So Fresh and So Clean, Clean

First and foremost, here’s a little kudos to the clubhouse. Last week, without much fanfare, we got our 1,000^th hit. That’s pretty pimp, if you ask me. Rock on blog readers, rock on. But truth be told, I’m quite surprised that we’ve gotten this far, you and I. It’s been fun writing for “you” whoever that may be. I hope that you’re finding whatever it is that you’re looking for.

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This afternoon, I finished dumping half of my house into a 30 cubic yard dumpster. What does a 30 cubic yard dumpster full of house look like? I’ll show you next time, because it’s too dark to take a photo at the moment. I realized the other day that I’m not doing a good enough job in photo-documenting my work. Much of what I do on a daily basis is here-to-fore uncharted territory. I don’t want this to turn into a what-I-did-at-work-today chronicle, but I’ve come to realize the importance of preserving my work in digital form, frozen in time, forever suspended, as it were, in mid-flip.

I may not appreciate such photos today, but I will in 20 years. I wonder if in 20 years I’ll remember this small sacrifice I made for future-myself or whether then I’ll simply take past-myself for granted. It better not be the latter, future-myself, or else I’ll plot against you!

Some of the world’s greatest discoveries were a function of serendipity. Due to a bit of poor planning on my part and some misguided reliance on the hired help at Lowes, the only running water in my 3 bath house for the past 48 hours has been 1 toilet and 1 shower. One may think that a sink is a necessity, but I’ve come to serendipitously discover that it’s a mere convenience.

For instance, the other day, after working on a plumbing project right before bed, and getting sewer water all over my hands, I needed to wash them. So, I simply took a shower. Granted, I had just taken one a few hours ago, but I wasn’t about to use the toilet. Another example. The next morning, I needed to brush my teeth. Shower. Granted, it was a little odd for me to be brushing my teeth in the shower, but I found it to be an extremely efficient use of my time. Needless to say, I’ve taken more showers in the last 2 days than during any other 48 hour period in my life. And if I don’t figure out a way to fix one of the sinks tonight, I’m thinking of running the gas line over so I can cook in the shower, too. Who wants to come over for some soggy fish sticks?

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Finally, as we approach the last day of the month, let’s end on a high note. I’d like to wish a happy 1^st birthday to my pup. It’s true what they say about being a man’s best friend.

The Week In Brief

The last couple of days have been really great. I get on these rolls sometimes when I’m SUPER productive for several days in a row without needing much sleep or food or anything really. It’s an old habit that dates back to my time as a student when I was the world’s worst (best?) procrastinator. I took Latin for 2 year in high school and all I have to show for it is the knowledge that procrastinator comes from the preposition ‘pro’ meaning for and the word ‘cras’ meaning tomorrow, which would make me a for-tomorrow-er. Anyhow, I had this uncanny knack to wait and wait until the last possible moment when I could kick it into overdrive and still turn the thing in at the exact moment it was due. It was quite common for folks to see me running full tilt down the hall or across campus, papers flapping in the wind, still warm from the printer.

While deadlines and due dates don’t really apply to me these days, the instinct to cram rears its head from time to time. It’s exhilarating. Life is probably more analogous to a marathon, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I am sprinter at heart. I enjoy feeling the wind press against my chest. I love to see the world slip beside me, tumbling backward through time in relative slow motion.

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I’m capping my productive day off with some blog time at the coffee shop. I like coffee shops at night; they’re more social. Right now, I’m sitting at a bar that looks out onto the street. People stop in front of me to read the menu. I feel like I am in a zoo. How come no one will feed me?

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Yesterday, I went walking in the woods with my dog. On our way back, we ran into one of my neighbors, a mid-50’s fellow, who works in computers, and who was also walking his dog. He asked if I wanted to walk with him. Although I was on my way back, I was happy to oblige, because I realized a few weeks ago that if I’m going to get anywhere with my “Manual for Life,” I’ll have to recruit the help of some older, wiser people. Rather than ask him something like, “What is the key to happiness?” or “If you could impart one piece of wisdom to someone, what would it be?” or “Tell me one thing that you absolutely know to be true.” or whatever, I decided to let him lead the conversation.

