a dentist's office found herself to be the source of division and gossip, should she walk away for the health and betterment of the practice, or remain?&nbsp; Should she be loyal to the hand that feeds her, or loyal to her own personal convictions, cause, and sense of justice or injustice?&nbsp;
If a corporation becomes a cult of personality, or is represented in the public sphere by a spokesperson who generates hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue then does bad things in his or her personal life, should this person remain the spokesperson?&nbsp; What is the cost of collateral damage, the price of&nbsp;a corporate soul, and how does&nbsp;an organization&nbsp;tally it?&nbsp; There is a sea of examples to represent this conundrum, from Evel Knievel and Ideal Toys to Tiger Woods and Nike.&nbsp;
In each of these scenarios, one's ego is relevant.&nbsp; The candidate, the clerk, the employee, the representative: each&nbsp;is forced by circumstance to&nbsp;take stock, every conceivable&nbsp;path forward&nbsp;having gray alleys and obstacles, each alternative leading to personal consequences, some of which result in more or less polarization and none of which are simple, easy, or politically unambiguous.
In David Simon's HBO miniseries, Show Me a Hero, Yonkers' mayor Nich Wasicsko initially finds himself victorious, largely because of an unpopular political issue, public housing, which creates an opportunity for him to be the alternative candidate and steal the race.&nbsp; Two years later, the same thing happens to him, and for six more years he pursues the idol of political fame and purpose, repeatedly falling short and, rather than simply walking away and starting a legal practice, he clings to the past, fails to see it for what it was, becomes chronically depressed, and takes his own life standing at his father's grave during the week of his final election loss.&nbsp; It is a searing, heartbreaking story; a Greek tragedy of epic proportion, but set rather intimately in the fourth most populous city in the state of New York.
Kenny Rogers crooned, "You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, and know when to run."&nbsp; It's good advice, and we only wish the gears were thusly labeled.&nbsp; They are often inscrutable, caked in mud, clogged with debris from life's trails, and impossible to free.
I have walked away, and I have doubled down.&nbsp; I've won some, and lost many more.&nbsp; There were rarely buzzing, directional neon signs pointing the way; it was often a sense of intuition that necessitated a light touch (which is in contrast to being grabby-grabby, like the raccoon in Where the Red Fern Grows who won't release the shiny silver object within the log and gets scooped up by Billy and placed in a burlap sack).&nbsp; The illusions of power, of control are precisely that, as Anthony Hopkins&nbsp;reminds Cuba Gooding, Jr. in 1999's Instinct.&nbsp; 
Most everyone learns this lesson, eventually.&nbsp; Our sense of importance, of power, they can become idols in our heart, things which&nbsp;over-inflate our sense of self, distracting us from what is right,&nbsp;or pure,&nbsp;or good.&nbsp; Virtuous.
Left to one's own devices, he or she can lose sight of the big picture, or the long game, or the fact that our lives are but brief sparks, and legacy casts the longer shadow.
So stand for something, and be up for something, possessing a strong and firm foundation of ego that is not subject to whims, or peer pressure, or bullying, or popularity, or the transient in life like fad or fashion, but also be as selfless as possible, as modest and humble and quiet in spirit, knowing that one's works and craftsmanship and contributions to others and to causes greater than oneself are what matter far more, benefit multitudes more, and ultimately lead to greater peace, fulfillment, and contentment in this world.
###

Ego: Destroyer of Worlds

It occurs to me that, at least on some level, the terrorists have made inroads.
On some level....
I have traveled, almost monthly and without fail, since 1992.&nbsp; And while it was never fun, it was a change of pace, and I have always relished the anonymity of travel.&nbsp; Here you are, some stranger; a&nbsp;weary traveler, with earbuds, book and reading glasses in hand, always&nbsp;seated in the quiet corners of restaurants to read and tune-out.&nbsp; No one to recognize, no one to say hello, just...peace and quiet.
