Musin’ On a Sunday Afternoon

Tunes are always involved, … and sometimes poetry

After a week of rain in the Pac Northwest, Sunday (emphasis is appropriately on SUN-day) offered sunshine and brought time for reflection — a sometimes-dangerous proposition.  And in keeping with my long habit of digging up old tunes from the back of my brain that fit (well, … sort of!) with a theme, this title is a variation of the theme of the Young Rascals’ 1967 hit, “Groovin’.”  It put a tune and playfulness to my thoughts as they chased along lines penned by one of America’s “magical” writers, humorist and cartoonist James Thurber, who said,

“All men should strive to learn

Before they die,

What they are running from,

And to,

And why.”

A spicy little slice of life hides in that quote.  A seemingly harmless rhyme, but rife with challenge.  For me, it jumped to the fore as my old cell phone petered out last week and I acquired a new one, — an “upgrade,” of course, called a “smartphone.”  Call me a throw-back to an older generation if you wish, but time has not yet allowed me to scan its three manuals nor have I watched and installed on my computer the CD that came with it to explain the many features.  I probably never will.  The more logical choice for me is to blindly grope my way through some of its primary features until I find what I need to support the bare essentials of my cell phone use — scant by today’s cultural standard.  There’s little time and less motivation for a guy like me to devote to such stuff.  I admire those who have the patience for it, but ADHD kicks in when I approach such tertiary tasks.

Note that I said “bare essentials.” I’ve already learned more than I need about the new phone.  I set it to interface automatically with my email, so now I get two vibrations and a screen notice every time an email arrives on either of my two email addresses — one for business and one for personal use.  Isn’t this great?!  I can make and receive phone calls and access email and the web on the fly, without a computer in hand (not exactly “new” technology); I can check out restaurants, find shopping areas, maps and GPS navigation, highway conditions throughout the area, and take photos on the fly (albeit relatively inferior in quality), etc.   There are many other applications that I can learn – probably right after I learn to speak Russian or Urdu.  Have nothing against them, mind you.  Simply don’t need them, so why clutter my life?

Nothing you can buy

Speaking of ADHD:  Have I gained anything with this new “smartphone” … really?  Yes, convenience.  That deceptive word that often tells us we need something more, something to improve or enrich our lives with new possibilities. But the word that’s missing in the Madison Avenue ad is that there’s a price to pay for this convenience, one that far outstrips the gain — at least, in my economy.  The “convenience” is a two-edged sword.  Anne Lamott, among my favorite contemporary authors, describes the scenario well in a recent Sunset magazine article (http://www.sunset.com/travel/anne-lamott-how-to-find-time-00418000067331/.  She spoke about teaching the art of writing:

I begin with my core belief—and the foundation of almost all wisdom traditions—that there is nothing you can buy, achieve, own, or rent that can fill up that hunger inside for a sense of fulfillment and wonder. But the good news is that creative expression, whether that means writing, dancing, bird-watching, or cooking, can give a person almost everything that he or she has been searching for: enlivenment, peace, meaning, and the incalculable wealth of time spent quietly in beauty.

Then I bring up the bad news: You have to make time to do this.

This means you have to grasp that your manic forms of connectivity—cell phone, email, text, Twitter—steal most chances of lasting connection or amazement. That multitasking can argue a wasted life. That a close friendship is worth more than material success.

Anne Lamott, “Time Lost and Found,” Sunset Magazine, April, 2010 (emphasis mine).

“Manic forms of connectivity?” Lamott nailed it.  Like the junior-high bubble-gummers of the ’50s with their transistor radios or the hippies of the ’60s with their beads, love and drugs, we have a burgeoning population that seems totally tuned out to anything else.  As noted by some observers, the present trend has gobbled up much of the 20-somethings through the 50-somethings and is like those earlier versions, — only on mega-doses of super-steroids.  But not much seems to come of their observations and concerns.  Our culture and this torrid love affair with electronic gadgetry — whassup?!  We opt for more and more convenience in our pockets, purses and briefcases.  And we ignore the greater losses that accompany the perceived gains — gains measured in nanoseconds and instant accessibility anywhere on the planet.

Come to think of it, this trend is actually more like open prostitution – or a hit-and-run accident – than a torrid love affair.  “Love affair” over-dignifies the phenomenon.  Our culture’s preoccupation with this connectivity is arguably as much a cultural regression as a development.  Despite the available technology’s touted array of opportunities and upsides, there are downsides that are mostly being overlooked.

Ever found yourself talking with someone when you realize, either through visual contact or the deafening silence on the other end, that s/he is totally unaware of what you just said – or that you just said anything?!  And that it’s likely (or clearly) because of the other’s absolute attention to the cell phone, laptop, or other electronic device that is contributing to their catatonic state of torpor?  Worse, — that the condition’s not likely to change in the next ten minutes?  Or ever?  And even worse, that there’s apparently little or no remorse for the rudeness?

“You know, I was just thinking the other day that maybe we should drive to the beach this weekend.  Whaddya think?  Stanley?  Hello, … hello, … HELL-OOOO!”

“Oh, just a sec, dear.  I’m trying to finish this email from …”

“Can we talk for just a minute?”

“Mmm.”

