It turns out that, along with the oft used feature of control-clicking a selected word to spellcheck or look up the definition of it, you can hit ‘esc’ when you’ve partially type a word, select the word from a list of words that being with the typed letters, and continue on with your writing.

It’s very complimentary. And a little freaky, too.

Of the 10-20 or so people i might imagine visiting this site, most have, at one time or another, left a comment or written me an email or talked to me about something I’ve written. So that leaves about 80% of the entry views being of unaccounted origin.

Some are probably casual readers, stopping by due to some misplaced search result, but I suspect there’s more. I suspect there’s people out there, friends, ex-friends, old flames, or casual acquaintances that enjoy reading my occasional rant, or more likely, enjoy watching me squirm with my own inner demons. I think they visit frequently enough, read what I have to say while standing perfectly still, breathing as quietly as possible so as not to make a sound or alert me to their presence.

Fortunately, the voices in my head tell me it’s just my imagination. And I trust them. Well, all but one of them, anyway.

;-)

PS: Bonus points to the first person to comment on and identify the actor and movie the image for this post is taken from.

You know you work at Apple when you’re right.

What is TED? Per the TED website:

TED stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design. It started out (in 1984) as a conference bringing together people from those three worlds. Since then its scope has become ever broader. The annual conference now brings together the world’s most fascinating thinkers and doers, who are challenged to give the talk of their lives (in 18 minutes).

This collection is in no means narrow in their focus. There’s a broad palette to choose from, everything from Technology, Entertainment, Design, Business, Science, Culture, Arts, Global issues and so much more.

You could spend hours here. And you should.

The speeches are available on the TED website to watch online or to save to your desktop, as are the audio files as well. In addition, a large number of the videos are available as free podcast downloads on iTunes. You can even subscribe to receive future postings as well.

Having seen only a handful so far, I wanted to recommend the following. Mouse over for a brief description.

I remember it, though. I remember it vividly.

I can still see it, from the vantage point of sitting behind the drivers seat of my father’s chocolate brown Peugeot. I can still smell the musty aged scent of leaking oil that burned off the engine as the fumes crept into the passenger section. I can feel the strained rumbling of the engine as it would unevenly idle at stop lights, and I can hear the rattling of the loose fitting windows as they vibrated in time to the motion of the pistons. I can feel the aged and cracking leather seats beneath my legs, the minor crevasses revealing an aging yellow padding, inviting a young boy with restless fingers to mindlessly pick away at the opening while trying to maintain the appearance of sitting idle within the scope of the rear view mirror. I can see the dusty woodgrained console, the large balled shifter between the two front seats, and my father’s worn and tattered tan attache case, the corner folds of the openings echoing the same distress as the seats upon which I sit.

Look at this thing. Could it be more “Bond”?

I see the close cut hair on the back of his neck, the worn crew neck white t-shirt that symbolized a Saturday of lawn care, sporadic errands, and on the rare occasion, a stop at “Cupids“. I can still make out the dark sun tan along his forearm as it extended routinely out the window, peppered with freckles. It’d rest along the top edge of the door when not in use, but instinctively jut out when turning left, up when turning right, and routinely draw back inside to momentarily position the burning Kent cigarette to his mouth before being returned to it’s resting position against the surface of the door.

I don’t recall if the vehicle didn’t have signals, or if it did but they were defective. I suspect it was simply a habitual reflex. I’m almost certain, as I remember seeing that same series of gestures when riding in his Triumph as well as other cars to follow.

Seeing the man in the car ahead of me took me back to those moments. It was almost as if I was watching him again. And it gave me cause to contemplate the eventual demise of my father’s generation, and with it, that habit and that direct experience association. The fact is that, at one time, this was simply how it was done. It wasn’t until the 40′s that cars started to have them, so it was likely something he picked up from observation or necessity. If you’ll pardon the unintentional pun, it’s something he and his peers learned to do ‘first hand’.