After getting over his initial disgust that I was the money-hungry New Yorker that was trying to make a buck in his dear neighborhood, he asked me why the heck I named my dog Sartre. I gave him the stock reply, “It’s after one of my favorite writers, Jean Paul Sartre.” To which he replied, “But why Sartre?” When most people ask me why I named my dog Sartre, I assume that they mean either ‘that’s an odd name for a dog– what’s up with that?’ or ‘does that have meaning in your native tongue?’ I can only assume that my stock answer satisfies such curiosity, because up to this point, there had never been a follow up question, or, as it were, a repetition of the original question. What is this guy, the canine name-police? But then I realized that his tone was incredulous only on the word Sartre, so as to suggest, ‘why would someone, after reading the work of Jean Paul Sartre, choose to name their dog after him?’ This is another matter entirely. I somehow resisted launching into some diatribe on existential freedom and responsibility and returned the conversation back to him.

That is when he told me his story. A long time ago, when he was closer to me in age, he studied at Pomona College in California. Rather than do something practical, like his dad, who was a scientist, he decided to major in philosophy. He gravitated toward the existentialists, particularly Camus and Nietzsche. He admitted, with seeming regret, I might add, that their words shook his Faith. It is at this point that practical concerns overtook theoretical ones and he went and got his doctorate in something useful. He picked up the books sometime later, but it all sounded like crap then. The words stayed the same and so did the world maybe; it was him that was different. He still has dreams of going back West, but his wife prefers it here, and the bay area is so expensive, so he finds himself in Chapel Hill, North Carolina a continent away from the Pacific Coast Highway, a lifetime removed from his youth, on the same walking trail which he’s walked for 26 years, telling this very story to the creek, to the trees and to the rhododendron, to the mild Carolina Winter, to an opportunistic Yankee and his existential dog.

Five minutes prior, I did not know this man from Adam. And in five minutes, he taught me his story, shared with me his regrets, and showed me what he would do differently if he had it again.

We’re at his home now. He points out the remnants of trees that fell during the hurricanes, painting a picture of what this place would have looked like before I looked at it. He tells me a story about Bill Hunt, whom I know as William Lanier Hunt, world famous Botanist and developer of our neighborhood. He said he hopes the person that moves in after me will stay awhile. He’d like that. He reminds me to note of the daffodil patch to the left of the pipe at the clearing. He asks me if I would knock on his door next time I’m passing by, if I feel up for it, and we can walk again and bring the dogs, too, because, he says, they would enjoy the company.

The Campaign for Real Beauty

Dove is trying to do something really remarkable. They’re making calculated attempts to change the way people define beauty. At first, I thought it was a stupid marketing gimmick, but after digging around their website, I’ve now concluded that they’re making a worthwhile effort to change the world for the better. Still, I’m skeptical that they will achieve success. More problematically, I believe their efforts are misguided.

Dove states their goal as follows: “Dove's global Campaign for Real Beauty aims to change the status quo and offer in its place a broader, healthier, more democratic view of beauty. A view of beauty that all women can own and enjoy everyday.” The thrust of the movement is to redefine beauty through open dialogue, academic research, truthful advertising, and self-esteem workshops for girls. In the end, they hope that more women will see themselves as ‘beautiful.’

Their global research to date has some interesting findings. First, only 2% of women describe themselves as ‘beautiful.’ Women are far more apt to choose ‘natural’ (31%), ‘average’ (25%), ‘attractive’ (9%), ‘feminine’ (8%), ‘good looking’ (7%), ‘cute’ (7%), or ‘pretty’ (5%). Of the 12 labels studied, Beauty was 5^th from the bottom, trumping ‘sophisticated,’ ‘sexy,’ and ‘stunning’ each at 1% and ‘gorgeous’ at 0%. I presume that the ‘more democratic’ definition of beauty to which Dove aims will change some of those votes from average, attractive, and cute to beautiful.

