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

Public Speaking, Stage Fright, and Beyond

(1) Proper snorkeling&nbsp;begins at dawn.&nbsp;
That&#39;s insane.&nbsp; This is supposed
to be a &quot;vacation.&quot;&nbsp; I wouldn&#39;t
get up at sunrise if our house was on fire and Frank the Fireman stood over my
bed threatening me with his 4&#39; axe.&nbsp; 


&nbsp;


(2) Showering prior is illogical, and any scenario in
which showering is a bad idea is a bad scenario.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(3) To board the boat with 60 strangers, one must remove
his flip-flops.&nbsp; For an OCD germaphobe,
this is a mountainous problem riddled with red flags all across its peak.&nbsp; [Don&#39;t even get me started on the problems associated with
sharing recycled snorkels and masks.&nbsp; It
reminds me of Ms. Hightower&rsquo;s 4th Grade Music Class, after which&nbsp;thirty of us&nbsp;plopped our
plastic piccolos in a small bucket of water for the class following ours.]&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(4) Climbing the stairs up from the teensy galley, I
accidentally strike my skull so hard on the steel crossbeam that I hear four
vertebrae crack.&nbsp; I am now dizzy,
nauseous, and sporting a splitting headache and nice goose egg.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(5) My only breakfast drink choice is a Yoohoo.&nbsp; Chocolate milk should not come in an aluminum
can and contain water in lieu of milk.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(6) My allergies are so bad&nbsp;transitioning from
Texas to here that I down generic Benadryl along with Dramamine, and because
&quot;Captain Martin&quot; has scared the bejezus out of us regarding the fates
of those miserable landlubbers unfortunate enough to become seasick.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(7) Time for sunscreen.&nbsp;
Wow, I hate sunscreen.&nbsp; Applying
it gives me the heebie-jeebies.&nbsp; Slimy,
sticky, cold, and stings.&nbsp; Who makes this
stuff?&nbsp; The Agent Orange Consumer
Products Division?&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(8) After 90 minutes of sputtering across the sea,
battering wave after wave as if this were Pong, we arrive at...an unremarkable&nbsp;big brown
rock.&nbsp; But apparently, one so treasured
that if we touch the coral we shall be put to death, and if we bother the one
lone bird circling the alleged &quot;bird preserve&quot; atop the vegetation-free big
brown rock we shall be put to death a second time.&nbsp; Electrocuted, surely, but sans water like&nbsp;the pitiable&nbsp;Eduard Delacroix in The Green Mile.




&nbsp;


(9) After some lite instruction from two different men,
we are shown opposing ways to put on our snorkel masks, which amounts to this:
&#39;mount&#39; it from the front or rear, just don&#39;t drink the seawater, or you shall
become sick and/or die.&nbsp; By now, I&#39;m
convinced that dying would not be so bad after all.&nbsp; Really, really convinced.&nbsp; Preferred, perhaps.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(10) After awkwardly stripping down with all these
wonderful people, stumbling down the rickety, wet ladder with fins in one hand,
sunglasses in the other [it&#39;s bright, y&#39;all!], slathered in Crisco, and gasping
for air within this contraption-of-death gripping my face, I eventually &#39;fall&#39;
into the gorgeous blue sea, only to think [and perhaps scream like a little
girl], &quot;It&#39;s FREEZING!&quot;&nbsp; This
10th eventuality had not crossed my mind earlier. 


&nbsp;


(11) After peeking
at the admittedly beautiful sea bottom for a few seconds, all bets are off: I&#39;m
guzzling seawater, my mask is choking me, my little yellow floaties are
spinning around this way and that, my sunglasses are&mdash;of course&mdash;useless, and
I&#39;m being kicked by strangers.&nbsp; I
eventually turn in my snorkel and one of my two life vest devices, resorting to
just swim around like a dignified normal person for a few stolen minutes before
snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.&nbsp;
It occurs to me that my &quot;I coulda been a Navy SEAL if only I&#39;d just
chosen to&quot; is a silly and childhood delusion.&nbsp; Had there been a bell, I woulda knocked over
the 72-year-old woman in the neoprene knee brace to ring it first.&nbsp; 