I enjoy visiting with people, of course; perhaps many of us do.&nbsp; But I have also always enjoyed the silence of the road; the momentary quiet and isolation that allows me to detach, ruminate, and reflect, particularly at the end of an exhausting and/or fulfilling day.&nbsp; The sort of day that allows&nbsp;me to feel I made a difference here.&nbsp; 
In the last 2-3 years, however, I have noticed&nbsp;something.&nbsp; Something&nbsp;rather trivial, of course, and not representative of real issues with which others deal, but it has come up in conversation with fellow travelers, many of whom are beginning to notice the same weird phenomenon.
It seems this stranger (the one hostesses always seated in the quiet corners) now gets a second look.&nbsp; The same happens at movie theaters, which I frequent almost nightly, usually after dinner, to further detach and&nbsp;still my mind.&nbsp; And I also get "that look" at malls, grocery stores, hotels, elevators, seemingly everywhere, whether on the road or at home.&nbsp; The only common denominators: I'm alone and dressed for work.
It has heightened my empathy, to be sure.&nbsp; I am all the more attuned to "the conversation" that is happening as recently as now with regard to race relations in this country,&nbsp;and with diversity,&nbsp;and with preferences,&nbsp;and with discrimination,&nbsp;and with prejudice,&nbsp;and with intolerance,&nbsp;and with bias,&nbsp;and with profiling,&nbsp;and with inequality,&nbsp;and with segregation through economic means;&nbsp;with the sort of things Bryan Stevenson and Ta-Nehisi Coates and even David Simon are&nbsp;so&nbsp;fervently describing every time anyone will read their work or listen to them speak.&nbsp;
And I admit, on the lighter side,&nbsp;one miscalculation&nbsp;may be that when I travel I'm always wearing&nbsp;that dang sportcoat or any sort of jacket with pockets (I mean, where else am I to put two sets of eye-glasses, a wallet, my phone, chapstick, change, receipts, hotel valet stubs, room-key-cards, and that huge jangly cabled key-ring that usually accompanies a rental car?), but I've worn jackets for years<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;and&nbsp;they were&nbsp;never a problem before!
No, I attribute it to a more fragile world, a world rife with theatrical TSA security checks ("If you see something, say something."), crazy gunmen and&nbsp;radicals on airplanes and in airports, trains and museums, at newspaper offices, churches, cinemas, campuses, courthouses, political gatherings, along roadsides and city streets as recalled nightly on the news, and in our public schools.&nbsp; It seems that everywhere, anywhere, there is a wacko about to whip-out a pistol and start shooting innocents for reasons as old as religion, race or a sense of marginalization.&nbsp;
And the media is no help, sensationalizing everything and putting it in our daily feed.&nbsp; All the world's miseries brought to bear on a 2x2" screen, reaching out from the great beyond and grabbing us by the throat with terror levels and threat warnings and hysteria.&nbsp; I often wonder whether things are worse, or have simply worsened due to information glut and the power of the internet, social media, and how they can bring heinous acts right into the cells in our pockets.&nbsp; Is there any virtuous news anymore, or is it all hate, evil, death, perversion?
There are few things in this world&nbsp;more profane or sacrilegious than hate-driven holy wars, but here we stand, surrounded by them and slights thousands of years in the making.&nbsp; Every night on the news, we see decapitations and holy places desecrated or altogether blown to bits, and men shot in the back as they run for cover.&nbsp; Even police<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;the good guys<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;have become suspects.&nbsp; It would seem that everyone is under attack and we are living the X-Files: "Trust No One."
But back to my teensy glimpse into the coal mine, to my one sugar packet that has washed up on the shores back home.
This past week, I attended a movie in Destin, FL.&nbsp; 8pm.&nbsp; Me in my sportcoat, and a dozen others in flip-flops and t-shirts at the end of a clearly wonderful and hot vacationy day.&nbsp; A policeman was monitoring the front door, and boy did I get a look-over.&nbsp; After the movie began, a manager entered and stood at the end of my aisle, as if to say, "I am here, and we see you, Crazy."