As I see it, there are two ways to get this done. First, you can keep ‘beautiful’ at the top of the spectrum and more convince girls that they belong there. This method is not healthy, I don’t believe, and involves self-deception. Everyone can’t be at the top and to think otherwise is to fool oneself. The other option is to bring the word ‘beautiful’ down to the middle. But even this is an exercise in semantics and has less to do with self-esteem than it does with changing the English language. And if this is the goal, rather than change the definition of beauty to mean average, wouldn’t it be easier to just invent a new word, say Dovelicious? Neither strategy will make young women like themselves more. Why can’t cute and pretty be good enough? I, for one, prefer it.

The study also seemed to take exception to the fact that 60% of American women (47% worldwide) thought their weight was too high. It glossed over the finding that 62% of American women are actually overweight. They study was not designed to determine what percent of the 62% were actually overweight. Still, it highlights the problem with simply making people believe that they’re beautiful. Rather than convincing medically overweight people to describe themselves as beautiful, everyone would be better off if we encouraged them to live more healthy lifestyles. I believe that would be a more worthwhile campaign.

The most troubling finding was how women define the components of beauty. 89% believe happiness to be an attribute, 86% say kindness, 83% confidence, 81% dignity, 78% humor, 75% intelligence, 72% wisdom, 67% appearance of skin, 64% overall physical appearance, and 62% say facial appearance. Why is this troubling? Well, the study using this finding to ‘demonstrates that “beauty” is seen by women as richer and more complex than the physical ideals that dominate popular culture.’ The study seems to think this is a good thing. It would be, except for the fact that only 2% of women consider themselves beautiful! That’s really sad. That 2% of women consider themselves to have outer beauty isn’t a huge deal (to me at least), but if only 2% of women consider themselves to have INNER beauty, that’s a major social problem.

What little girls really need to hear is that beauty is not important, that society will love you for being intelligent, kind, and dignified. They need to hear that despite the fact that society does not do a good job engendering these qualities, if you can cultivate them yourself, from the inside out, society will embrace you. But until we can promise and deliver these things, any such campaign to make more people beautiful is doomed from the start. But as it is right now, every year, the world spends as much on hair care products and make up alone as the US spends on education nationwide. Throw in other beauty expenses and it's not even close. Change begins with people's pocketbooks.

The Things I Want

I want to become the person I would look up to. I want to change, moving forward every minute, every hour, every year. I want for wisdom to take the place of my declining intellectual aptitude. But always, I want to be sharp, if only ‘for my age.’ I want to gain the ability to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

For profession, if I ever do anything that I do not love, let it be from necessity and not greed; let money never be a justification for unhappiness. I want to reinvent myself often enough to fend off boredom but never to the extent to which I’d render myself unrecognizable to those I love, above the new clothes and new business card, my core values still audible in the very tenor of my voice.

And of religion, I want to take my family to church, not because I believe in God, but because I believe that children need Gods to ward off the Monsters. Adults do, too, sometimes. I want to believe in human freedom, whether or not it really exists, and I want to rely on this faith to get me through hard times. I want the hard times to be few, but to stop by once in awhile to say hello, a cold blustery wind in February reminding me I’m alive, convincing me that this is not all just a dream.

I want to have a few trusted friends, but I want to be trusted even by distant ones. My schedule notwithstanding, I always want to make time to listen to a story that needs listening. I want for my advice always to be heartfelt and well-meaning, if nothing else.

Of my prejudice and discrimination, I hope that it be Just and never at the expense of someone’s humanity, God’s secret ingredient, the locus of all that is great and beautiful in human achievement, that which is found in equal proportion of prince and pauper, black, white, yellow and brown.

I want to be the lesser half of the greatest couple ever. I want to find my wife beautiful long after we have become a pair of comfortable shoes, my heart being more perceptive than the eye. I want to be inspired by her, to be lifted up, suspended there as long as my days. I want for her mere presence to warm me, a welcoming hearth by which to remove my boots and take refuge from the cold. I want us to agree often, and fight fairly when we don’t. I want for sacrifice to be the tie that binds us, selfless love being the highest ideal of which man is capable. I want to make her laugh even long after our bodies have grown tired. I want to overhear my wife’s friends say, “You have the best husband ever.” I want to be the best husband ever. I want for the first day I loved her to pale in comparison to the last day we had each other; in the beginning it was never enough, in the end, it was everything I needed.

