Charlie's Angels

The Running of The Bulls

How appropriate that I am writing this on my way to Chicago. I did not think of this when I chose the topic, but now that I am airborne I find it comical. I am on a plane on my way to Chicago and I am writing about the Bulls, well actually the bull, but you get the point.

I am on a United flight from Sacramento to Chicago, and our flight was delayed an hour while waiting for plane and crew. I really do not mind delays, as long as I am not connecting anywhere. The only part that gets to me is watching all of the IDIOTS in the terminal. In “Death of Common Courtesy” I may have mentioned air travelers, but today I wanted to be slightly more specific. They are all rude, ignorant, arrogant, IDIOTS. Obviously not all, but the three people I have met traveling that aren’t will no doubt understand me including everyone.

I used to fly a fair amount – read 120 flights a year, almost 700,000 miles in about six and a half years – and I absolutely loved the travel. The only time I would get at all stressed was when I had to listen to people screaming at gate agents because it was raining. I realize gate agents are powerful people, if you are nice to them you can find yourself in first class without knowing why, and if you are grumpy with them you will probably wind up in the back of the plane, last row middle seat, they do not control the weather however!! I will repeat myself, they do not control the weather.

Here is another one, they also would prefer that you not get into a broken plane and try to take off. I know that is weird of them, but they are funny people that way. Gate agents would prefer that no one die. Premier travelers who like to act like they travel a lot and therefore know more than the gate agents, the pilots, the mechanics, anyone really, do not understand this concept.

I will take a minute to explain why I pick on Premier travelers. There are a number of different levels of “status” within United’s Mileage Plus program, as there is with American, Delta and most of the other major airlines. If you travel over 100,000 miles a year, the airlines believe that should give you significant perks and I would have to agree, that is a lot of flying, roughly Boston to San Fran and back twenty times in a year. If you were to travel from Boston to Chicago a lot, you would have to make that trip fifty times a year to be a “1k” traveler. You can probably now see why some perks are worthwhile. If you travel half as much, still a fair amount, you are a Premier Executive, they like you too. If you travel a few times a year you can reach Premier status which means that send you something to make you feel good about yourself, but stacked up behind the 1ks and the Premier Execs you are not going to get much, but if you ever heard the expression “give a little man a little power…” those are Premier flyers.

Enough explaining. While waiting for flights I have trouble sitting down, well really anytime. I like to pace, as often as possible, but I am aware of the fact that my pacing in a gate area could be annoying to people so I usually try to find a neighboring gate that is not active and put my stuff down there and commence pacing. Sometimes, when it is really busy in the terminal, I will find the farthest corner from the gate and set my stuff down and lean against a wall out of the way. That is where I was from around 12:30 today until around 2:00 PM. I had the opportunity to watch roughly 600 people, half traveling to Chicago, and half traveling to Denver, be rude to each other for an hour and a half. The good news, I guess, is that I can report that none of them had any idea there were other people there, so they didn’t really no they were being rude, I guess.

The best, or worst, example I can give you is when the plane for the Denver flight arrived, full, and none of the mass of six hundred even attempted to make room for those folks to get through. Not even when a very nice hung man in a neon vest moving wheel chairs through did anyone go out of their way. Hey said “coming through” in a very pleasant tone, and no one moved, not an inch, he just kept saying it gently, kept creeping towards the exit, and slowly, as the lead wheelchair, he was pushing two people at one time, started to bump into people, the masses started to realize there “hey, I am not alone.” But very slowly, and not for long.

The next example just simply made me laugh. There were two 1k travelers, both wearing about a thousand dollars worth of clothing, and both rambling away, in very deep, important tones, lined up to get on the Denver flight. Not that the Denver flight was going to board anytime soon, it was scheduled to board twenty minutes after the Chicago flight, but they both really wanted to be first. I was standing very near them and actually had to ikeep myself from laughing. After the Chicago flight was almost finished boarding, the woman working the Denver gate, her last name was Hitzler, but she said just call me Hitler, I had no response to that, especially since she was a very pleasant, helpful, and knowledgeable woman who had been working for United for twenty two years. Miss Hitzler opened the door to the jetway for the Denver flight in order to help a woman in a wheel chair onto the plane early, and these two, thousand dollar men, both shuffled forward towards the rope, which was keeping them from their comfy leather first class seats. The other three hundred folks that were eagerly awaiting the stale air that is traveling in the “friendly skies,” ALL followed suit, and all I could think about was “the running of the bulls” in Pamplona. The only difference is that I would have to say that the actual bulls are a bit more polite, maybe even a bit more than a bit.

Thank you again for getting this far with me.

TBD

Golden Girls

“Picture it, Sicili 1942,” well no not really, but I love the little old Italian mother in Golden Girls.