&nbsp;


(12) Unexpectedly carried one additional meter by a
malevolent wave, I gently but surely rack myself on the base of the steel ladder and, for a brief
moment, the drawstring&nbsp;securing my ordinary yet necessary swim-trunks gets tangled in and snagged by
the 3&quot; Cotter pin attaching the bottom rung to the ladder itself.&nbsp; I panic momentarily, but do survive and remain clothed.&nbsp;&nbsp;By this point, admittedly,&nbsp;the prospect of nakedness is not even a Top 5 concern.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(13) I, along with three score of other drippy,
disoriented humans slipping to and fro like Bambi on ice eventually re-board our vessel of hell, but we are SHOCKED
to learn that, no, we are not going home yet, we are moving to &quot;another
spot&quot; for 3.5 more hours.&nbsp; Dear
lord, take me now.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(14) After a comical half-day at a second location no
different from the first [water is water, rock is rock, fish is fish, bird is
bird, sick is sick, headache is headache, sunburn is sunburn], the Captain
announces we are heading home.&nbsp; Praise
Jesus.&nbsp; We eat salad, rice, succulent teriyaki
chicken breast, and a buttery roll under the noonday sun on a white catamaran, jostling
for 15 coveted yet thinly padded seats, leaving 45&nbsp;unfortunate souls&nbsp;to eat sitting cross-legged on their derri&egrave;res, the equivalent of
picnicking on the floor of a hotel shower.&nbsp;
[Had we remained another 2-3 days, I&#39;m convinced I could have formed a
powerful union among the seven or eight people I noticed grimacing alongside
me.&nbsp; &quot;Germaphobes unite!&nbsp; Cleanliness for all!&nbsp; Mutineers Against the Ship Unsanitary!&quot;&nbsp;
I would have listed, &quot;You confiscated our shoes, without notice,
dehumanizing us from the get-go&quot; among our first of many deep-seated grievances.] 




&nbsp;


(15) Captain
Martin lied to me.&nbsp; He promised we were
going home after this second detour to the second dirt clod.&nbsp; We
are not.&nbsp; We are headed for &quot;a
surprise.&quot;&nbsp; Good grief.&nbsp; The LAST thing I need is another
surprise.&nbsp; I&#39;m still coming to terms with
the knot on my skull and the fact that I knowingly PAID for this misery.&nbsp; With money.&nbsp;
The surprise amounts to circling an area where, we are told, magical
green sea turtles live.&nbsp; We see no such
creatures, doubt they were ever there, and I&#39;m now wondering if the next
surprise will be a snipe or unicorn hunt or Bigfoot expedition back at the harbor.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(16) For our final 90 minutes back to shore, we are
subjected to &quot;merch sales.&quot;&nbsp; As
if I&#39;d want to be doing laundry three years from now, come across an overpriced
T-shirt&nbsp;commemorating this fiasco, and think to myself, &quot;Oh, what a lovely day that
was.&nbsp; If only I could relive it all over
again.&quot;&nbsp; Or just die instead.&nbsp; 




&nbsp;


(17) We are absolutely rocked by roiling, rollicking
waves, chaffed by gale force winds, and blistered by the sun as we tack our way
to and fro into what the captain brags is &quot;the second windiest port in the
world, second only to one in New Zealand.&quot;&nbsp;
[&quot;Yeah, and that&#39;s why no one in his right mind would live here,
you martyr,&quot; I mumble to no one in particular.&nbsp; The Darwin Awards are coming, and I nominate
every last one o&#39; you.]




&nbsp;




Eventually, it is over, and our indignity finally ends
when they allow us to collect our shoes from a steamy, communal rubber bin, but
not before proclaiming, &quot;If you&#39;ve had as wonderful a day as we have, be
sure and tip Eric, Josiah, Mario, and your other hosts.&quot;&nbsp; Yeah, that&#39;ll happen.&nbsp; Just as soon as I find my wallet in this asylum.&nbsp; Stockholm Syndrome notwithstanding, these are
nice guys, but at this point I just wanna be able to stand on land and die with
my flip-flops on.