When I was 22 years old a friend said to me, “I’ve never met anyone who’s so comfortable in his own skin.” I want for that to have been true then and I want for that to be true in 50 years.

I look forward to when time has stretched the truth behind my stories, a time when I appear like a giant, but only in retrospect. I want those I love to know all the stories by heart. When my dad passes, I want to refer to him as the greatest man I ever knew; my mother as a saint.

I want to build my dream house with my own two hands.

I want to learn to eat my vegetables.

I want to coach my son’s baseball team, teach him the art of the changeup, in life and pitching, and teach him how to roam centerfield, how to be a good teammate. I want to teach him how to shoot the 3-ball and the crossover. I want him to teach him to win with honor and lose with grace, sport being a crude approximation of life. I want to teach him that few things in life are as important as gaining the respect and admiration of great men. I want to gain the respect and admiration of great men. When my eldest son finally beats his old man in arm wrestling, by then, I hope to have taught him everything he needs to know to live a happy and fulfilling life. By then, I hope to have learned those lessons myself. I hope to be able to let go, allowing him to spread his wings, stumble yes, but on his way to great heights. I want to overhear his friends comment, “You have the best dad ever.” I want to be the best dad ever.

If I have a daughter, dear God nothing scares me as much as having to raise a daughter, I hope to be the kind of father that will encourage her to have healthy relationships with men. I hope to muster enough restraint not to beat up her boyfriend, though I hope to keep him leery. Over and above all circumstance, I want to protect and provide for my family. I want the best part of my day to be the return home, unlocking the front door.

However old I get, however successful I become, I hope never to forget the importance of being able to laugh at myself, taking oneself too seriously the number one cause of heart disease and sadness. I want to see the Mets win the World Series again. I want to jump up and down like a little kid. I want to sing at the top of my lungs.

Of a few things, I want to stay the same. I want to remain fortunate. I want to remain the idealist, cynicism not being the cure but the malady. I want to defy all that is ugly around me and find beauty in all things, though in some more than in others. I want to remain the romantic. I want my dog to live forever, his muzzle grey with age, his spirit still bouncing like a puppy. I want for him to add levity to my life, his eyebrow furrowed trying to reach the ball that rolled underneath the coffee table, his earnest belief that the greatest thing in the world is a good belly rub. I want to never feel as though I have it all figured out. Rather, I want to approach the truth like the horizon, always a destination at which never to be arrived. I want to always have a decent jump shot, because shooters need to shoot, as if by religion, even if only enough to keep the defense honest. I want to always remain active, the sedentary life being the home of disease and self-loathing.

I want to find a back country road now and then, as if by accident or by design, and I want to drive, drive, drive, under that canopy of autumn leaves or accompanied by that unmistakable buzz of spring, never letting traffic jams or aggressive drivers usurp my love for the road. I want to never be so important that I can’t get lost for a little while. I want to experience the journey, bring the background to the foreground at times.

I hope to find 1 novel, 1 poem, 1 song, and 1 painting that I feel were made just for me and I want to consume them over and over and over. The places I frequent, I want to be known by name and to be greeted by a smile; if in a big city, I want to carve out my own four corners. I want to travel to far off places where no one knows my name, places where one can be a completely different person, or completely oneself.

I want to drive a safe car and keep the speed limit, not out of reverence for the law, but because I have people whom I love too much to take unnecessary risks.

I want to grow more economical in my diction, not taking 500 words to get to the point, but always appreciating the place of words without true function. I want to have one of my poems published. I want to read it out loud at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, my personal Carnegie Hall. I want one of my painting to hang in a museum. Or maybe an elementary school.

I want for you to have read this far.