But that’s fading away. Along with so many things that have come and gone, and served their purpose, replaced and improved upon, it’ll gradually go the way of the tube driven television and radio, the rabbit ear antennas, and the reel-to-reel tape player I saw on in our living room shelves. The heavy leather attachés of their time are all but gone with the exception of the occasional spotting at an antique stores. The large cast iron and steel Underwood Typewriter? That’s a piece of history as well, right along side the relative predominance of a true fountain pen.

And as things are improved and these old items become obsolete, the people that knew them as a way of life gradually age and pass away, taking with them another piece of the fabric that not only knows our history, but actually lived it.

It’ll happen to us as well, but in the mean time, in the interest of keeping alive the legacy and the respect for the heritage, take time to reflect on how many things that were a part of our childhood, or that of our parents, are completely removed from the experience of today.

It’s humbling to consider at will, let alone at a moments notice, when an obscure gesture bring about a nostalgic reminiscence of a “time not quite gone by” just yet, but clearly on it’s way.

If you’re a man, you’re laughing. If you’re a married man you’re likely filing this away in your head for your own use when the opportunity presents itself. If you’re neither, you’re glaring at my website right now with the same “Drop dead, asshole” look I got when I first said this.

It was a joke! How can I have turned away such a perfectly timed setup?

Opportunities like these, you don’t pass up.

And yes, I’m still apologizing.

Early Tuesday morning, August 28th, there’s going to be a colorful lunar eclipse visible from five continents including most of North America. The event begins 54 minutes past midnight PDT on August 28th when the Moon enters Earth’s shadow. At first, there’s little change. The outskirts of Earth’s shadow are as pale as the Moon itself; an onlooker might not even realize anything is happening. But as the Moon penetrates deeper, a startling metamorphosis occurs. Around 2:52 am PDT the color of the Moon changes from moondust-gray to sunset-red. This is totality, and it lasts for 90 minutes.

For example, take an event from this week week in Salem, Oregon. If you’re not a part of that community, or if you don’t know anybody living there, the discovery of a woman’s body on an early morning by a dog walker in a neighborhood park, would not ring a bell. I’m certain that, every month in every city in every state of our country, things like this happen, they’re news for a day or two, they impact the locals momentarily, and things move forward with little or no consequences. This stuff seems common place enough that it doesn’t make the ‘mainstream’ media. Why would it? It happens all the time. Right?

But sometimes, one can make a connection if they stop long enough, regardless of whether or not they’re personally involved, and consider the incident with less detachment. The broader and more dramatic the events, such as school shootings, famine related deaths and systematic genocide clearly strike harder and louder than say, in comparison, the discovery a a lone body as in this story. But ultimately, there’s something to be learned about our own lives, our humanity, and our how we’re all somehow connected, through such a circumstance.

I’ve had a personal recollection about a trip I made to this very area of Salem outlined in my ‘drafts to polish and publish‘ collection of website entries for some time. I’m now completing it, prompted by this particular story and the whole theme of connections. I’m actually staying up all night if that’s what it takes. This is that important to me. I have to act on this now. It’s a long one, one that took place over 15 years ago. And it’s all true.

It’s brought to it’s completion now by the simple observation, if not the hope, that the otherwise “routine events” such as the one mentioned above can give us all a reason to reflect a bit more on them when they happen, and how directly or indirectly, they might impact our lives.

I hope you’ll read on.

The Background
My Aunt Violet and her daughter lived in Salem. Violet passed away last year from Cancer, with my Mother and their sister Paula at her side. I’d only talked to her on rare occasions over the past few years, but I’d spent a full week with her and my cousin Monica back in 1991, when I took off for a 6 week adventure, driving a convertible Fiat to Alberta, Canada and back.

It was only my intention to stay and visit with them for a day, but when my transmission completely stopped functioning on the freeway, about 20 miles outside of Salem, my plans changed, and my visit lengthened. Unable to shift out of 2nd gear, I managed to make the long drive at a snails pace with hazard lights blinking and arrived at their door.