But I get that look quite a bit these days, and I never did before.&nbsp; Certainly not pre-9/11, and ever so rarely before, say, 2012 or 2013.
I appreciate the vigilance, and demonstrate it myself.&nbsp; "Situational Awareness" is key for each of us.
That said, I rue what appears to be coming, and&nbsp;hope the day never&nbsp;arrives&nbsp;when we find our restaurants, theaters,&nbsp;schools, parks,&nbsp;or public places&nbsp;locked down with metal detectors, security,&nbsp;or militaristic paranoia writ large.&nbsp; Martial law.
With the best intentions in mind, the freedom and innocence of yesteryear have been eroded bit by bit.&nbsp; Long gone are the days we, as kids, hopped on our clangy bikes and&nbsp;pedaled&nbsp;up the street to adventure and unfettered joy.&nbsp; Today, it appears we're nearing a cultural tipping point.&nbsp; Pervs on every corner, including in the schools and churches,&nbsp;a state of security at the drive-in theater.
Three steps forward, two steps back.&nbsp; For everyone.&nbsp; Fear, the great equalizer.
With the day coming when we each fear our neighbor, our child's teacher, or suspect anyone and everyone, from young boys in hoodies doing their best to get out and beyond and men with&nbsp;bushy black&nbsp;beards to men on social media and businessmen on travel in sportcoats, well then, yes, I suppose the&nbsp;baddies of every sort and stripe have made inroads.&nbsp; Their&nbsp;wickedness poisoning our every well; everyone a suspect or, worse, guilty until proven innocent.
So keep your wits about you, but don't allow others to rob your sense of joy, of potential, of love, of relationship, of trust, of hope.&nbsp; And have some fun out there.&nbsp; Make eye contact, say hello, give firm handshakes,&nbsp;and encourage your children to&nbsp;stay in groups and hold hands if&nbsp;they have to.&nbsp;&nbsp;Live life on your terms, working from the supposition that there is more good than bad, and that a smile and kind word are&nbsp;great ways to engage the world while also getting a quick read on the person in front of you.
&nbsp;
"Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."
<span style="line-height: 107%; font-family: 'Calibri',sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA;">&mdash;Benjamin Franklin, November 11, 1755
&nbsp;# # #

Happy-Go-Lucky

&ldquo;Happy Thirteenth, Lauren!&rdquo;
Week of June 3, 2002&mdash; I&rsquo;m in Billings, MT with a small group of HR professionals.&nbsp; They know your birth is imminent (I told them as much when I agreed to the gig), subsequently promising to accommodate my schedule as aggressively as possible, up to and including flying me home at a moment&rsquo;s notice should your mother go into labor.&nbsp; Near the end of the week, she&rsquo;s experiencing such discomfort that I prepare to return home early.&nbsp; I remember it vividly because as I say my goodbyes, the client hands me a thoughtful gift for you: a large doll in a crib.&nbsp; After thanking him, I begin to ponder where I&rsquo;ll put the thing.&nbsp; It won&rsquo;t fit in my backpack, and if I cram it in my otherwise small suitcase, it might get crushed (to say nothing of the fact that the bag will become so large I&rsquo;ll need to check it, delaying me a good half hour at baggage claim).&nbsp; In the end, I board the plane with my suitcase, backpack and this unwieldy doll in a crib under my arm.&nbsp; It is a sign of things to come; so long, Coolsville, welcome to fatherhood!
June 8-9, 2002&mdash; Your mother&rsquo;s discomfort amounts to a false alarm, but a few days later we do find ourselves at the hospital again and rarin&rsquo; to go.&nbsp; On the 8th, it&rsquo;s just us and some frazzled nurse with syringes and too much authority.&nbsp; The ward is so quiet you can hear keystrokes at the nurses&rsquo; station down the hall.&nbsp; It&rsquo;s eerie, &ldquo;The Shining&rdquo; eerie, and I think to myself, &ldquo;Is there a doctor in the house?&rdquo;&nbsp; For something so big, so important, so seemingly overdue I expect a red carpet, a parade, streamers and air horns and pop guns and confetti but, instead, it&rsquo;s more like I have to rap on the glass door with my car keys and awake Barney Fife to let us in while, somewhere across the 'burbs in a tony, leafy enclave, doctors sleep on 1,200 thread-count sheets and dream of sugar plumbs and timeshares.