&nbsp;




The shower back at our hotel takes a good two hours, as
such showers do.




&nbsp;




Gosh, it felt good to be sparkling clean, dry, Gold Bond powdered and to eat
dinner with family and friends in a place with white tablecloths and fine
china.




&nbsp;




On vacation, knowing these are only first world
nuisances, it&#39;s still nice to celebrate the 4th of July and not worry whether
one will survive the day or not.




&nbsp;




Long live land.


&nbsp;


&nbsp;


***

Recollections from the Sea: 17 Reasons Why Snorkeling Is Not for Me

The hotel calls a cab for me, which arrives promptly.&nbsp; Early, in fact.


My host&nbsp;escorts me from the&nbsp;ballroom where I&#39;ve&nbsp;just concluded a talk,&nbsp;through the lobby, and out to the curb where the taxi awaits on a gorgeous Friday afternoon.


My escort and I&nbsp;shake hands,&nbsp;ultimately man-hug, and off he goes as I turn my attention to the&nbsp;cab driver&nbsp;who has popped the trunk.&nbsp; Oddly, though, once the trunk is open, he hops back in the cab.


Hmmm.&nbsp; That&#39;s sorta rude.


Self-service, I guess.&nbsp;&nbsp;


Undeterred, I heave my rolling bag into the trunk with one hand, close it with the other, gather my squirrelly posters under&nbsp;one arm, toss my&nbsp;shoulder bag&nbsp;across the backseat, and slide&nbsp;in.


&quot;Airport?&quot;&nbsp;


&quot;Yep.&quot;


And vroom,&nbsp;off we go.


&nbsp;


Within seconds, he is singing at the top of his lungs.&nbsp; Wailing, really.


He&#39;s a small fella, maybe 5&#39; 5&quot;, with&nbsp;obnoxious Bono sunglasses that hide a&nbsp;third of his face.&nbsp; He has&nbsp;wavy black Elvis hair,&nbsp;black button-up shirt, and blue jeans.&nbsp; He&#39;s probably 40 with deep dimples that remind me of&nbsp;some soap opera actor.


With his left hand out the window, he is conducting an imaginary orchestra.&nbsp; Thumb and index forming an O, palm out, flick, snap, twist.&nbsp; His right hand is struggling to drive, inconvenienced&nbsp;by doing&nbsp;so, what with the feverish tapping, thumb-drumming, snapping and so forth that is required by this apparent anthem.&nbsp; 


The&nbsp;wild, whooshing&nbsp;air is blowing through four open windows, and I&#39;m an afterthought to this possessed, soprano-ing man-banshee en route to hell.


&quot;Oh dear,&quot; I think to myself, &quot;this is going to be one long ride.&quot;


&nbsp;


But then, after a few beats and bars, something miraculous happens: I actually recognize the upbeat riff from 2008&#39;s Slumdog Millionaire.


&quot;Jai Ho,&quot; I whisper to myself.&nbsp; 


He stops mid-scream, bolts upright, whips his head &#39;round so fast I thought it was gonna snap plumb-off his shoulders and shouts, &quot;You know Jai Ho?&quot;&nbsp; (It&#39;s not really a question, though, coming more in the form of a revelation&mdash;and delivered accordingly.)


&quot;Jai Ho.&nbsp; Sure, I know it.&nbsp; Slumdog Millionaire.&quot;


He is beyond jubilant.&nbsp;&nbsp;Words do not suffice.&nbsp; I simply cannot describe his countenance and behavior.&nbsp;&nbsp;He is now euphoric, rapturous, even happier than when singing.


With a smile so&nbsp;wide&nbsp;it tears at his cheeks, he stares at me and says, &quot;No one knows Jai Ho.&nbsp; How you know Jai Ho?&quot;


&quot;I love movies,&quot; I say.&nbsp; The universal language of cinema, I think.