I want to always see myself as a student, regardless of my station in life. I want to have a voracious appetite for the written word and an equal hunger for the spoken one.

Even when gray, I want to go to the window during a thunderstorm and bow before nature’s majesty, wonder and awe being two things that keep you young at heart. For the most part, I want to be consistent. On occasion, I want to let myself believe the unbelievable, desire the impossible, and strive for the unreachable, contradiction being one of the things that keeps you interesting. But, I want to be grounded, for my roots to take deep. I want to love what I have, not because I have it, but because I earned it and because it is all I need.

At the end, I want for the good things I’ve done number too many to remember, the bad things to be few and seared in memory, so as never to be repeated. I want to have been content. I want for it all to have been worth it. I want to have done it right. I want to have lived not too much, but just enough, my days on this earth filled to the brim, pregnant with meaning. I want this list not to end.

Entertaining Story

This just goes to show you that poets are cool people. I wrote Stephen Dunn and he was very nice to me. This person wrote another one of my fave poets, Rives. Here are the results:

http://www.shopliftwindchimes.com/jesse.html

Miller Time!

I’ve been excited all week, waiting in eager anticipation for the arrival of “Some Jazz Awhile,” which is a collection of poems by Miller Williams. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to ‘discover’ a new poet. I have every suspicious that Miller will live amongst Stephen Dunn, Billy Collins, and Carl Dennis as one of my favorites. Hopefully.

Finding a poet is so much better than simply finding a great poem. This is because a poet’s life work is so much greater than the sum of all his poems. It’s for the same reason that I prefer albums to singles in music. There’s something to be found in the in-between. Plus, I feel that you have to read the whole book to understand the moral. In fact, few things leave me as unfulfilled as the realization that I only like one poem or song by a given artist.

Miller also has the underdog effect working for him. The other three are well renowned and well decorated. Two are Pulitzer Prize winners and the other is a Poet Laureate. Of course, at the time I ‘fell in love’ with them, I didn’t know they were so well known. In one sense, it edifies my taste, because if all the fancy pants Pulitzer panelists agree with me, I must ‘get it.’ In another sense, I feel like a cheap slutty frontrunner that just goes with the crowd, even if unwittingly.

Admittedly though, these 300 pages have to go a long way to eclipse Dunn for the top spot. Not only is this Dunn an awesome poet, but he used to be a professional basketball player. How badass is that? Plus, I once wrote him an email to ask him some question about poetry (he’s a professor at some school in Jersey) and took the opportunity to confess my man crush for him in not so many words. He responded saying that what I had to say was one of the nicest things he’d ever heard and that it totally made his day. Dude! I made the day of a Pulitzer winner! Forget Stephen Dunn, how badass am I?

Ok, enough of that. Must focus my love on Miller. He’s got a sweet beard, that’s a start. As we all know, people with sweet beards are more likely to be awesome: Nietzsche, Freud, Dunn, my dad, both my grandpa’s, Yetti. The stage is set. Now let’s go buddy, get it done.

Where You're From

The other day, I was in the pizza shop and this lady in front of me was placing her order. She was one of those people that needs to specially tailor her sandwich to her very particular tastes, which is fine. Her request was slightly absurd, but that’s beyond the scope of this discussion. The real problem was that she was having a little difficulty communicating her order to the man behind the counter. If I had to guess I’d say that the guy behind the counter was of middle eastern descent. He had a good enough grasp of the English language to perform his job function. The lady was from Carolina. She too had a good enough grasp of English to perform her job function. I can only assume that she’s from some county that I’ve never heard of, some place that I’d be uncomfortable visiting. I infer these things from their respective accents alone.

She ordered a steak and cheese sandwich. She capped off her laundry list of specifications with a request for “Roah Onions.” To which the man behind the counter gave a quizzical look and asked, “Ruhd Onions?” Not really understanding the man, the woman clarified, “Roooooooaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.” To which the man replied, “Ruuuuhhhhhhdddd?” The lady seemed to blame the man for being foreign. The man, who was probably slightly self-conscious about his second language, probably placed the blame on himself, as well. I, the innocent bystander, couldn’t understand what the hell either of them was trying to say. At this point, the guy, frustrated, reaches under the counter for a paper and pen and attempts to write down her order in front of her. The difference between her “Raw” and his “Red” was then quickly remedied.