Monica and her son Derrick lived with Violet at the time. Violet opened her home to me for the duration of time it took for me to get my car fixed. Monica’s boyfriend, Jimmy, who drove a red SUV bearing the same name, had some ‘connections’ with mechanics and offered to help me find a good deal on the repair costs. It was a trying time, as I was not working and had no steady income, so finances were tight, but my options were limited and I was en route to meet some good friends in Calgary for some exploring of the Alberta wilderness. A rendezvous I wanted to keep. And with the delay of the week, I still had a chance of making it.

In between arranging for the repairs and awaiting parts, I spent time with Violet and her partner C.J., taking about family and life experiences, and with Monica and Jimmy, hanging out drinking where Monica was waiting tables and going jet-skiing in a nearby river underneath the Center St. Bridge. Coincidentally, a bridge that was just a scant 2 miles away from the aforementioned park where that body was found earlier this week.

The Signs
In my earliest childhood, Violet had lived with us for some time, with Monica as a baby. My earliest clear and succinct memory is of Violet lifting me from a playpen. Monica was a playmate and always around for our family gatherings during those early years. During that week in Salem I’d gotten to know a bit more about Monica and Jimmy, and ended up getting caught up in an unexpected scam. Monica’s history included some drug related difficulties, but she’d cleaned up, was focused on caring for her son Derrick, and getting her life on track. Jimmy was an extremely likable guy, but I came to learn that many of their friends partied heavily, and he’d had his own struggles in this area as well.

I remember one particular stop we made one day in his red Jimmy. We went to see some friends of his at their house. It was in a run down part of town, and he was very direct in making me aware of the fact that they didn’t trust strangers, and not to do anything but come in, sit down, and wait for him. When we walked in there was one or two guys sitting on sofa’s and another standing in a kitchen opening. They were clearly agitated at my presence and Jimmy immediately assured them that I was cool, explaining the relation and calming their nerves. Then Jimmy and the third guy disappeared for what seemed like at least an hour, while I sat there with Zeek and Zed, afraid to say a word, the sound of a clock ticking echoing in my head, poised and ready to run out the door at the first sign of trouble.

The Setup
Jimmy did eventually return and we left promptly. On the drive back he explained that they were growing a crop of marijuana in the basement. A crop of what he refereed to as “The Kind”, a premium and highly valuable strain of cannabis. He detailed out all the little nuances of how they had to manage growing, containing power usage which sets off flags at the Electric Company, and how much money there was to be made. We talked about this in detail over beers, steaks and baked potatoes at a nearby strip bar. Yes, I actually sat ring side as a pole dancer gyrated above me while I cut through a fat riddled overcooked sirloin and ate a butter soaked spud while discussing the intricacies of growing and selling pot. And the money to be made. It was like something out of a Soprano’s episode.

And I was being “Had”. And at the time, the opportunity to get “in on the ground floor” of a potential 10x return on the investment of as little as $1,000 seemed like an ideal situation for somebody out of work and taking time to adventure a little. I didn’t see it as a big moral deal, although I’m a little more conscious of this today. At the time I figured that I’d be in the harmless and removed position of doing a bit of advanced funding, reaping significant returns with little or no risk.

If it’d just been Jimmy laying this out to me I’d have been less inclined to get involved, but I talked in length with Monica about it, and she assured me this was a great opportunity, a relative sure-thing. Pun intended. And with those reassurances and the potential, I took the bait.

The Take
When I returned from completing my trip to Canada and back, I got a call from Jimmy saying they were starting the effort and I needed to send the $1,000.00. I’d like to pretend to have been apprehensive about doing so and wary about the risks, but I didn’t think there were any and I’d removed myself from any direct association from the actions. I was rationalizing, true. But I did move forward and I did send the money.