&quot;Latika!&quot; he growls.&nbsp; &quot;You know Latika?&quot;&nbsp;&nbsp;


&quot;Of course,&quot; I reply, recalling the female lead in the film.&nbsp; &quot;She was beautiful.&quot;


&quot;Latika, Latika, Latika,&quot; he announces to the world.&nbsp; Hilarity ensues.&nbsp; He is laughing uproariously, hands waving and dancing about, his head bobbing and bounding as if he&#39;s found water after a week&#39;s thirst.


&nbsp;


&quot;Where are you from?&quot; I ask.


&quot;Mumbai.&nbsp; Then Queens.&quot;


&quot;What brought you here?&quot;


&quot;My Latika,&quot; he says.


Wow, I think.&nbsp; He found his Latika.&nbsp; That&#39;s awesome.&nbsp; 


I mine for more, awaiting his love story, but then he says, &quot;Ex-wife.&quot;


&quot;Ex-wife?&nbsp; I don&#39;t understand.&nbsp; You moved here for your ex-wife?&quot;


&quot;She was not my ex-wife then!&quot; he exclaims, still bobbing and laughing and dancing in his seat.&nbsp; 


We are weaving through traffic like a video game, everyone else seemingly in reverse while we pulse along at forty through downtown snarls.


&quot;We are divorced now.&nbsp; I go home soon.&nbsp; No more games.&quot;


&quot;How did you meet her?&quot;


&quot;Online.&quot;


And so it goes for several minutes.&nbsp; My curiosity and confusion, his broken English, and our slapping meaning together brick by brick, often through arcane movie references, Bollywood and Hollywood converging as one.


&nbsp;


At first, when the unattended, yawning trunk greeted me, I hadn&#39;t liked this fellow very much.


And then, the singing.


But then, Jai Ho, and we were off.&nbsp; Laughing and commiserating about one thing or another like two boys do.


Now, we had ebbed again, in light of what I thought was a rather cavalier way to think about marriage.&nbsp; He made it sound&nbsp;so transactional, disposable, like a lottery ticket expired.&nbsp; He&#39;d found her online, moved to America, it hadn&#39;t worked out, and off he&#39;d go, soon enough, back to India to fish again.&nbsp; 


But he was extraordinarily charming.&nbsp; He had studied Economics, once worked at Compaq, then&mdash;to hear him tell it&mdash;had ditched working &quot;for the man,&quot; as it were, equating full-time employment with &quot;slavery of another kind.&nbsp; Too many games.&quot;


Life, apparently, seemed to have many games, marriage and employment among them.


Oy vey, what to do, what to do.


&nbsp;


But then, another surprise.&nbsp; 


As we were visiting, his cell phone rang.


He was exceedingly polite, kind, tender-hearted with his caller.


&quot;Yes.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Twenty minutes.&nbsp; I will be there, do not worry.&nbsp; We will make it.&quot;&nbsp; His voice so chirpy and sing-songy I could listen to it all day long.


As he hung up, I inquired.&nbsp; I just had to.&nbsp; Normally I wouldn&#39;t.&nbsp; But he seemed game.&nbsp; &quot;Is everything okay?&nbsp; Do you have a fare you&#39;re late for?&quot;


&quot;No, no,&quot; he says.&nbsp; &quot;No one else will drive him, so I do.&quot;


Pause.


Beat.


What?


&quot;He is in a wheelchair.&nbsp; Other side of city.&nbsp; He has no money.&nbsp; Appointments.&nbsp; I drive him for free 3 to 4 days a week.&quot;


&quot;Wow,&quot; I say, &quot;that&#39;s a really nice thing to do.&quot;


&quot;Sure.&nbsp; Well.&nbsp; I would hope someone would do it for me, no?&nbsp; I take care of him; help him.&nbsp; Maybe someone will pray for me some day.&quot;


&nbsp;


At which point I am stopped in my tracks.


&quot;Pray for you?&quot;


&quot;Sure.&nbsp; He cannot pay me, so maybe he will pray for me.&quot;


&quot;How much is his fare?&quot;


&quot;$38,&quot; he says.