It made me wonder about the extent to which the place you’re from informs the person that you are. Clearly, a person from Cairo, Egypt and a person from Nowheresville, North Carolina share little in the way of formative experiences. But what of the difference between someone from Los Angeles and Boston? New York and Dallas? Chicago and Minneapolis? Sure these people don’t sound the same, but what else is going on?

I would venture to guess that if you took 100 random people from each of these cities and mixed them up. Then you had a person interview some of them for like 30 minutes and attempt to identify where they’re from, the guesser would perform well above random. I would say that this would be the case even if you masked the accents.

I’m at a loss in trying to identify the cause of the difference though. It can’t just be weather that makes someone in San Francisco more liberal than someone in Cincinnati. Granted, there’s some self selection involved. So, if you’re super liberal, you’re more likely to move to San Francisco, but how did it originally come to be the case? Is there something in the water?

People from different parts of the county even look different. The girl that works the counter at the New York style deli in my neighborhood physically reminds me of the girls back from growing up in New York. How can this be so? Is there some genetic homogeneity at play here?

Anyway, as I’m considering places to move after I sell my house in the spring, I’m questioning why fans of the St. Louis Cardinals appear to be nicer than fans of the Philadelphia Phillies and wonder whether or not such facts should enter into my calculus. At the very least, I’ll eliminate all the places at which it would be difficult for me to communicate my sandwich order.

Fame: I Wanna Live Forever

I’m generally not taken by celebrity. I don’t read the tabloids. I never watch Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood, or the like. With one exception, I’ve never asked a famous person for an autograph. When I was like 10 years old, I asked then Mets pitcher Pete Shourek for his autograph. Because I was 10, that shouldn’t count. I don’t even know where that piece of paper is today. A lot of ball players walked by me that day without even a wink, so I thought it was pretty cool for Pete to stop and sign my scrap of paper. So cool in fact, that I even forgot what a terrible pitcher he was. Just going to show that kindness does go a long way.


When I was about 6, I had two uncles and an aunt that lived in an apartment complex called “Hollywood” in ghetto-fabulous Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. The sound of random gunshots at night notwithstanding, one of my uncles had me convinced that his apartment complex was the real Hollywood. He even had me believing that then super cool celebrity David Hasselhoff lived downstairs. I was a bit suspicious, because I never saw Kit parked outside, but kids are apt to believe just about anything. While I never made an effort to seek him out, I thought it would be neat to run into him in the hallway. For reasons that would occur to me with age, that never did happen though.

In general, I feel that celebrities should be allowed to live something close to normal lives and I try not to butt in and ask for a handshake or photo. Still, there is something fascinating about a celebrity when you see them in real life.

My regular celebrity run-in is UNC basketball coach Roy Williams. Roy likes to take long walks around town with his assistant coaches quite often. His path takes him from the Dean Dome, around my Circle, then back to the Dome. I see him fairly often, probably once a week. Right now, we have a smile and wave relationship. This is up from just a head nod relationship. On the horizon, I imagine, is the time when hugs may be appropriate, but I’m trying not to rush things. Maybe one day I’ll set up a hoop in my driveway and challenge him to a game of horse. Of course, I’ll have the hoop lowered to 8 feet, so I can show off my dunking prowess. Rarrr! Remember, I have all 4 years of eligibility in-tact. I’m just waiting for some top flight basketball coach to notice.

Numerous Roy run-ins definitely trumps that one time I bumped into JJ Redick at a burrito joint. I wanted to go up to him at the soda fountain and throw my
half-eaten burrito across the room and into the garbage can. I’d then turn to him and raise the famed eyebrow-of-challenge ala the Bird-Jordan McDonalds commercials of the 90’s. Two problems. One, I didn’t want to part with my burrito. Second, I figured there was no way JJ could match that shot, and I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of his lovely blond lady friend. I got your back J.