Many fruitless hours later, your mother and this nurse (now nearing the end of her shift and the sun&rsquo;s arrival) mutually decide it&rsquo;s time to escalate the delivery and get the gosh darned doctor down here, stat.&nbsp; Upon conferring with the powers that be on the other end of the phone, the decision is made to perform a C-section and so, nearly a day after we arrived, your hornet of a mother is wheeled into the big show, a million dollar operating room with stage lights and enough machinery to silence Tim &ldquo;The Tool Man&rdquo; Taylor.
And then literally, within seconds, the doctor stands there, I am told to stand here, on this side of a vertical sheet and, blammo, your slippery body is placed in my arms.&nbsp; I am completely aghast&hellip;awed by the procedure&rsquo;s precision, the speed with which such a circuitous and arduous ordeal has reached its conclusion, and confused by the fact that this bowling ball has been handed to me so abruptly without requiring any training, testing or certification on my part.&nbsp; &ldquo;Here she is,&rdquo; the doctor pronounces, and the hands that dropped many a high school football are holding this squiggly and squirmy and stretching life form.&nbsp; Just like that, the old trope, &ldquo;Yeah, my parents dropped me on my head when I was a kid&rdquo; could have become your Chapter One.
Beyond your weight, I make two additional observations: your density is so high you must be made of lead!&nbsp; And your toes; you have your mother&rsquo;s toes!&nbsp; Eventually, your mother and I make it to a holding cell, you are zipped through the baby wash, and we are united for one sleepless day before I tape you in bubble wrap, insert you into a sheepskin-belted car seat with clicky buckle (NASCAR!), slip sunglasses and a tiny bonnet of your head (both of which might have come with a recently received doll), and drive you home in the right lane at 5 mph.&nbsp;
2002-2015&mdash; You are our constant companion.&nbsp; Constant.&nbsp; I learn to wash dishes and sterilize pumps with my eyes closed in the dark.&nbsp; You cry, we rock.&nbsp; Sleeping aids are purchased.&nbsp; A rotating nightlight that casts stars on the wall and plays &ldquo;Twinkle Twinkle&rdquo; becomes a prized possession.&nbsp; Pacifiers are to you as Precious is to Gollum.&nbsp; I learn what love smells like: Johnson &amp; Johnson baby lotion.&nbsp; Your foot-in pajamas are the cutest things ever, especially as you begin to outgrow them in every direction, testing the tensile strength of seams at your belly, shoulders and toes like a ripe caterpillar.&nbsp; What amounts to expensive and organic gruel and, a couple years later, messy spaghetti dinners followed by bath time are blasts.&nbsp; Round, chubby silverware and rubber-bottomed bowls, banged on a plastic tray by the short prisoner from atop her high chair is adorable.&nbsp; Your johnny jump-up, from which you dangle and prance and preen and spring upward into the air like a grinning madwoman in Cirque de Soleil brings tears of laughter to our eyes.&nbsp; Your crib, bassinette and our bed become, one after another and in rotation, fair game on any given night.&nbsp; We spy on you with a wavy first-generation B&amp;W camera and static-y eavesdropping monitor that looks like a walkie-talkie I had when I was nine and played &ldquo;Starsky &amp; Hutch.&rdquo;&nbsp; At ages four and five, we awake to find you swaying in your white nightgown while standing silently beside our bed; you are sleepwalking, we deduce, and it is freaky to the fourth power.&nbsp; Though you never do, I joke that one night you will surely bring us a steak knife, your shuffly walk accompanied by choppy violined horror music.&nbsp; Fortunately, you outgrow this nocturnal phase (sorta), become a world-class cuddler (entirely) and, several weeks after beginning kindergarten, have your first existential crisis.&nbsp; Having tucked you into bed and said our prayers together, I turn to leave the room and you ask, &ldquo;Is this all there is to life?&rdquo;&nbsp; I am momentarily dumbfounded&hellip;stunned&hellip;processing&hellip;and inquire what you mean.&nbsp; &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; you say, casual as khakis, &ldquo;getting up, brushing my teeth, sitting in plastic chairs all day long while a teacher talks at me?&rdquo;
From that moment &lsquo;til this, whether watching you at ballet, soccer, piano or beyond, I note the duality we all possess.&nbsp; Sometimes, it would seem that you are an adult, jaded and cool.&nbsp; Other times, you are huggy and warm and I am reminded that your life has just begun and a girl needs her dad.