He knows it by heart.


He does it all the time.


&nbsp;


His mind appears to wander for a moment, drifting to another place.&nbsp; Praying perhaps.&nbsp; Or wondering.


And with this proclamation, he is back: &quot;Karma,&quot; he says.


&quot;Excuse me?&quot;


&quot;Karma.&quot;


&quot;What about karma?&quot;&nbsp;&nbsp; 


&quot;I do good, maybe good things happen to me.&quot;&nbsp;&nbsp;


If only it worked that way, I think to myself.&nbsp; And also glad it doesn&#39;t.&nbsp; 


&quot;Well, it&#39;s a really nice thing you&#39;re doing.&nbsp;&nbsp;I think it&#39;s just great.&quot;


&quot;Thirty-eight dollars&nbsp;is not so much. If I do it for him, I&#39;m not poor.&nbsp; If he paid me, I&#39;m not&nbsp;rich.&nbsp; I&#39;m same.&quot;&nbsp;


&quot;I&#39;m same,&quot; I repeat, as if I&#39;m hearing a philosophical mantra&nbsp;for the first time.&nbsp; A chant I can visualize cross-legged monks repeating over and over again in some faraway hilltop monastery.&nbsp; Transcendence by way of perspective.&nbsp; Material neutrality by way of selflessness.&nbsp; The tributaries flow for several seconds....


And like him before, I find that we are now both deep in thought.


The sing-songy way he said, &quot;I&#39;m same&quot; is a lilt in my mind.


He continues, his left hand riding a wave that appears to&nbsp;permeate the windshield.&nbsp; &quot;Flow like water.&nbsp; God will sort it out.&quot;


Huh.&nbsp; A surprisingly seamless juxtaposition and combination of east and west, yin and yang, this and that to create&nbsp;his sweet marmalade.


&nbsp;


Just then,&nbsp;his horrifically annoying squawk box squealed to life as the dispatcher made some sort of terse announcement.&nbsp; 


The cabbie snorts and guffaws.


&quot;See?&nbsp; Karma!&quot; he howls.


&quot;Karma?&quot; I ask.&nbsp; &quot;What happened?&quot;


His sedan is floating on a cushion of air as we coast into the airport and approach the entrance&nbsp;for my departure gate.


&quot;I have co-worker,&quot; he says.&nbsp; He raises both hands in the air and balls them into fists and shakes them.&nbsp; &quot;Bully.&nbsp; A bully.&nbsp; He takes good fares.&nbsp; He had a $200 fare.&nbsp; Would have been mine, but I lost it.&quot;


&quot;Why?&quot;


&quot;Wheelchair.&nbsp; Will be getting man in wheelchair.&quot;


&quot;But...?&quot;


&quot;But dispatch says $200 fare has cancelled.&nbsp; Got a ride with someone else.&quot;


As it turns out, the bully had apparently usurped my driver (poaching his fare while&nbsp;he prepared to perform&nbsp;his Samaritan act of altruism), only to arrive at the pick-up location and depart empty-handed because the impatient customer caught a ride with someone else.&nbsp;&nbsp;Out the two-hundred bucks as a result.


It had apparently become a rather good afternoon after all, and my driver wore the beautiful expression of vindication like the Joker wears lipstick.


The tires squealed us to a stop, he threw it into neutral, bounded to the trunk like Tigger...Gollum&#39;s happy twin...Disney&#39;s Quasimoto...or Frankenstein&#39;s Igor (as played by Marty Feldman)...enthusiastically grabbing my bag and walking me all the way to the door.


&nbsp;


In fifteen minutes we&#39;d covered nearly&nbsp;five miles in heavy traffic.&nbsp; I paid him my fare, a generous tip, and handed him two twenties and said, &quot;For driving the other man.&quot;


He stood before me, a few paper bills in his hand, fanned-out like cards.


With tears in his eyes, he looked up and hugged me.&nbsp; 


&quot;It&#39;s okay,&quot; I whispered.