Right now, I’m having lunch with John Edwards. Granted, we’re sitting at different tables, but it still counts and you know it. First impression: he’s a damn good looking man. He has a sort of glow about him. And I’m not talking about that I-haven’t-showered-in-a-week-and-my-skin-is-oily glow. I’m talking about that rare oh-yeah-I-just-got-out-of-the-shower -30-minutes-ago-see-my-hair-is-still-
damp-and-I-used-a-drying-bar-soap-didn’t- put-on-moisturizer-and-still-look-at- my-beauty-shine-shine-shine kinda glow. A few people have come up to him to say hello. This one girl was a law student – I could tell by the unmistakable red binding of the giant book she was carrying. They apparently know each other because they asked about each other’s families. The other person was a handicapped guy that works here. Here’s how the conversation went:

Dude: “Hello. Thanks for coming to see the World’s Best Olympics. Do you remember meeting me there?”
John: “When was that?”
Dude: “At the World’s Best Olympics.”
John: (hesitantly) “I think I might.”
Dude: “Do you mind people coming up and talking to you?”
John: “No. Not at all. I wouldn’t be a politician if I did. Thanks for stopping by and saying hello.”

I must say, that was a pretty neat way to handle the situation. Of course he didn’t remember the guy, but how could he say that? “I think I might” is no non-committal. Not the truth, sure, but not a lie either. Do they teach that at politician school? Or did he pick that up at law school? Ha! And yes, I’m completely eavesdropping. Anyhow, I wish people would stop interrupting so we can get back to our lunch. He’s telling us this story about Roy Williams, UNC basketball, and the game of horse oddly enough. We’re two peas in a pod, John and I. Apparently, he challenged last year’s NCAA tourney MVP and resident used car salesman Sean May to a game of horse last year. The only rule was that there was no dunking. A little known fact is that John Edwards can shoot the rock. Long story short, John won. He has a DVD to prove it. And a programming note, highlights from the DVD will be shown during the Duke-UNC game later this season.

John just left, so it’s a natural time to end this entry. Lesson of the day? Always carry a basketball, because you never know when a famous person will challenge you to a game of horse.

Lover's Greed

Presently listening to "Magazine" by Jump Little Children. I've been getting good milage out of this cd. (Thanks L!) They're a bit like Guster, but better. I only like a few of Guster's songs, but these Jump folks appear to have it going. I've never heard the following song, but dig the lyrics.


Lover's Greed

What is it in nature which lends its hand
To the tongues of young wondering lovers in flight,
That by the silent mood of a dying word
A scythe was taught to moan and to write?

What is it that is left for the blushing cheek
To blink the lips of a blooming rose,
When lovers' eyes as black as summer crows
Picked the blackened rose that they seeked?

What has not been taken by a lover's greed?
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?

What then from all the vine and seed?
On the fragant air of spring they feed.
They come in swarms of two, like me and you,
Fattened by the love that they need.

What has not been taken by a lover's greed?
What has not been taken by a lover's greed?

On and on they come
Forever saying I would die without you.
In the chasm of these eyes, nothing satisfies.
Staring into the starry-eyed infinite.

Can't get enough of it
Can't get enough...
Can't get enough of it
Can't get enough...


Why is it then my pen should stall
When by your wondrous eyes I shake?
When we, this world is ours to take

What has not been taken by a lover's greed?

In Praise of the Dime

I haven’t had much time to write lately, because I’ve been busy with work. Blogging, for me at least, has two components. First, you need to set aside the time to write. Second, and equally important, you need to have some down time to brainstorm. Each of these things has been tough to come by for the last two weeks or so, but I’m making it a point this afternoon to take a long lunch and write.