You are a great listener, a sweet friend, and the most loyal movie-watching buddy.&nbsp; Your humor and comebacks rip your mother and me to shreds and your knowledge is profound and eclectic.&nbsp; You frequently correct me and question.&nbsp; We watch lots of the same shows, including &ldquo;ABC News,&rdquo; &ldquo;Charlie Rose,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Diners, Drive-Ins &amp; Dives&rdquo; featuring the perfectly charismatic Guy Fieri.&nbsp; You are witty, a strong speaker, and both figuratively and literally a tireless cheerleader.&nbsp; You are abundantly creative and if you set your mind to something, it&rsquo;s a done deal.&nbsp; Above all traits, however, you have the most innate moral compass I have ever witnessed, a conscientiousness that points so robustly and rudderfully and magnetically and incorruptibly northward that it is equally awe-inspiring and humbling.&nbsp; Like some zealous, inexplicably reincarnated puritanical Amish elder first born in 1850, you will be the equivalent of a seeing-eye-dog for one whose compass might be erratic or point too inward or south.&nbsp; Rather than hearing you say, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, I shouldn&rsquo;t have,&rdquo; I usually find myself saying, &ldquo;Live a little, Lauren!&rdquo;
2015&mdash; You have the next decade of your life in mind, but I encourage you to savor your youth, to relish it.&nbsp; Do not worry about tomorrow.&nbsp; Remember what they say: worry doesn&rsquo;t take away today&rsquo;s troubles, it takes away today&rsquo;s peace.&nbsp; Nearly everything of significance begins with the decisions and choices one makes, whether proactive and volitional or reactive and in response to the curve balls life throws your way.&nbsp;
When you were seven or eight, I watched you tell your mother about a girl whom you didn&rsquo;t want to invite to your birthday party because every time she came to our house she stole more and more Polly Pockets.&nbsp; Dawn paused, knelt down very deliberately on her knees, stared purposefully into your big blue eyes and said, &ldquo;Choices have consequences,&rdquo; as if you had the vocabulary, wisdom and understanding of someone who would know what the heck that meant.&nbsp;
If I were wiped from the face of this earth like a bug off a windshield, I would have lived long enough to see that you, indeed, know exactly what that means.&nbsp; Just the other day I was brusque with someone and, in the moment, you were gracious and kind.&nbsp; Moments later you said to me, sure as a sensei, &ldquo;You hurt his feelings, Dad.&nbsp; You should say you&rsquo;re sorry.&rdquo;&nbsp; And so I did, and so shall you be fine.&nbsp; Better than fine, in fact, for you are becoming a fisher of men.
&nbsp;

Happy Thirteenth, Lauren!

As another Monday comes to a close, maybe it&rsquo;s time for a movie review? Here&rsquo;s a peek at &ldquo;American Sniper.&rdquo; (Gimme a few more days to recover and, time and energy permitting, I&rsquo;ll summarize &ldquo;Inherent Vice,&rdquo; &ldquo;Blackhat,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Paddington.&rdquo; Two I recommend, one I do not.)
But now for the big boy, American Sniper.
For starters, if you saw it, no, your imagination is NOT playing tricks on you: it was &ldquo;CRAZY PACKED,&rdquo; because it opened to HUGE January numbers.