&quot;I will&nbsp;pray for you,&quot; he says.&nbsp;&nbsp;&quot;What is your name, so I can pray for you?&quot;&nbsp;


&quot;Blake,&quot; I said, and he told me his.


&quot;Poor, rich, same,&quot; I chuckled.


&quot;Karma,&quot; he said, and the maestro turned to walk back to his cab,&nbsp;a surprising carriage filled with hope and overflowing with music, one destined for&nbsp;a very important&nbsp;passenger waiting on the other side.

Karma Cab

Next time you&#39;re searching for computer desktop/background/wallpaper images, promise me you&#39;ll try <a href="http://stuckincustoms.smugmug.com/Portfolio-The-Best/your-favorites/10668747_AuyBk#742619174_op5RY">here</a>. 


<a href="http://www.stuckincustoms.com/trey-ratcliff/">Trey Ratcliff</a>, an SMU graduate and Austin resident, creates the most glorious artwork from already amazing photos.&nbsp;&nbsp;They run the gamut, from Icelandic meadows&nbsp;and Texas biker rallies to international airport terminals and shots of his family at Christmas.&nbsp; 


&nbsp;

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&nbsp;


You&#39;ll enjoy them, others will enjoy them, and they&#39;ll transport you into what feels like an alternate universe. 


But I must forewarn you: if you think you&#39;ll be spending &quot;only 10 minutes&quot; in his site,&nbsp;you&#39;re deluded.&nbsp;&nbsp;Most of my friends&nbsp;pop-out 1+ hours later, wondering what&nbsp;they&#39;ve been missing all these years.&nbsp; Put on a pot of coffee and fall into a deep,&nbsp;cozy chair--cuz I&nbsp;predict you&#39;re gonna be a while.&nbsp; 


I just love announcing people with talent, and this fella&#39;s got it in spades.&nbsp; Fortunately for him, Getty and the Smithsonian discovered Trey long ago, and the kid seems to be doing all right for himself.&nbsp; &nbsp; ;-) 


God bless the supra-talented who find their callings and thrive living them.&nbsp; Way to go, everyone.&nbsp; Keep up the great work.

Otherworldly "Photographs"

Before dinner tonight, I found myself in the very first Starbucks -- the one that started it all.&nbsp; 


Though I&#39;d been once before, I noticed something this time that I failed to notice last time: no chairs.&nbsp; No seating whatsoever.&nbsp; It&#39;s Starbucks as we know it...but totally stripped down and unplugged. 



<img style="width: 257px; height: 242px" src="/blogging/image.axd?picture=2009%2f11%2fphoto.jpg" alt="" width="257" height="242" />&nbsp;


<img style="width: 366px; height: 242px" src="/blogging/image.axd?picture=2009%2f11%2fphoto+(2).jpg" alt="" width="366" height="242" /> 



It got me thinking about this distinction between simplicity and elaborateness (the opposite of simple is elaborateness, not complexity, as we often suppose). 


We&#39;re all biased, of course, and my bias is this: simple is better.&nbsp; It just is.&nbsp; The best car I&#39;ve ever driven, the best home I&#39;ve ever lived in, the best clothes I&#39;ve ever worn, the best friend I ever knew...they were all very straightforward and simple.&nbsp; And I loved &#39;em that way.&nbsp; Preferred them, in fact.&nbsp; 


Just like I loved this Starbucks.&nbsp; 


It lacked all those messy chairs, newspapers strewn on the floor,&nbsp;squatters hogging the best spaces in the place for hours on end with their computer cables running this way and that. 


Instead,&nbsp;this tiny 28-year-old&nbsp;joint&nbsp;was full of an eclectic energy, eager buyers, photogs, and folks just happy to get in, get out, and get on their way,&nbsp;steaming cups in hand. 


I accept that there are times we wanna flop down in a big cushy chair, but this original Starbucks reminds me that often, we overburden great ideas with unnecessary elaborateness...and lose the essence that made something special in the first place.