About two weeks later I received a call from a very upbeat sounding Jimmy. Things were going well, they were getting everything in place and this was going to be a big payoff. But they needed more money to front things, as it’d been more costly up front then expected. Now, I started to get nervous. I asked to talk to Monica, and she walked me through the situation, assuring me that this was still a sure thing and all was going well, and that they’d not take advantage of family and risk my investment if it were not a certain win. So with some trepidation but remaining desirous that this all worked out, I gulped and sent another $1,000.00.

The Drop
Two weeks later and I’d not heard anything in return. My calls were not returned when messages were left and the phone was typically not answered. I was stuck and I couldn’t risk her Mom getting wise to my being involved in something unsavory, so I had to contain the desperation of my efforts to reach them and find out what was happening.

Eventually, several weeks down the line, I did manage to catch Jimmy on the phone. He was as upbeat as usual, very positive and optimistic, while I was pissed off and intensely freaked out. I all but demanded my money be returned, pressing to the point that he clearly stopped trying to contain my concerns and flat out said I’d have to wait and let this come together as planned.

That was the last time I talked to him. I’ve never talked to her or seen her again since then. And that was over 15 years ago.

The Fallout
I learned within the year that she and Jimmy were doing drugs again, and she was in and out of jail and rehab programs. I’ve carried a grudge about it to this very day. I felt betrayed beyond words, that somebody I shared infancy with, childhood with and blood with might go so far as to con me.

In many ways, the whole situation reminded me of the movie “Drugstore Cowboy”, where the main characters are junkies, and where there’s absolutely nothing of value to them beyond the next high. Responsibly does not exist and funding a fix is the driving force in their lives. Family connections are not important, hell, friends and co-junkies are disposable, as illustrated by the scene in which a character portrayed by Heather Graham OD’s, and their only action is to abandon the body in a home they broke into.

The Connection
When I’ve thought of Monica and Jimmy, I’ve been reminded of these characters. And when I’d hear stories of her through the family grapevine, of her drug abuse, I’d have an almost “serves you right” view on things. Yet still, when I’d hear she was trying to clean up, I’d empathetically wish her well in my mind, still angry at the betrayal but compassionate enough to recognize that there’s an illness and addiction at work.

I’ve long since gotten over the loss of the money, and accepted the betrayal. Only now, I have to accept her death.

The body found in the park this week was Monica. My cousin. She was 43 years old. She was found face up off a trail by a dog walker. The circumstances were reported as “Suspicious” as there were no signs of harm or abuse. She was just there. Dead.

A toxicology report has yet to be submitted and it’ll take several weeks. Sadly, I can’t help but assume it’ll be drug related. From what I last heard, heroin possession was her last reported offense. And given the brief exposure I’ve had to the people I met during that trip, the image of her being abandoned or discarded after OD’ing would not surprise me. In fact if it’s not something along those lines, I’ll feel a great relief that my worst assumptions were incorrect.

This was her mother’s worst nightmare. And for that, I’m glad she didn’t live to see it happen.

The Reflection
I don’t know quite how to process this, or how to feel. To be brutally honest, I’m a bit detached. We were not close at all, and yet we were family. And due to this unique situation and that experience years ago, we shared not only a swingset as children but a betrayal of trust as adults. One I often wondered if she ever thought of or regretted. I’ll never know.

And although I’m still not quite feeling a personal sense of loss, like every other person that falls to such a fate, we also shared a core human potential. Something that, for whatever reasons, she was unable to reach or at least to maintain. Something that I believe exists in every case like this. But this time, this person, I knew. I was around her as a toddler while she was an infant. This case, like them all, was at one time, very innocent, and barring some chemical or biological trait, not pre-destined to end up meeting an end such as this.

What hits me the hardest through this is less of an emotional reaction on family level, but more of the thought that every time a small news story of this type comes and goes, life goes on for most of us except for a few, who’s lives will be forever changed. Such as that of her son, and her surviving father Bud. And also for me. This will leave an impression that lasts longer and deeper then the loss of some transient funds or the sense of betrayal that was, in the grand scheme of things, more the result of any number of events in her own life that brought her to take that action, and to ultimately arrive at this conclusion as well.