“Okay, … so when will that be?”

“Mmm.”

♫ ♪ Make the world go away ♫ ♪

I’ve sat in business meetings with leaders and execs who had shorter attention spans than a one-year-old because of preoccupation – no! total absorption, – with the latest vibration or ringing of their cell phone, or even desktop monitor.  Such interruptions included late-breaking scores in ballgames, text messages from their school kid at home, or casual phone calls from an old friend.  And I’m sure most of us have sat in living rooms trying to have meaningful conversation with folks who could not even make eye contact because of their focus on an iPhone or laptop.  How about the robots (zombies?) who walk down the streets under the spell of their hand-held devices?  Are they not mostly oblivious to real or potential friends and what’s happening around them?

Odds are, you’ve been behind those drivers who are everywhere “multitasking” on the phone — entirely clueless to the fact that they are delaying traffic, experiencing (causing?) a much higher rate of vehicle accidents, being no more effective for all their supposed multitasking, and setting a horrible example for the children in the car with them.  It seems that the default switch of these technology uber-users is set to respond, first and foremost, to the electronic signal  — not to the friend, family member or conversant who’s trying to personally interface. And “The Biggest Loser”?  Society in general and the friendships and true connections that might otherwise grow into close relationships, were it not for the constant, irritating interruptions from cyberspace. Ever been tempted to just walk away in mid-sentence?  I have.  I’m not trying to be rude as a response to rudeness, I’m just trying to find a responsive, reciprocal relationship.

Life in an iPhone

Perhaps the penultimate picture of the depth of our cultural addiction to these convenient contraptions (my emphasis, if you please) is a statement I witnessed in a three-way conversation with an employee and another manager where I worked.  The discussion, created by overt interruption of our business meeting by the other manager when he saw the employee walk by, centered on a wonderful new “app” featured on the iPhone and the manager’s desire to show it to the young employee.  This had no business purpose, absolutely nothing to do with our effort to resolve an accounting dilemma for the external auditors who were waiting in another room.  My point:  The young employee, upon watching the demo of the iPhone application, said, “Man, those things are so cooool!  You can almost live in an iPhone, man!”  [No comment on the quality of such a "life" is presently offered. ]  In this casual process, we lost an overt ten minutes of critical time (the other manager’s definition of the meeting at the time of scheduling) plus another three for him to recover his thought process and get back down to brass tacks.  Time is similarly wasted in the workplace every day and in a myriad of ways, not all having to do with electronic gadgets by any means.  But my point is still valid.

Consider the probable number of hours per day, all over the world, that employees in every level of industry and government spend on personal emails, Facebook, Twitter or some other instant-gratification- junkie hookup.  This is all time lost, hampering productivity with distraction, diversion, errors and repetitions of errors, and procrastination.  And then we attempt to make it up by pursuing what we describe as multitasking (which some research shows to be futile self-deception, an impossibility.  See, e.g., http://news.stanford.edu/news/2009/august24/multitask-research-study-082409.html.  See also “Multitasking works? Not really, Stanford study shows” on same webpage).  For what gain?

For sure, the computer age and electronic gadgetry that currently soak up all available minutes, hours and energy also add productivity and are not solely responsible for the breakdown in relationships, lack of productivity and other social problems and heartache.  I don’t want to overstate my case by implying otherwise and “throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”  But they are a sizeable component.  Perhaps adjustments are needed in the interest of sanity and flourishing relationships.

The cost of misspent energy is best illustrated in an ancient story recounted by Anne Lamott in the article cited above:

I often remember the story from India of a beggar who sat outside a temple, begging for just enough every day to keep body and soul alive, until the temple elders convinced him to move across the street and sit under a tree. Years of begging and bare subsistence followed until he died. The temple elders decided to bury him beneath his cherished tree, where, after shoveling away a couple of feet of earth, they found a stash of gold coins that he had unknowingly sat on, all those hand-to-mouth years.

Ibid.

12 Steps?

This story, and Thurber’s quote, resonate within me.  A thorough cost-benefit analysis and questioning about the deepest, truest sense of what’s happening with all these gadgets is overdue.  We have largely forgotten how to talk, eyeball-to-eyeball; to spend the time to invest in another’s life – our spouse’s or child’s or friend’s or needy stranger’s; to sense and participate in the amazing and beautiful things around us, everywhere; to pick up on another’s joy or sorrow, need or expertise, or just chit-chat that brightens the day and lightens the load — or even calls us to thoughtful action.

There’s always lots of things that we can see
We can be anyone we’d like to be
And all those happy people we could meet just . . .
Groovin’ . . . on a Sunday afternoon
Really couldn’t get away too soon

We’ll keep on spending sunny days this way
We’re gonna talk and laugh our time away
I feel it comin’ closer day by day
Life would be ecstasy, you and me endlessly . . .
Groovin’ . . . on a Sunday afternoon

Do you think it’s time to set our gadgets with a personal message that reminds us to turn them off so that we can look up, smile at a friend, make a new one, or just take a deep breath and sit and think — instead of responding, Pavlov’s-dog-style, to every electronic signal that vibrates in our pocket or purse?  Can we find a balance? Hmmm.  ['Scuse me, my cell phone's ringing.]