Anyway, picture it, Long Island, 1995. Mob wedding, not really, but it makes it a better story. A very good, crazy, wacky, goofy, friend of mine married into the family, sorry, a family, from Long Island, pronounced, luong guyland. I would like to say he did it for love, but come on, he is now running a very large business, actually two, owns his own plane, races sail boats in “the” city, and travels constantly. Sur, he did it for love.

This weekend started off great, we were running late. “We,” stands for the second really bad choice, according to my father. Were always running late, and by saying we, I mean she. Man this women could not be on time, could not plan to be on time, and oh by the way, it was always my fault. She also had a friend with her, staying in the next room, if she had been cuter this would be a different story entirely. They were both running late. I vaguely remember the two of them both in my room while we were getting ready trying on shoes and deciding on outfits, isn’t that something one usually decides prior to going away for the weekend to a wedding?

Anyway, once we got to the point of no return and then some I made them get in the car with their stuff because we just simply did not have time to wait anymore. I am driving on the Long Island Expressway, using every lane, including the breakdown lane, and the service lane – read breakdown lane to the left of the car pool lane, up against Jersey barrier. They are both getting “ready,” meaning dressed, as I break the sound barrier, and multiple traffic laws, all at one time. Do you have any idea how hard it is to drive in that kind of traffic, and in that fashion, with half naked women in the car? Read that any way you want.

So living through that experience, we arrived at the church just in the nick of time, and with me in a very bad mood. Ok, I was pissed. This is one of the most important people in my life, the friend getting married, not the girl, and we are arriving at his wedding as his bride is preparing to walk down the aisle. They said “I do,” hours later, I do not like long wedding ceremonies, and then we headed off to the reception. The reception for some unknown reason was an hour and a half after the wedding, and half an hour from the church.

We did the math, and decided that by the time the reception started, and everyone was there, it would be a long time before dinner was served so we should stop and get some food. I decided that we should try t find the deli that was around the corner from where my mother’s mother used to live. We did. Bought so much amazing food, and ate likes kings, and queens, on the way to the reception. This was not a good decision.

I found out shortly thereafter that we were also not well informed. This was a “black and white” wedding, which means that everyone was dressed to the “nines,” and that there was no expense spared at all. As people arrived at the reception they were greeted by a tall thin man in tails, and he would take your keys, hand them to the hired help, and they would park your car. You then walked through an amazing tunnel of ached iron and white lace, lit by white candles. The tunnel was about fifty yards long, and at the end you came into a pool house straight from a Hollywood set. There was a gigantic main pool, a hot tub in each corner, and a pasta station about every ten feet around the outside.

Once inside the food started immediately as you could have any kind of pasta fixed for you in just about any way, and this was just the appetizers. About two hours after we arrived we were seated for dinner, and a two hour long seven course meal was served. This was an amazing affair.

As we were eating our dessert my friends and I began plotting our attack. Were whispering and making eye contact and being very sly, at least we thought we were. All of a sudden my friend stood up from his seat at the head table and started sprinting back towards the pool house. We all followed immediately on a dead run. He had us by ten yards, but since he knew we were not going to stop he had already decided this was going to be on his terms. He did a perfect spread eagle as he went airborne into the pool. I managed to get my jacket off in transit and followed right behind. Soon there were a dozen of us in the pool, all in tuxes. Before long this was coed, and at least I had the decency to leave my slacks on, but only my slacks.

A little while later my girlfriend, or mistake number two, wanted to speak with me so I climbed out of the pool. Her friend was there as well, and I was speaking to both of them, facing them with my back to the pool. The next thing I remember is the feel of wet skin being pressed up against my back. A spy had been sent to sabotage my evening. This spy was not wearing much at all, that would be considered an understatement, and she was cold. Naturally she thought pressing herself up against a warm man was the logical decision. I had no real objection, but I also did not know this woman, nor did I see her coming from the pool. Nonetheless, this was my fault.

This was the most amazing wedding I have ever attended, and the most absurd reason I can think of for getting in trouble with a girlfriend, but then again my dad was right.

Thank you again for getting this far with me.

To Fly

At the Smithsonian there is a movie called “To Fly” that was their first movie and done extremely well in the now ever popular IMAX format, or whatever the equivalent was then that made your nauseous to watch. It was also a movie that was filmed, at least the opening, and some of the early flight scenes were filmed, at the Sugarbush Airport, in Warren, Vermont, which was a very short strip of very firm grass, and then later rolled gravel and maybe now a bit of asphalt. The beginning was filmed there with a little “band stand,” and a four piece band made to look like the band members were from the period of time when the first balloon flight was made. My brother was the trumpet player in that opening, and so we as a family went to the Smithsonian a long, long time ago to see the film. I stared at the floor most of the time, as did my grandmother, because the movement really bothered us.