Perhaps, in a positive way, things like this could impact more then just a few people. Perhaps, taking the time to absorb and consider the bigger picture the next time something like this crosses your path, being that of the greater human potential, of all the various circumstances, environments, choices and outcomes that play into a final outcome like this, might give us a stronger sense of appreciation for those around us, and the opportunities we’ve had and can create that spare us from being just another local story.

I don’t know. I’m tired, it’s late, and I’m sorting this all out.

But I do know, as I said in the beginning, that it’s not my natural inclination to really attach to or connect to things at this level and think about the big picture. But I’m making an effort to do so.

More so tonight then I have in some time.

Having completed my brief visit, I started to buckle my belt, but I found it difficult to do so with my shirt, the type that hangs out un-tucked, in my way. So I placed the tip of the bottom of the shirt lightly between my teeth and quickly buckled and zipped.

Only to find that the shirt was terribly absorbent and/or I have a serious saliva issue. In either event, there i stood, ready to exit, with a big dark wet stain positioned at a point that would clearly indicate some rather roughshod and haphazard use of the facilities on my part. It looked like I pissed on my shirt.

I rolled my eyes at the situation, figured I’d just have to conceal it on the way out, and envisioned writing this post about the whole thing and making light of it. In fact, I figured what better way to illustrated the situation then snapping a photo with my iPhone of my freshly stained shirt.

And i did just that. I took the iPhone, turned on the camera, made my best guess alignment and pushed the shutter button.

“CLICK” went the audible shutter sound of the iPhone.

Did I mention I was not the only person in the restroom?

There was a guy seated in the stall next to me. A guy oblivious to any of the humor behind the events transpiring in the stall to his left. A guy who’s only point of reference was the sound and vision of shuffling feet, a modest snorting of irony, and then the sound of a camera shutter being triggered.

I left as quickly as possible.

The ring was a simple one, likely a big part of the attraction. It had a smooth platinum band, held a small rectangular diamond on each side, and in the center was set an elegant and sparkling 1.72 carat diamond. Clear. Crisp. Near flawless. And the whole piece of work was only the second I’d seen to date that made me imagine that, if I ever gave a woman a wedding ring, it’d be that one.

What was also odd, too, was that my boss was unmarried at the time, and the ring was, if I recall correctly, on her right hand, not her left.

This was back in late ’97 or early ’98. My boss was Mary Sikes, who I’ve written about here before. I remember being in her office, working next to her on some presentation or other project, and being momentarily blinded by the sparkle it emitted.

I had to see it closer, and she removed it and let me inspect it.

It was truly a work of art. One of the most sublet yet striking aspects of it was that the stone was set low. So low, the pointed bottom was but a hairline away from her finger when she wore it. But the stone was quite larger, and quite spectacular. Unlike the gauche practice of elevating a stone in order to accentuate it’s presence and it’s size, as I’d seen on countless other rings over the years, as if the objective was to ensure it stood out and looked as big as possible in order to win some unspoken contest amongst their friends. (And they say men are fixated with size!).

My next question, obviously, was why she was wearing it, and where she got it.

Mary was once an antique dealer. And she frequented Antique auctions, including some that she dragged me along to, for which I remain very grateful. And it turns out that she actually bought this ring from an antique auction. It was apparently the property of a 90 year old woman who lived in San Francisco, and was sold as part of the liquidation of her estate after she’d passed away. Mary saw the beauty and the value and purchased it as an investment. And now she was selling it to Charlie.

Charlie was a co-worker at Apple that we both knew, and Charlie was buying the ring and planning on proposing to his girlfriend.

This was a time before the dot-com crash, and i’d done well with some stock purchases at the time. Sure, later, refusing to sell with the hopes there’d be a recover, I pretty much lost it all, but at that time I was doing well and had some cash I could use to buy toys, and make investments with as well.