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

Michael

©  May, 2010.  All rights reserved by Michael E. Stubblefield

Coffee Talk: Changing Others … or self?

“I bought a decaffeinated coffee table — you can’t even see a difference.” ~ Anonymous

“A cup of coffee shared with a friend is happiness tasted and time well spent.” ~ Anonymous

Hey, let’s have a cuppa joe together … and then add some food for thought.  Okay?  It’s an absolutely gorgeous Fall mornin’ here in SoCal … if you can say we have “Fall” as a season.    “Fall” is defined in these parts as when the daytime temperature drops from 74 degrees to 70 degrees.  “Hot” is 80, “cold” is 60 — a far stretch from northern Arkansas where I spent much of my life, and where a typical year-long weather calendar will record temperatures all along the spectrum between -5 and +105.

The annual Avocado Festival is this weekend in Carpinteria, so there’ll be about 100,000 or so humans, give or take several thousand, to eat all kinds of guacamole, avocado ice cream, avocado salsa, and just about every way one can think of for eating those luscious natural fats, fiber and carbs densely packed inside that pear-shaped, pebbly skin.  In addition, there’ll be several bands of varying genres (and talent … or not) hitting their licks as the crowds stroll by or sit to watch, and tons of tent merchants hawking their crafts and other treasures.  A festive atmosphere and definitely good for the local economy.

So how’s your coffee?  Mine’s just what I need right along with your conversation.  (Sorry, but I’ve already had my blueberry walnut oat bar. I waited … 30 seconds … but when you didn’t show right away, I went ahead).  So here’s the second course in our food for thought :

When one spends most of his time trying to change someone else, the more probable result is that he will change himself by overlooking the greater gift of his own unique, God-given mission in life.  Can it be that changing another is never one’s God-given mission?

Ever notice how effective the political, religious, or philosophical argument is?  How many times have you ever heard one opponent in such a debate turn and say to the antagonist, “You know, you’ve got a point there.  I think you’re right.  By golly, you’ve absolutely convinced me!  Thank you so much!  I say let’s do it [or have it] your way”?  Or how many times have you known such opponents to come back to each other, even later, and one ‘fess up to the other that he was wrong all along?

Have you ever even heard one witness of such a debate turn to another listener and make a similar confession?  I’ll lay odds you’ve NEVER witnessed such an event of either stripe.  Why?  Because of the innate attributes of humans, the most congenital seems to be our common, knee-jerk resistance to acknowledging, admitting or being told we could be in error.  And if that’s the case, why do we waste so much time, worldwide, trying to change others by arguing the error of their ways?  Wouldn’t we be much better off if we just let them have/be their way, spending the majority of our own effort being or becoming who we’re destined to be?  Would that be the better test of our beliefs and convictions?  Do you believe in such a destiny?

What I’m clumsily trying to ask is whether we wouldn’t have a lot more peace and success in life if we really focused on who we are within ourselves, rather than trying to change what someone else is or seems to be?  After all, the only things we really KNOW about someone — anyone, — are those bits of knowledge that come to us directly through our own filters or, alternatively, that come to us through the filters of third parties.

Right away, we can discuss some of the permutations of this thesis; e.g., whether we should apply this across governmental and political organizations, business entities, churches, schools, — or just at home.

What do you think?  What’s your pleasure on this topic?  Care to kick it around a bit just for the sake of mutual discovery?

While you think about it, here’s another — are you ready for this? — another one of those songs that pops in my mind.  Maybe its words will be as stimulating as the coffee.

“The Preachin’ Is Easy”

From Brian Duncan’s The Last Time I Was Here CD

We met on the high road,

At a glance both lookin’ bright and shiny-clean,

In that seamless perfection from the neighbors or the ad in a magazine.

But then one slip is all it takes,

The earth is not too far away.

My friend is calling out from the peaks above,

While I’m laid out on the fertile plain.

Talkin’ to me now, saying,

“Can’t get around, you can’t get around the slippery things in life.”

Now that’s technically correct.

The preachin’ is easy, you’d better believe it!

Talkin’ is cheap in my book, help me up if you’ve read it.

I’m under pressure, under pressure, crazy pressure now makes you wanta quit.

Back on the high side, a little worse for the wear, but I’m truly tryin’.

And I’m now more forgivin’,

‘Cause I know how it feels, know what it’s like.

“Can’t get around, and you can’t get around the slippery things in life.”

Preachin’ is easy, baby, you’d better believe it!

Talkin’ to me like it’s nothin’, well talkin’ is cheap in my book,

Look me up when you’ve read it.

Under pressure, I’m under pressure.

Try walkin’ a straight line, even while you’re looking up the whole time.

There’re so many steps in the right direction,

Say you’re gonna miss one sometimes.

“You shoulda planned ahead, you shoulda turned around,

“You shoulda seen the light.”

The preachin’ is easy, you’d better believe it!

Talkin’ to me now, I say “Talking is cheap in my book,

Wake me up when you’ve read it.”

Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah.

Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah.

Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah.
I hope to hear from you on this.  I hope the coffee kicks in.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© Oct. 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved

Carryin’ the Water

Today I drove them to the airport, helped unload and get all the luggage and gear into the ticketing area fifty feet away, then hurriedly kissed them goodbye as I dashed off to respond to the public announcement, “Will the owner of the green Ford Expedition please return to the vehicle immediately.”  It wasn’t a question.  It was a command.  I knew the security at this tiny airport was rigid, but I also knew the guy stood and watched me unload two large suitcases, a Pack-’N-Play, a stroller, a regulation car seat, and a mommy and her toddler.  Somehow, I had entertained the belief that at such a small facility with two other cars unloading in front and no one waiting to do so, the security guard would cut me some slack for five minutes, would give me a break out of a heart of compassion.  Boy, was I naive!  No time for compassion or family feelings, we’re here to stop terrorists!  God knows they must be swarming in through this airport.

Well, anyway, I gave quick kisses to Jessica and Nadia, then dashed to my truck and drove away.  “Bye, Dad.  Thanks for all the fun.  Love you!”  “Love you, too, sweetheart, you and that wonderful little granddaughter.  Take care!” Not sure I said that, I was in such a hurry to avoid having my truck towed, but I sure thought it.  On the way home I was, of course, “blue” — something the sky was not.  We’re having overcast skies every morning and most days, fairly atypical for this time of year.  But the effect lent itself well to some of my emotions as I drove.  We’d had five days of real fun together.  Now I’d get home, quickly change into work clothing, then head off for the office.  No time to sit and savor the fun, hilarity and challenges of this wonderful five-day visit.  Only after work would time allow me to enjoy the memories while they were fresh, and by then they’d already be overlaid with a thick crust of the day’s business, so that I’d have to dig deeper to find the nuggets.  But the nuggets, like pure gold, survived the business day’s intrusions in good form.

Recollection of the fun started with my cleaning all the fine sand off two plastic beach buckets with small plastic shovel, scoop, a plastic road-grader toy and an even smaller plastic car, the latter driven by a smiling little Howdy Doody-looking man who’s locked in a permanent, paralyzed wave of his plastic hand.  His face recently had been kissed by those sweet little lips as he was pulled out of a sand castle on the beach.  She just picked him up with her chubby little hands, held him close to her face while she studied him very seriously for several seconds, then pulled him to her lips and smacked him a good one all over his tiny face.  Then she looked up at me sitting there watching, and a big smile broke out on her face.  Such a happy face!  Where was my camera when I needed it?  Tucked safely in its bag to keep the fine sand out of its works!  Argh!

God bless those chubby cherub-hands and that brightly lit face.  She is such a loving child, happy … and a little headstrong at times.  But I’d be disappointed if she weren’t, probably thinking her a tad short in inspiration and intensity for life.  Believe me, she’s got it!

As I thought about her today, the intensity of her personality came back without struggle.  When we played on the beach with a new bucket and shovel for digging sand, she soon decided that shovel work was just too slow and unexciting.  Pulling herself from the sand and picking up her new bucket, she headed for the water, that pounding, roaring surf.  There was no hint of trepidation at the prospect of the water’s force, doubtless because she was totally unaware of it.  She just knew she had a bucket and wanted some water in it.  I trailed close by with my camera, watching those little legs pump down the beach and those chubby cheeks jiggling like Jello with every jarring step on the packed sand near the waterline.  She held her bucket thrust straight out in front by her stiff arm, held parallel to the ground.  Right into the surf she went, then stopped, filled her bucket and turned back toward shore immediately.  The weight lowered her arm, but she grasped the bucket firmly with both hands now, gripping its rim with determination.  Water sloshed out with each step, but up the beach she went at rather amazing speed, given her short little stride.  The look on her face told it all.  There was sand stuck to one cheek and the side of her head where she’d earlier lain down on the sand briefly to enjoy its comfortable warmth that was more than a good tradeoff for any concern about getting dirty.  There had been no thought of getting dirty.  No fragile little wallflower, this one.  Yet she’s tender, a small child with all the curiosity and wonder built inside, wanting to know about life and all it offers.

This same small child must have made twenty or more trips up and down the shoreline, hauling water each time, only to dump it out on her pile of sand and immediately make another beeline for another bucketful.  Jessica and I were amazed.  As we watched her and played with her, as I captured her play in my camera and talked with “Mama” and enjoyed the sun’s warmth, I thought of the piece I published here recently — the one about the young school kids.  I was concerned about what they’re being taught — the fear, the admonitions to mistrust, the tentativeness and imminent threat of that big world out there.  No doubt, all the concerns of careful and loving parents, anxious to preserve their children in safety, come to bear in that mix.  And yet I have to think they are simultaneously forgetting an equally important aspect of life — the ability to live in abiding security and enjoyment, the joie de vivre that we must all have been created to feel and know.  My thoughts on this day, as I rode back home from the airport alone, a little misty-eyed and yet proud as could be, turned to song again.  I thought about my precious little granddaughter’s vulnerability, how strong yet fragile she is.  Even so, I thought of those who protect her, just like I do when she’s with me, and just like I would anytime anything threatened her.  The song’s words surged strong in my mind:

“If You Were Mine” by Fernando Ortega from This Bright Hour CD

When my heart is troubled, and I am weighed down,

Then I like to think of how this lonesome world would be

If I could see your face, or hold you in my arms,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

If you had a bad dream, I would jump inside it,

And I would fight for you with all the strength that I could find.