This piece has absolutely nothing to do with that movie.

“…I get sick when I fly because I am afraid the plane will crash. I don’t think Dramamine will help.” Yet another quote from a favorite movie of mine and one that is very relevant to me. No I am not afraid to fly, I used to feel sick when I flew when I was younger, but now I have flown so much that it does not bother me. I am perhaps afraid to “fly.”

“…take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to arise.” The Beatles knew something. They actually knew a lot of things about everything, but this is “bang on” as some would say from whence they came. Sorry I slipped there for a minute.

What if the moment has long since arisen and you didn’t know it, or missed it, or worse yet ignored it? What if the moment arose and you were all the time expecting a different moment? What if the moment arose and you knew it, felt it, were ready for it, but could not get yourself, allow yourself, to “fly.”

All these things are a concern to me, and much, much more. When we are younger, at least for me, sometimes moments come and go and we are unaware, or we let them go by, or we may see one and run after it with everything we have and ride the updraft as long as our wings will take us with all the energy and passion and reckless abandon of youth, and if it was the wrong moment, or if you hadn’t quite figured it out, or if we just didn’t have our “broken wings” fully healed it really didn’t matter because we would try again sometime soon.

As we get older, the wings take longer to heal, we do not notice the moments as readily, and the reckless abandon has long since abandon us, or at least some of us. Some would call it the “eye of the tiger,” and yes I am both dating myself and stereotyping myself all at the same time, but it is something real that either goes away completely, or at least feels that way.

How do you continue to take new risks, in career, in relationships, in life in general? How do you continue to put yourself out there, leave the cat at home by herself, and take chances? I wish I knew the answers, and I wish for me it was just a getting older thing.

There are people, I have known a lot of them and a bunch of them are friends of mine, that do not have the “chip” in their heads that says “hey wait a minute this is too big a risk,” or “ what if this doesn’t work,” or worse yet, “you can’t pull this off.” I respect the hell out of the friends of mine that have just kept moving forward and taking risks and either not worrying about what may go wrong, or perhaps knowing that they simply had to make it work, but they have just continued to have success. I wish I could be in their heads for some period of time, just to see what it feels like to feel that way.

It is not that I have not had success. In fact, as I have mentioned before, I have had enough success over the years to be on my third life, but I also know I have let some moments go along the way that a purely confident person would have just jumped at. I am the most insecure person I know that has ever had a job telling people how to do what they do better. Whether it be coaching, teaching, consulting, producing, it does not matter what I have done, those are all professions where you tell people what to do, how to do it, and you point out when there is room for improvement because you are aiming for as close to perfection as possible. How does one do these things if they are less than perfect, especially significantly less than perfect?

I have no answers, but something a mentor of mine once said to me a long time ago, about fifteen years to be precise, seems very appropriate here, “if you think you are not doing a job well, like you have just been faking it, if you have been feeling that way for more than six months you are no longer faking it.” There is a more famous quote, and more succinct, “fake it ‘till you make it.” I am going be a year older in a week and that is a year older than old, so I must be good at faking something by now, but I would still like to find a way to truly “spread – these – broken wings and learn to fly.”

There are so many more “moments” I would still like to capture.

Thank you again for getting this far with me.

The Twighlight Zone

It is a beautiful, wintery Sunday morning in central Vermont. The stoves are all going. The fireplace is lit. Pachelbel‘s Cannon in D is coming through the sound system. My wife and children are setting the table for our traditional family brunch. Everyone is comfortably attired and cable knit sweaters abound as there is no other way to keep warm on mornings such as these.

A foot of new snow has fallen over night, and the trees’ branches are heavy with the weight of the snow, while they sparkle in the morning sun. The contrast of the bright white off the trees and the bright blue of the winter sky is almost too much on the eyes, and the temperature, as the skies cleared and the warmth of the fresh snow went with it, is once again in single digits.

If you look closely at the fresh snow surrounding the house you can see little tracks of the animals that have ventured out to find whatever food they can buried deep under the snow. This is the kind of morning when “sugar on snow” is at its best. We have not made it in a long while, but maybe later this morning. For those that don’t know, sugar on snow is when you take an area of clean, fresh snow, and you poor fresh, hot maple syrup over it. As you pour the hot syrup over the crisp, clean snow there is an instant reaction as the syrup literally cools around the snow and you wind up with maple crystals that are just delicious.