I try not to write about sports much on this thing for fear that once I get started that’s all I’d do. I did come across this article though about which I’d like to comment. It basically illustrates the “Kobe effect.” For those that don’t know, Kobe Bryant, shooting guard for the LA Lakers, scored 81 points the other day. He shot the ball 46 times in 42 minutes. Just as there’s no “I” in “team,” there isn’t a “Kobe” either. Sadly, now all the kids in high school are trying to be Kobe, jacking up shot after shot. The very fact that such performances get lauded as great games further confirms the notion that our society is individualistic to a fault.

In both my (arguably) illustrious intramural sports career and as a career spectator, I’ve concluded that the most difficult thing to do in team sports is to make others better. The frustration involved is often expressed in the phrase, “Give me my dime!” A “dime” in basketball slang in an assist. Let’s say you set up a guy perfectly for an easy dunk or layup, say, and he totally blows it. Had he converted the easy shot, you would have been credited with an assist. Due to his gaff, you get nothing, hence the frustrated exclamation, c’mon, give me my dime! Or, in other words, convert the easy shot I worked so hard to create for you, dummy!

In short, assists are far more valuable than points, if only in their scarcity. Adam Morrison is leading college hoops in scoring at 29 points per game. Meanwhile, the top assists leaders in the country average between 6 and 8 per game. Still, assists is an incredibly crude and inaccurate measure for how good you’re making your teammates. Think about it. We don’t even have a statistic to measure what I’m taking about! One might argue that such a nebulous thing is difficult to quantify, but I think the problem is much deeper. Regardless, because we do not have the vocabulary to describe these random acts of kindness on the court or field, such acts go unnoticed, which makes it difficult to sensationalize, which makes it difficult to market, which means that youngens aren’t likely to emulate such things.

I believe this point has applicability to every day life. I haven’t exactly worked it out yet, but I’ll try to do so on the fly but I reserve the right to revisit the issue later.

One of the most interesting discussions I witnessed in law school was about the bystander effect. Basically, a group of individuals is less likely to do anything to stop the brutal rape they are witnessing than an individual. In a sense, responsibility diffuses over the group so thinly than no individual is moved to action. People tend to think of right and wrong strictly in terms of their own individuality. However, individual morality does not function well in groups. Mobs are moved to do (or refrain from) things than no individual in that mob would do.

Still, there is such a thing as group morality. There must be, for we see that individual morality is inadequate for group situations. And all it requires is slight paradigm shift from thinking about life as an individual sport to thinking of it as a team sport.

Growing up, my mom would always tell me to keep “good friends.” Not only that, when I made a new friend, she would ask me whether that person kept “good friends.” My mother isn’t the most articulate of people, but I understood what she meant. I thought. I shrugged it off as my mother being judgmental. After 25 years of life, I finally get it. I think.

Imagine the people around you as teammates. Some teammates will be like Kobe, people for whom individual success is paramount. Some teammates will be bystanders. In the long run, they won’t make you any better, and they may even make you worse. If those people are all you have, you’re unlikely to achieve greatness. What these people share in common is that they do not have a group-morality or a team-mindset and their individual morality is inapposite for the circumstances. The very group setting is like a weight around the ankle, hindering the player from reaching the heights of his individual greatness. You can see how trying to play one-on-one with ten people on the court may be problematic.

But imagine surrounding yourself with a bunch of team-players; a collective whole much greater than its parts, a bunch of mediocre players sharing in greatness. These people pick you up when you’re down, they inspire and motivate you. They ‘assist’ you in life. As such, they make you better than you ever could have been as an individual.

I’m wondering if I’ve befriended such people. I wonder if I am such a person to others. Do the people around me encourage me to be a mere bystander? Is someone else taking all the shots ala Kobe? Are they holding me down or lifting me up? Do I set up my teammates for success? Do I make the most of opportunities given to me by others? I’m not sure if I adequately give or receive such assists, but I’ve just now come to realize their place in life and relationships. The movie “The Legend of Bagger Vance” suggested that golf can be an allegory for life. What my mom was trying to say is that life is more appropriately likened to a team sport, like basketball. That is, living life is far easier if you have people trying to help you succeed. She wanted me to befriend those people. And it may have taken me a good 15 or 20 years to understand the lesson, but thanks ma, here’s your dime.