Original Starbucks

I was exhausted last night as I shuffled onto the plane in the dark amid the sleety rain in Michigan.
I&nbsp;shoved&nbsp;one bag under the&nbsp;seat in front of me, another above me, and&nbsp;gingerly took&nbsp;my seat where I slept like a tranquilized boar for two hours.
When I awoke, I had a pleasant conversation with the young man beside me -- Brian.&nbsp; Brian is around 30 and works at&nbsp;<a href="http://www.sewell.com/">Sewell</a>.&nbsp; Begun in 1911, Sewell is a very values-based car company, "And we really believe in it.&nbsp; For us, it's not just talk."&nbsp; We visited for over an hour and, somewhere along the way,&nbsp;quite nonchalantly, Brian commented, "I have brain cancer.&nbsp; See this scar?"&nbsp; (It ran from&nbsp;ear to ear, across the top of his fuzzy skull, and was easily 3/4" wide and almost 3/8" deep.)&nbsp; "I've finished seven weeks of radiation and now I'm in chemotherapy."
"Wow.&nbsp; And you're working?&nbsp; And travelling?" I asked incredulously.
"Yeah.&nbsp; What else am I gonna do?&nbsp; I'm tired all the time, sure, but we gotta keep moving forward, right?&nbsp; Plus,&nbsp;we just had a huge meeting in Detroit with GM."
"What's your prognosis, Brian, if you don't mind my asking."
"That's God's call, not mine.&nbsp; I can only do&nbsp;what the doctors&nbsp;suggest.&nbsp; After that, it's out of our hands."
It is indeed, Brian; it is indeed.
As we parted ways, he shook my hand.&nbsp; "It was nice visiting with you, Blake."
"You, too, Brian.&nbsp; You, too."
And with that, I watched him stride toward the front of the plane.&nbsp; Along the way, he helped a businesswoman remove&nbsp;her very heavy bag from the overhead bin.&nbsp; She was jabbering away on her cell phone, complaining to someone back in her office, "I simply will not work for that amount of money.&nbsp; You can tell&nbsp;him I&nbsp;said so."&nbsp;&nbsp;She never made eye contact with Brian and didn't say a word to him.&nbsp; Not even a 'thanks.'&nbsp; But he smiled and kept moving forward.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
As if&nbsp;the billions who&nbsp;preceded us are insufficient signposts, God&nbsp;repeatedly sends emissaries carrying more 'perspective' our way.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;
No one promised you another day.&nbsp; Make this one count.&nbsp;
Oh, and another thing.&nbsp; A couple personal favors, really.&nbsp; One, remember to say "Please" and "Thank you."&nbsp; It's just mannerly, okay?&nbsp; And two, stay off the phone when you're in confined spaces.&nbsp; We didn't call you and, frankly, we'd rather avoid the assault.

Brian's Brain

Well, this is a neat idea! 


Mike Gathright, a professional acquaintance, is now&nbsp;8 months into a yearlong (or more, or less) sabbatical that involves traveling around the world with his family. 


The photos are beautiful and the&nbsp;gang looks happy.&nbsp; What a fun trip, especially during these times. 


Let us live,&nbsp;albeit briefly and vicariously, through his amazing photo album and blog at <a href="http://www.3amtraveling.blogspot.com/">www.3amtraveling.blogspot.com</a> 

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Yearlong Worldwide Sabbatical

Don&#39;t say I never gave you anything practical!


Attached is a great checklist from a dear friend, itemizing the various items he often takes when traveling overseas.


Surely your list is unique, but who knows, maybe this one will come in handy some day.


<a href="/blogging/file.axd?file=2009%2f8%2fList+of+Ancillary+Items+to+Pack+for+International+Trips.pdf">List of Ancillary Items to Pack for International Trips.pdf (161.72 kb)</a>

International Travel: Packing List

Having described Grand Canyon &amp; Grey Towers and a great haunt in Toledo, I&#39;ll conclude this &#39;photo album&#39; trilogy (!) with one final entry: The Great Wall of China.&nbsp; 


All I can say is, it&#39;s a 50&deg; grade in some places (compared to a standard U.S. grade-range for stairs of around 38&deg; to 39&deg;), it&#39;s visible from -- well, not quite space -- but far, because it&#39;s so large as to be practically unfathomable and, equally important, it&#39;s hot as Hades but more humid. 