Having played only in limited release since Christmas Day, American Sniper opened nationwide this past weekend and grossed $90.2 million in three days, setting two box office records along the way: (1) It had the largest January opening in cinematic history, besting 2014&rsquo;s &ldquo;Ride Along&rdquo; (starring Ice Cube and Kevin Hart) by a whopping $58 million dollars. (2) It is the second highest R-rated opening ever, second only to The Matrix Reloaded's $91.7 million. (Interestingly, Bradley Cooper also starred in the third largest R-rated movie ever, &ldquo;The Hangover Part II,&rdquo; which grossed $85.7 million in 2011.) American Sniper received the coveted &lsquo;A+&rsquo; Cinemascore, which conceivably bodes well for its six Oscar nominations.
I enjoyed the film&mdash;if &ldquo;enjoy&rdquo; is the correct verb&mdash;experiencing it with 26 &ldquo;Movie Men.&rdquo; The word each of us used most frequently as we shuffled out of the theater was &ldquo;sobering.&rdquo; Save a few gunshots and explosions here and there, I found it to be a very quiet film. There is much on the screen, sure, but more of the action occurs within one&rsquo;s heart. If you search for its soundtrack on iTunes, you won&rsquo;t find one...because there isn&rsquo;t one. There are only three songs attributed to the film (&ldquo;Taya&rsquo;s Theme,&rdquo; &ldquo;Someone Like You,&rdquo; and &ldquo;The Funeral.&rdquo;) It&rsquo;s THAT quiet.
And precisely as I predicted a couple weeks ago, &ldquo;the left&rdquo; has lashed-out at the film, from Michael Moore and Seth Rogen to countless others bemoaning its [exactly as I wrote] &ldquo;glorification of killing.&rdquo;
C&rsquo;est la vie.
I suppose they&rsquo;d prefer we defend God and Country with butter knives or shoehorns or not at all. Or that we, fighting that shadowy terrorism for which we never asked, simply abide hijacked planes flying into our buildings or stand by silently while disenfranchised punks with guns shoot cartoonists in one of the most pacifistic countries in the world, the land of baguettes, croissants and crepes. Je crois que non.
And for those who lambast snipers as &ldquo;cowards,&rdquo; as some have done in the media recently, all I can say is they are living in fantasyland. The English were routed in our American Revolution because colonists employed tiny militia who, for primarily utilitarian reasons, incorporated guerilla tactics rather than presenting nice, clean lines of infantrymen to be shot down easy as tin ducks at the state fair. Such military adaption is as old as time itself, and snipers have always been and will always be a core force multiplier in wartime. To cede high and superior vantage points, whether through aircraft or rooftops, is suicide. End of politics, end of manners, end of story.
As for the film itself, it&rsquo;s simple and pure and entirely unornamented, as are all Eastwood&rsquo;s sparse creations, from &ldquo;Unforgiven&rdquo; to &ldquo;Gran Torino.&rdquo; In this case, it&rsquo;s a man and his long rifle, representing in their simplicity the entire sweep and zeitgeist of our 14-year war-on-every-front thus far. My takeaway? We are damned if we do and damned if we don&rsquo;t. There is no winning if we continue, but there is surely failure if we stop. In a world-sized playground in which bullies keep on comin&rsquo;, what choice remains but to stand one&rsquo;s ground? Better to die defending oneself than to forfeit freedom by allowing radicals to run the asylum unchecked.
But imagine plunging one&rsquo;s fist into a bucket of water. There&rsquo;s spillage, there&rsquo;s a wet hand, and as soon as it&rsquo;s removed, the water returns&mdash;save a tad less water now&mdash;to much of its original form and state and shape.
Such is the case here, it seems: as Bradley Cooper&rsquo;s SEAL sniper Chris Kyle eliminates 160-255 targets [actual figures remain murky] and kicks down door after door after door, deployment after deployment, tour after tour, the emotional and traumatic spillage is everywhere, and no one&rsquo;s hands are dry. There will be blood, indeed.