I would lead you home by your tiny hand,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

I would sing of love on the blackest night.

I would sing of God and how His goodness fills our lives.

I would sing to you ‘til the morning light,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

I would sing to you ‘til the morning light,

If you were mine,

If you were mine.

I’m glad I sometimes think in songs .  I’m thankful I have a wife, children and grandchildren to think songs about.  I’m joyful to have tiny hands to hold on big beaches.  I’m delighted those tiny hands feel the joy and strength of life surging through them.

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© Sep. 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved

Saturday Coffee

“Coffee (café): Induces wit … Taken without sugar, very chic, gives the impression that you’ve lived in the Orient!” — GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, French novelist, playwright

I wasn’t headed up town early this a.m. for coffee, even though it’s Saturday. Coffee, the numero uno in my daily routine, would have to come later. My current mission, significantly less auspicious than the morning coffee quest, was a brisk bike ride with a group of new friends, mostly doctors and all specialists, who assured me that I’d be “better off riding with one GP than all four of” them. I had raised a rhetorical question to them in rather (but not entirely) lighthearted banter because of my cycling accident last October that landed me in three months’ recovery from a broken acetabulum (having little to do with my posterior, though it sounds otherwise), a separated shoulder, and a concussion – all this unknown to them. This morning I allowed as how it felt reassuring to ride in a pack of four medical doctors, when one of them ruthlessly (but in good humor, I might add) burst my enthusiastic bubble with the candid quip about the hypothetical GP. And I say “hypothetical GP” because that may be an extinct breed.

Anyway, these guys I was riding with are, respectively, urologist, radiologist, anesthesiologist, and oncologist – all pretty useless on a bike ride, at least from a medical viewpoint, though all are good riders. I mean, look — probabilities are low that I’ll be treated for cancer or a urological disaster on a bike outing, although I suppose if one were riding when a gallstone started it’s descent through the plumbing, it might feel reassuring to have a urologist standing by. But maybe no moreso than the comfort I get when I need help in the office.

Everyone seems to be a “specialist” these days. Even in my accounting office we no longer have the generic “accounting clerks” of the old days when I was a pup in the business. We now have “accounts payable specialists” and “payroll specialists” and “billing specialists” and … well, you get the picture. I can’t get help from the billing specialist when there’s a rush on getting an invoice paid; she only takes care of situations “when we’re asking for money to be sent to us, not the other way round” (for gosh sakes … with the eyeball roll!).

So back to the docs and the bike ride. I’m presently over my worries about the lack of a GP. We’re just having fun, exercise and a little camaraderie today. Have I mentioned that I have a lot of mental problems? With songs? Songs, for me, often get in the way of serious production of something worthwhile. Not songs I’m writing; I’m not a songwriter. The songs I’m talking about are songs that I’ve acquired through the aural canals and unintentionally stored in my brain’s wrinkles (of which there must be more than on even my face, judging by the numbers of songs that roll out with annoying regularity) over the years of my life. They are not evidence of creative brainpower surging through my synapses, at least not in the traditional sense, but random recollections of something I’ve heard, now being involuntarily spilled for no particular purpose. But it can be entertaining in otherwise inane activities like riding a bike with a bunch of medical specialists.

The song running through my brain this overcast morning was the catchy, bluesy-but-pleasant little country tune with the typical cryin’-in-the-beer lyrics of that genre, Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues. Penned by Danny O’Keefe, it was popular in the early 70s (peaking at #9 in 1972). I have a very cool instrumental rendition of it on a CD project by the great guitarist Earl Klugh. It’s very whistle-able, so even if you’re not a vocalist – and I’m not, at least not when I’m pedaling up a steep hill on my roadie – you can hit your licks on this tune with your whistle. The lyrics go like this:

Everybody’s goin’ away.
Said they’re movin’ to L.A.
There’s not a soul I know around.
Everybody’s leavin’ town!

Some caught a freight. Some caught a plane.
Find the sunshine, leave the rain.
They said this town’s a waste of time.
I guess they’re right, it’s wasting mine!

Some gotta win, some gotta lose
Good time Charlie’s got the blues

You know, my heart keeps tellin’ me,
“You’re not a kid at thirty-three.
“You play around you’ll lose your wife.
“You play too long you’ll lose your life!”

I’ve got my pills to ease the pain,
Can’t find a friend to ease the rain.
I know I should try and settle down.
But everybody’s leaving town.

Some gotta win, some gotta lose
Good time Charlie’s got the blues
Good time Charlie’s got the blues
Good time Charlie’s got the blues

(whistling to end)

Pretty grim, huh? But lighthearted blues, thanks to the catchy tune. How did my thoughts get here this morning? I mean, I’m having fun with these guys and none of us seems particularly down on his luck! Did yesterday’s date (9/11) have something to do with my thoughts? After all, eight years ago yesterday was a disaster in international history and the lives of lots of folks. But I don’t know whether the memory of that day of infamy triggered Good Time Charlie …. I think it had more to do with stories I hear. Here’s an excerpt of one, ironically including “Charlie,” who may indeed start singing the blues. [Hope you can ignore the syntax errors typical of news journalism.]