As always, for the interested, here is a photo album with brief captions.&nbsp; The attachment concludes with a few organizationally relevant thoughts regarding vision, potential, and the like.&nbsp; Remember, be patient as&nbsp;the file&nbsp;loads,&nbsp;it is somewhat large: <a href="/blogging/file.axd?file=2009%2f7%2fGreatWall_WisdomFromTheSchoolOfHardKnocks_photos_July2006.pdf">GreatWall_WisdomFromTheSchoolOfHardKnocks_photos_July2006.pdf (1.36 mb)</a>

From The Greatest Good to The Great Wall

I&#39;m a sucker for great, small, fun, authentic... &#39;dives and diners.&#39;&nbsp; Packo&#39;s isn&#39;t necessarily either, but it&#39;s close.&nbsp; It&#39;s smallish, high-energy, and serves a real gut-busting dog &#39;n chili mac.&nbsp; But more importantly, it&#39;s a great example of a small, thriving, third-generation family-owned business.&nbsp; 


Every time I go there, the line is practically to the door, whether it&#39;s 11am, 1pm, or evening.&nbsp; The food is simple quality, the service is great, the faces are friendly, and the &#39;barkers&#39; keep the line moving.&nbsp; (Simple behaviors, and ones that any organization would do well to demonstrate.)&nbsp; 


Enjoy the food and,&nbsp;as importantly, take a moment to appreciate how&nbsp;Packo&#39;s markets&nbsp;itself with clever ideas -- from&nbsp;hundreds of autographed hot dog buns to celebrity photos and a thriving little store... all in this unassuming joint by the river. 


And just one more thing, don&#39;t forget the Tums.&nbsp; The place ain&#39;t known for salads and tofu.&nbsp; 

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When in Toledo, Eat at Packo's

In the past couple weeks, having sprinted from working with groups&nbsp;in the Department of Interior&nbsp;to the&nbsp;Department of Agriculture, I can&#39;t help but be awestruck by the tirelessness and commitment with which their employees and leaders serve.&nbsp; They are literally &#39;on the ground&#39; each and every day, year after year, decade after decade -- preserving America&#39;s greatest natural resources and interacting with and educating&nbsp;the public.&nbsp;&nbsp; 


Grand Canyon, of course, makes nearly any short list of &quot;world&#39;s greatest natural wonders,&quot; but I have absolutely got to share how phenomenal and breathtaking the less-well-known <a href="http://www.greytowers.org/">Grey Towers</a> is.&nbsp; A &#39;summer cottage&#39; for Gifford Pinchot, the Pinchot Institute&nbsp;at Grey Towers (the residence itself) covers a sprawling 105 acres and rambles pastorally across gorgeous hills in Milford, PA at the juncture of New York and New Jersey.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 


It would require pages and pages and more energy than I possess to describe the experience of spending five days at Grey Towers working with some of the greatest thinkers and doers in the natural resources arena, so I&#39;ll suggest instead that you research Gifford Pinchot himself, his amazing wife Cornelia, read about the infamous Fingerbowl and, most importantly, if you ever find yourself in that neck of the woods, take the tour of the estate with your family.&nbsp; The Grey Towers website has videos and podcasts about the Pinchot family legacy, and one cannot immerse him or herself in it without coming out the other side feeling...&nbsp;humbled and motivated.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 


There is much great work to be done in the world, and it&#39;s&nbsp;individuals like the Pinchots and the often anonymous federal employees who&nbsp;extend their work and&nbsp;add anew who inspire us all.&nbsp;&nbsp; 


Research-on and, for the interested, 21 photos with brief captions.&nbsp; Be patient while it loads, the file is relatively large:&nbsp;<a href="/blogging/file.axd?file=2009%2f7%2fGrandCanyon%26GreyTowers_photos_July2009.pdf">GrandCanyon&amp;GreyTowers_photos_July2009.pdf (5.50 mb)</a>