Meanwhile in the kitchen I am doing my best to please all parties, this is not a large family, just me, my wife, two girls and a boy, ages 12, 9, and 7, but this is a “high maintenance” family at times. I am in the process of making pancakes, waffles, and three omelets, not to mention wheat, rye, white toast, and two English muffins. Oh yeah, and home fries of course, no shredded potatoes here, these are huge chunks of potato, seasoning, butter, and onions all slow cooked together on the griddle. Maybe I should have opened the diner.

This is the perfect way to spend the perfect wintery Sunday morning in Central Vermont, at least it would have been.

Instead, the last three winters the lowest temperature I have seen is thirty three degrees and that was by traveling ten hours, and it was in mid-March. The only snow I have seen has been on Christmas day each of those three winters, again by traveling to go and find snow.

It was 109 ° yesterday, in the shade. Three years ago, almost to the day, I landed in the Twilight Zone, actually I drove into it, and there does not appear to be a way out. Maybe I will just write my way out. The family above, and the Sundays spent with them hasn’t happened yet. It is all very clear in my mind, and has been all my life, just not yet a reality. Maybe some day soon.

Thank you again for getting this far

Love American Style

“Better Than Chocolate” is a love story, sort of. It is a story about family, sort of. It is an independent film, sort of. Better Than Chocolate is a love story as long as you can let go of whatever preconceived notions you have about love, and relationships, and especially the traditional love story. The same can be said about the portion of this movie that is supposed to be about family, it is, but not in the traditional way. This is an independent film only in the fact that is was made by “independents,” and not by a major studio, but this film is beautifully director, beautifully filmed and exquisitely acted, not to mention that the camera is not rotated thirty five degrees for any of the shots just to pretend to have artistic integrity. Sorry, but I support the idea of independent films being made to tell stories that big studios won’t touch because of a lack of “political correctness,” and I support independent films being made to give writers, directors, and actors a certain amount of creative freedom, I just have trouble with independent films that are made to look like they are overly creative, or made on a budget, “artsy.” This film is just a really well done movie.

Sarah McLachlan’s “Ice Cream” is used for the end credits, and if you know the lyrics, or listen to them after this, you will know that this was chosen for obvious reasons. I was glad Ice Cream was chosen because I very much enjoy her music and I had allowed myself to forget this. Her music is so easy to listen to, her voice so soothing. At one point I had all of her “albums,” but with each relationship CDs vaporize, DVDs cease to exist, and bank accounts shrivel. That is just the way life is, and so I am without so much of the music I once enjoyed. Thank god for Last.fm. If you do not know Last.fm please Google it when you are done reading.

I also watched a “blockbuster” earlier today, my typical Sunday. I watched a movie called “Knowing.” The only reason I watched the entire movie was because I wanted to see just how bad it could get. This was Nicholas Cage, and every time I see one of his movies I find myself wondering what he did to get to be so popular in Hollywood. Nicholas Cage can’t act. In the movie Face Off where he and John Travolta play characters that have their faces switched, what you end up with is an actor with real talent, John Travolta’s face and Nicholas Cage’s mannerisms. Travolta does a great job mimicking the ways of Nicholas Cage; thankfully he does not mimic the way Cage acts.

Anyway, Knowing is a story that if done well could have been really entertaining, but it had action scenes that were nowhere near the quality of a Die Hard, or even a Money Train, and they used CGI, computer graphic imaging, in spots where is was not needed, not appropriate, and/or poorly done. It really was a shame to see because I do think that this story could have been quite enjoyable.

Enough of the movie thoughts for today. My day started with a check of the Tour de France, and unfortunately it appears that Lance is too old. Not that I will count him out until all of the mountain stages are done, and the individual time trial, but when it came time for the duel at the top of the mountain, Alberto Contador did to Lance what Lance is used to doing to others, took off and left everyone behind. Contador is a little more than a minute and a half ahead now and Lance is sounding like he is beaten. It would have been nice to see one successful return, which I guess says a lot right there when Lance is in second place and has a good chance to finish that way and I am viewing that as not successful, but when you get accustomed to a certain outcome by a certain athlete, anything less is a not acceptable.

The same was true of Tiger on Friday when he missed the cut of the British Open, but that was not the news there. Tom Watson winning his sixth British Open title and becoming the oldest man ever to win a major title was the big news, that is until his putt for par on the 18th hole, or really the 72nd hole, went just slightly astray. Watson then he wound up in a playoff that went terribly wrong. I don’t know that there was anyone rooting for Stewart Cink, the eventually winner, and unfortunately when he did win he became the Villain, but how could anyone root against a fifty nine year old Tom Watson who was simply amazing on day one, steady on day two and three, and then did just enough through seventeen and a half holes on Sunday to win.

This has been a tough weekend for nostalgia nuts, a tough weekend for sentimental favorites, a tough weekend for those that root for the underdog, but I guess that is why they are underdogs.

Thank you again for getting this far with me.