Knowing that Charlie was buying it made me both jealous and relived. Jealous because if I had a chance I’d consider buying it as an investment, and knowing that if my life did lead me to making a commitment at some time in the future I’d have this very unique and desirable ring already within my possession. But at the same time I was relieved, not really being sure I’d want to put the capital into something that’d likely sit in a safe deposit box for years to come, only to potentially be sold later at a hopefully greater profit. It was spoken for, so I just let the subject die, commented about a dozen more times about it’s beauty over the remainder of our working session and then let go of the idea.

Sorta. It actually was haunting me in the back of my mind, and I started to build a stronger desire and wish that I’d had the opportunity to purchase it before Charlie had snagged it up. But it was done, and I left it alone for about a month or so.

Until I walked into her office for one reason or another and noticed it still on her finger.

“I thought Charlie was going to buy that?” I said, both surprised and delighted to see it again.

“He changed his mind.” she replied, and proceeded to relate to me, as I recall, that he’d opted for something less costly.

“So….. ” I said with a trembling voice “… it’s still for sale, then?”.

Mary smiled. Secretly, I think she really preferred I have it. At least I like to think so anyway.

I’d just, and I mean *JUST* been approached about being introduced to somebody, but had not met them yet, so there was nobody in my life that I had any intention of giving the ring to. I just knew it was something I really wanted to own. I’d never felt that way before about jewelry, especially something as far from my own persona as a wedding ring, but this was not something I was willing to pass up.

And then she told me the price. And I understood where Charlie was coming from. But as we discussed it further, and she showed me appraisals from several years back, she was really asking for well under it’s ‘street value’…. like, between 1/3 to 1/2 it’s value.

I don’t remember if I immediately said “SOLD” but I believe I asked for some time to consider it. Yes, actually, I know i did, because I know that over the course of the next day or two I visited her office specifically to sit on the sofa and examine it repeatedly, mulling over this big ticket item and my own odd and driven desire to possess it.

Ultimately, realizing that, worst case, I’d easily be able to sell it again for the purchase price if I changed my mind, I walked in, and much to her surprise I said I’d take it. She was even very generous in offering me a change to pay for it over a set of three installments but I remember paying it off rather promptly, not wanting or needing to drag it out.

When she gave it to me, in it’s little white ring box, with the appraisal documents and such, I took a day or two to just enjoy the ownership, and then I stuck it away into a safety deposit box.

By then, I’d followed through on that introduction that i referred to earlier. And although we’d not met yet, I remember one of our initial phone conversations and telling her about having purchased a ring as an investment, or in case anything developed and I found a need for it. She’d later tell me, after we’d eventually met, fell in love and married, how that’d freaked her out a bit. And I can understand that. But I was right.

Eventually, I’d slide that onto her finger, and we’d start our lives as husband and wife. And along the way and over the years, we’d gradually pack on some extra pounds, shed ‘em again, and start that cycle over.

This year, we’ve overdone ourselves in the packing on effort. So much so that, last month, I had to wrestle to remove my own ring for a period of time during which it’d begun to be uncomfortably tight. She, well, her ring was tight to begin with and it’s reached a point of no removal.

Over the course of the past couple of months she’s lamented waking to the pain it’d cause. So we did some research and sought options and suggestions of removing it, but to no avail.

Tonight, when she returned from running errands, the sad look on her face said it all, and she held out the cut and removed ring before her. She’d gone to a nearby fire station which we’d learned through our research was the best place to go if the attempts to remove it failed. The kept it intact, cutting through the mid-point at the back of the band, and a jeweler will easily be able to reform and refit it at our next opportunity.

Whew!

• I regularly read a distant friend’s website but have little/no routine contact with them. They wrote about contemplating a personal decision about a situation I went through myself, and I was able to write, share my thoughts, and contribute my experience for their consideration in making their choice.
• That same friend was writing about the advice he was getting from myself and others, one of which, it turns out, is a good friend of mine, and we had no idea we were both giving him input.
• The author of a site I read regularly asked me a question related to Apple hardware and I was able to help dig into the issues and provide some recommendations.
• While helping port my friend Jess’s website to wordpress, I stumbled across a very funny “LOST” reference that still leaves me chuckling.
• Revisting a former colleague’s website gave me insight into an easier way to fix a ‘sticky mouse’ issue then the one I’d suggested to him some time back.
• After writing about my anger management issues, A good friend related their own similar feelings, which gave me a sense of support.