The End of the Road for Charles Rangel?

Written by Catherine Mullins

Thursday, 10 September 2009

“After a 40-year career of liberalism and scandal, Rep. Charlie Rangel, one of the biggest fish in Washington, might finally be getting fried. [My Note: As New York’s congressman from the 15th District, he’s been in Congress since January, 1971. Think that’s long enough?! Maybe the following quoted excerpt from Wikipedia explains something about his longevity: “Rangel's district, the smallest in the country in geographic size, encompasses Upper Manhattan and includes such neighborhoods as Harlem, Spanish Harlem, Washington Heights, Inwood, Morningside Heights, and part of the Upper West Side, as well as a small portion of Queens in the neighborhood of Astoria. … Rangel earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for his service in the Korean War.” That last sentence almost surely explains a common occurrence in human history – taking “heroes” who’ve served one purpose honorably, with the often-erroneous thinking that they’ll make good leaders in another, especially in politics. More about that topic another time.]

“As chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, the committee that writes the federal tax codes, Rangel failed to report $75,000 he earned in 2007 on a rental property to the IRS. Ironically, he claimed to be ignorant of tax laws. The ethics committee which has ignored Rangel’s tax law peccadilloes in the past is now engaged to look into the matter.

“Since that committee was appointed, it has been alleged that Rangel failed to report over $1 million in outside income and $3 million in business transactions,” CBS reported. The Washington Examiner broke it down further for us: “It turns out Rangel had a credit union account worth at least $250,000 and maybe as much as $500,000 — and didn’t report it. He had investment accounts worth about the same, which he also didn’t report. Ditto for three pieces of property in New Jersey.

“Beyond even that, we’ve learned that Rangel has failed to report assets totaling more than $1 million on legally required financial disclosure forms going back to at least 2001.

“On top of those allegations are ones that ‘he falsely listed a Washington D.C. residence as his primary address when he was living in rent-stabilized apartment in New York City; used Congressional letterhead for fundraising purposes; and helped a wealthy donor to a school bearing Rangel’s name establish a lucrative tax shelter in Bermuda,’ according to Fox News.

“With an ever increasing list of accusations, Charles Rangel is looking more and more like an arrogant and belligerent tax cheat. According to him, though, he has far beyond the average intelligence. With regards to his financial situation he told reporters: ‘I recognize that all of you have an obligation to ask questions knowing that there’s none of you smart enough to frame it in such a way that I’m going to respond.’“

Well, poor ol’ Charlie. I hope he’ll be singing the blues in Sing Sing for a long time.  But given our track record for actually prosecuting and incarcerating such cheats of high stature, I’m a bit skeptical. On to other “Charlies” of humbler origins and means.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Michael

© September 2009, Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

All But Gone

“If I could go down now, whole town is sleepin’,

See the sun creepin’ up on the hill, yeah,

You know the river and the railroad would run through the valley still.

Well, it never was much to look at, just a one-horse town,

Kinda place young people wanta leave today;

Storefronts pretty much boarded up,

Main street pretty much closed down.

***

“I might go down, come the weekend, go on my own,

Drop off Annie and the baby, maybe drive alone.

Pay my last respects to a time that has all but gone.

Little by little, light after light, that’s how it died.

Say you’ll never go home again, now that’s no lie.

It’s like a letter in the mail to my brother in jail,

‘It’s just a matter of time, and you can do a little bit better time.’”

- from “Letter in the Mail” on James Taylor’s Never Die Young CD

Headed downtown early this morning.  Had coffee and breakfast on my mind, needed to do some ‘thankin’ (as one of my longtime Arkansas buddies says).  Also wanted to beat the tourist crowds that, every summer, routinely conquer and occupy this little Carpinteria, a quaint but mostly-sleepy beach town of approximately 14,000 nestled on the Pacific strand where the Golden State turns southeastward about two-thirds down the coastline from its northern boundary with Oregon.  According to Wikipedia, “The Spanish named the area Carpinteria because the Chumash tribe, which lived in the area, had a large seagoing canoe-building enterprise, or ‘carpentry shop’ there; this was due to the availability of naturally-occurring surface tar which was used to seal the boats. You can still see the tar oozing out of the bluffs at Tar Pits Park, on the beach just south of the campground.”  I’ve been to the beach many times and can affirm the veracity of the statement about tar oozing out of the bluffs.  But back to the throng of every summer’s tourists.

While these crowds are generally pretty laid back and serene, they come here from all over the world to enjoy “The World’s Safest Beach,” as the town has officially styled it. So there’s an expected level of pandemonium from the large number of young children with their families, the confusion of diverse languages, cultures and expectations that converge in a small space. The other day in the same coffee shop I’m headed for this morning, I conversed with a German couple who’ve been coming here every summer for 18 years, they like it so much; and in front of us, there was a large Italian family who could not efficiently communicate to the baristas what they wanted. But fortunately, they came with their Italian hands and arms, prepared (and well trained!) to gesticulate with sufficient exuberance to, along with their many and rapid words, eventually get the point across. I like these folk — I like the spontaneous encounters and light conversations with people from around the world. But sometimes there are just too many of them at once, particularly on Saturday mornings that should, by rights, quietly ramp up to energetic levels only after 11 a.m., when I tend to recover and “come back to ground” from a hard week at the office. I work in Carpinteria; hence, I live here for the convenience of avoiding daily Highway 101 gridlock as thousands of commuters cram the one highway that snakes along the coast between Oxnard-Ventura and north through Santa Barbara to Atascadero before splitting into several routes that open the congestion.