And eventually, Kyle makes the very logical decision to fight for his wife, for his children, for the vets who battle an equally real enemy back home in every form imaginable: mental, physical, spiritual.
As with &ldquo;Foxcatcher,&rdquo; we know how Sniper ends, too, but that doesn&rsquo;t make it any easier to bear. Kyle&rsquo;s casket, glistening in gold with an estimated thirteen dozen tridents, is but the umpteenth reminder the high price of war.
As has been described by all, yes, the film ends in utter silence. At this point, really, there is nothing more to convey anyway. A life is gone, more will follow, damned if we do, damned if we don&rsquo;t.
As for Cooper himself, he faces stiff competition for the Oscar on February 22nd. In a field that includes Steve Carell, Benedict Cumberbatch, Michael Keaton and Eddie Redmayne, there isn&rsquo;t one weak performance in the lot. Keaton is the shiny frontrunner, Cooper&rsquo;s role will likely divide voters right down the middle, Redmayne&rsquo;s Hawking is seamless, and Cumberbatch&rsquo;s Turing may be too obscure for some, so it&rsquo;s a complex race any way you slice it. I suspect Keaton will win (the Academy is lapping up I&ntilde;&aacute;rritu&rsquo;s longshots like sweet milk), and Cooper is phenomenal, but I&rsquo;d personally like to see Carell&rsquo;s portrayal of John E. Du Pont take the prize. He&rsquo;s ceaselessly flawless and haunting in ways only partially seen among his peer group here.
I don&rsquo;t know whether you saw &ldquo;Interstellar&rdquo; but, if you did, you might agree that HALF the film is easily &ldquo;the music.&rdquo; Without it, there is little to no movie. With it, it&rsquo;s arguably anthemic and propulsive, at least to me. And so, if I have only one negative thing to say about American Sniper, it&rsquo;s literally that in Eastwood&rsquo;s classic style, sans much music, American Sniper fails to create what it might have otherwise created had the ringing in Cooper&rsquo;s ears been further exploited, or had the funeral scenes been layered with more auditory crescendo, or had the moments of stillness been&mdash;gasp&mdash;accompanied by some strings or piano or lonely horn, a la &ldquo;The General&rsquo;s Daughter.&rdquo;
Musical accompaniment is, for me, immeasurably potent at creating layers and dimensionality, at creating emotion and movement in an otherwise line-free scene. Powerful as it was, I can only imagine how powerful Kyle&rsquo;s funeral scene(s) would have been had Sigur Ros&rsquo;s Jonsi scored them, or Michael Mann&rsquo;s team (think &ldquo;The Insider&rdquo; or &ldquo;Manhunter&rdquo; or &ldquo;Last of the Mohicans&rdquo;). Had Mann scored the film, for example, and accompanied the funeral procession with Taps, and rolled the credits silently afterward, wow. There DEFINITELY would NOT have been a dry eye in the house, I gua-ran-tee.
As it is, as his procession and burial occur, we only get one scant line of text which conveys that Chris Kyle was killed while trying to help troubled Iraqi veteran Eddie Ray Routh.
No larger account, no further contextualization, no grander perspective beyond what we&rsquo;ve just witnessed for, sure, two hours.
And I&rsquo;m fine with that; this was Kyle&rsquo;s story, not some attempt to cleanly encapsulate the entirety of war. But yes, I do wish we could have gotten four or five black screens about his life, his death, his family, his fallen brethren, our progress or lack thereof and our current state of affairs over there, and a suitable tribute to his legacy today, which is vast.
It is a haunting and beautiful and stripped down film, and I hope that Eastwood and Cooper continue to be acknowledged for their efforts in what is undoubtedly politically-charged subject matter, as they have proficiently created a lasting and impactful tribute&mdash;memorializing for all time one man&rsquo;s sacrifice, the greatest there is, for the country he loved so dearly, so actively, so passionately, so firmly, so unquestionably, so continually.
May he, and eventually each of us, rest in peace.
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