As usual, I was afoot on this morning’s quest.  I walk the same route every early morning (as contrasted with late mornings), stopping at the coffee shop for my usual double cappuccino-slightly-on-the-dry-side.  Today, though, I would add a warm cranberry oat breakfast bar and ask Aubrey for my cappuccino in a ceramic mug instead of the usual to-go cup with sleeve.  I always liked the name “Aubrey.”  It was my paternal grandma’s name (may she rest in peace), and she was as fun a person as I’ve ever known — a short, sturdy little Scottish woman full of vigor who, though deeply religious, was never hesitant to tease and laugh in her inimitable style. And she could render “Amazing Grace” in an alto, Celtic style, that made my arms stand up with goose bumps.  By contrast, Aubrey the barista is a quiet young person. Very kind, but shy and unassuming.  And my grandma didn’t have a tattoo on her left arm.  But that’s beside the point.  The first time I saw Aubrey working behind the counter, I noticed her name tag and complimented her on her name, adding that it was my grandma’s name as well.  She looked at me with a poker face and uttered not a word. But I could hear her internal question: “What’s his point?”  She’s softened up since then and makes a mean double cappuccino for me with a shy grin as she hands it off.

With frothy mug and warm plate in hand, I ambled to a seat facing outward toward the coastal range to the east so that I could watch the marine layer gradually lift to expose the mountains. Sliding my camera bag off my shoulder – it was along just in case I happened across any great low-light photo ops – I settled into the comfortable armchair. From my position I would also catch sight of those intrepid early morning cyclists who beat the crowds on the road, especially those cyclists who, along with my great friend Buzz, were riding the Cool Breeze Century today. I’d normally be out there with them, but lots of factors have prevented my participation this go-round. This is a bustling time of year on this paradise of a coast with its shirt-sleeves-shorts-and-flip-flops weather. Cyclists, surfers, and motorists clog the coastal highway headed for weekend R & R, and skateboarders and hundreds of pedestrians add to the crowds in the local streets throughout the day. So early is better for the cyclists as well as seekers of robust coffee and “slow-mo” morning solitude.

The “regulars” were mostly there as I arrived – the guy who sits by the front door reading a Grisham novel, whom I’ve never seen smile or speak to anyone, even when spoken to. He was into the novel of the day, and I respected his purpose – similar to mine. Funny; he doesn’t look like the Grisham sort – whatever that is. Just something about him. But he seems intent on Grisham; this is the third JG novel I’ve seen him with in as many weeks. Maybe he’s on a mission to read all of Grisham’s production. Anyway, he sports a salt-and-pepper Van Dyke under dark eyes set behind frameless glasses and an even darker, shiny, thick-and-slick crop of hair combed at a forty-five across his head. Across from me on the window side sat a guy with a gray-haired spike, the “newspaper man” I call him, with Blue-Tooth in his ear and newspaper in his hands. Today, though, he was frequently picking up his cell phone and looking at it as if to say, “Why the hell isn’t this thing ringing?!” I took it that someone wasn’t meeting his schedule and expectations, since he looked a little grumpy, evidenced even in his perfunctory nod that acknowledged my “good morning.” I didn’t bother him with further conversation today. Mutual respect. There were a couple others outside on the patio area despite the chill of the marine layer. Shorts and flip-flops with fleece pullovers and ball caps.

I like this place. When I walk in every morning, the staff sees me coming and usually knows what I want, regardless of which team members are there. We exchange pleasantries at the counter and I always get a smile or two, though it took me a few weeks to cultivate that when I came to town. Sometimes Southern Californians can be pretty stand-offish if you don’t nudge ‘em out of their aloof comfort zone. But as I entered the door to a minor crowd one recent morning, I heard one of the baristas yell over her shoulder, “Mike’s here!” followed by an immediate, minor scramble as two began making my cappuccino even before I paid – one frothing the milk and the other pulling the shots – while the observant sentry rang up the sale and tendered my change. Into the tip box it went as a warm smile of familiarity rose to the surface. When I complimented them on their prompt attention, their white teeth flashed in brilliant smiles contrasted against dark beach tans and their pleasant banter bubbled forth.

This morning, as usual, my cappuccino was robust but smooth, and the warm breakfast bar went down well with its mildly sweet-tart grainy taste. Didn’t bring a book and there was no conversation stirring beyond the working patter behind the counter between Aubrey and Gabe, the very crisp, short, spunky Latino who had just joined her for his shift. Another regular, “Spike Two” I call him, walked in as I finished. With his sunbleached blonde hair and dark tan, he was in his usual style of bright red sweatshirt and dark pants with Ugh boots, rolled newspaper under his arm and his half-lens readers already astride his nose. But our eyes met as he headed to an outdoor table with his java and news and we exchanged enthusiastic morning “hey, how ya doin?” My dishes now emptied, I delivered them to the bussing area and walked out the front door to the pleasant farewells: “Have a great day, Mike.”
“You, too, Aubrey and Gabe. See ya tomorrow.” As I said, I like this place.

The marine layer still hung fairly thick over the town. It’s been an unusual ten days just passed – weather-wise, more like the familiar “June Gloom” of our coastal region’s early summer micro-climates. By this time of year, the sky is usually bright and clear and a comfortable warmth is rising to meet the day. But not today. Nonetheless, something bright caught the corner of my eye as I reached the street. There was no movement – quite the contrary. There she sat across the street in total stillness, appearing against the backdrop of storefronts to belong there quite naturally. My eye was immediately riveted. To get a closer look, I immediately cut a diagonal across the sleepy street. What a beaut! Curves in all the right places, smooth lines and obviously quite well cared for. With a quick turn of my head, I looked around to see if anyone was watching me, almost embarrassed by my own unchecked admiration for this thing of beauty. She was a ’51 Ford V-8 “Woody” wearing several deep layers of a familiar, vintage Ford turquoise paint plus the dark-and-light woods used for the side panels, and she looked – at least to my non-expert eye – to be in totally-stock condition except for the special wheels that were not yet conceived when she rolled off the Detroit assembly line 58 years ago. For this babe, atypical tires of lower profile and smaller sidewalls mounted the more modern wheels as compared with the standard big wheels, wide white-sidewall tires, and small, plain hubcaps that I remember from that era. In 1951 I was a big-eared, bony kid of six, but even then was quite excited about cool cars. They were much less ubiquitous then.

Out came my camera for a lengthy series of admiring shots from every angle – the auto paparazzi! – and when I looked up I had been joined by a slightly younger guy who was as into the moment as I, him with cell-phone camera clicking shots. “Is she yours?” he asked. “I just shot the hell out of her with my camera.” Grin. 
“No, but I’d sure like to claim ‘er.”
“Wouldncha?!” he chuckled. “Whaddya think,” he said, “$180 grand into her?”
My eyes got big. “Are you kiddin’?” I had no idea how someone could spend that much on an old Ford. A Rolls maybe, but not a Ford.
“No,” he said. “I watched these for quite a while, wanted to buy one, but decided I couldn’t afford it.”
“I reckon not!” my mind silently affirmed. We stood staring in adoring silence for a few moments, made a couple comments about particular features of the car, then parted company, both surely personally enriched by the experience.

Still feeling a flush of excitement, I bagged my camera and headed down the street toward the beach to do my walking and “thankin,” but caught myself turning back a couple of times to get one more look at the Woody. Warm nostalgia had rushed in and filled all the blank spaces of my quiet Saturday reverie. Whatever I had needed to think about had been totally supplanted by remembrances of slower days, quieter days, days of long, white-hot summers in the lower Midwest of my Arkansas childhood. Days with dark sweat-beads around our youthful necks. Days when neighbor Peggy would team with my mom to load her three kids and mom’s three younger kids along with a picnic lunch into Peggy’s burgundy ‘51 Ford two-door coupe and we’d all head to Rudy Creek or Twin Bridges or Silver Bridge to hit the swimming hole and forestall the sun’s ravages. Riding home afterward in that heavy Ford as the lowering sun shot its more benign rays into our faces, we’d wearily take turns hanging our heads or towels out the windows to dry. Exhausted but happy little kids. Seatbelts were unheard of then.

As I reflected this morning, my mind, in keeping with my lifelong propensity, called up the lyrics of a song from the past.  This time it was James Taylor’s “Letter in the Mail.”  I began to sing the words quietly as I walked.  I like this about Carpinteria – this little “one-horse” town “peaceful and serene” in its morning yawns and stretches, “the sun creepin’ up on the hill,” – I like this exposure to relics of the past.  They are welcome relics, at least in my world, and the car I’ve just ogled and admired has triggered a small but packed volume of memories for me.  Likely, it would hardly have been noticed in a bigger city where life moves way too fast.  At most, it would have gotten a fleeting glance as the hustle of the street demanded greater attention.  Almost certainly, the conversation between two rank strangers would not have occurred on a big city’s sidewalk.  And without doubt, I couldn’t have stood in the middle of a larger city’s main thoroughfare to shoot a series of photos of a beautiful antique car.  But this serene little town, the “carpentry shop” of California’s lower coast, is a throwback “to a time that is all but gone.”  A pleasant throwback, where the simple pleasures are still to be found in abundance if one takes the time to look.   Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

Michael

© 2009 by Michael E. Stubblefield – all rights reserved

Perceptions: What would you have done?

Washington, DC Metro Station on a cold January morning in 2007. The man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately 2,000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After three minutes a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.

Four minutes later: The violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.

Six minutes:
A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.

Ten minutes:
A 3-year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

45 minutes:
The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.

1 hour:
He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.

No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and people’s priorities. The questions raised: In a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?

One possible conclusion reached from this experiment could be this: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made…. How many other things are we missing?!

CREDIT: This is a piece worthy of reading (and re-reading) and consideration … serious consideration.  Summary of the Washington Post feature written by Gene Weingarten, Washington Post Staff Writer, Sunday, April 8, 2007; Page W10. It was sent to me by a cousin.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Michael