In the end having the references, rants, and exchanges documented and accessible means that we’re able to use these sites to stay connected and in touch. I know there’s a good deal about the internet that can lead to people being removed and isolated, but the things that come out of reading and browsing personal websites of friends and family are far more enabling in retaining and building those relations then they are able becoming isolated and detached. In addition, the friends I have locally are ones I continue to have ‘real time’ interactions with over lunch or on weekends. And now I’ll be having lunch soon with the friend wrestling with a personal decision. Something I’d not be doing had he not posted his thoughts.

If you don’t already have a website, go set one up for free at WordPress.com. That’s where this one lives, and it’s a breeze to setup and maintain. Start writing your own thoughts and experiences, and let me know when you do so I can add you to my list of sites to watch for updates. If you want some help or pointers drop me a line.

But now, for $15, there’s a company that’s finally come around with a simple solution. And that’s not $15 a month, or even a year; it’s a one-time charge. That’s right, for the price of a good lunch or an average dinner, you’re on your way to reducing the junk mail at your home by up to 90%. GreenDimes reduces the credit card offers, insurance offers, sweepstakes offers, coupon mailers, solicitations and catalogs that your household receives. In their first ten months alone they have stopped over 1 million pounds of junk mail and planted over 250,000 trees.

Your membership puts your name on “Do-Not-Mail” listings, with complete control on your end as to what you do or don’t want to be sent. And not only do they manage it all online, you are also routinely confirmed to be off lists by their service. In addition, they’ll plant 10 trees when you join! AND they’re lobbying for a national “Do-not-mail list” just like the existing “Do-not-call list”. Let’s cross our fingers for that one!

Did you know….

• 100 million trees are cut down each year to create the approximately 4.5 million tons of junk mail in the United States
• 28 billion gallons of water go into the production of American junk mail annually
• 5 percent of the waste sent to landfills is junk mail.

You can take part in putting and end to that and make opening the mailbox something you look forward to again.

Geoff’s Comments: I greatly enjoyed this movie. The acting was wonderful; Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman and Will Ferrell gave standout performances. And the story, well, it’s in a vein I always appreciate; putting the value of our daily life into perspective, and recognizing that breaking from routines and awaking from a ‘sleepwalking’ existence can breathe the most amazing color and breath into one’s life, no matter what the outcome.

[ rent Stranger than Fiction via netflix.com]

Geoff’s Comments: I greatly enjoyed this movie. The acting was wonderful; Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman and Will Ferrell gave standout performances. And the story, well, it’s in a vein I always appreciate; putting the value of our daily life into perspective, and recognizing that breaking from routines and awaking from a ‘sleepwalking’ existence can breathe the most amazing color and breath into one’s life, no matter what the outcome.

[ rent Stranger than Fiction via netflix.com]

I recently thinned out my collection of MP3s, whittling down the size by archiving and deleting music I never played. In many cases I had stuff I’d downloaded on a whim but never really got around to seriously listening to. Starsailor was one of those. Until tonight. This band is fantastic. I think the best comparison would be “Coldplay” meets “Oasis”. This is great stuff and I’ve been listening to all three releases this evening, intently, and I don’t think my foots stopped tapping or my head’s stopped nodding once.

Starsailor on iTunes

So, one of these websites recently posted an entry in which the author boldly laid out the personal details of their own struggles with what they conveyed as a “borderline personality disorder”. Interestingly, it sounded a bit too close to my own frequent feelings than I might typically feel comfortable revealing. Yet I was both impressed with the honesty and grateful to hear somebody else sharing their experience. It was good enough to merit taking a moment to send them an email of praise for the writing, as well as offering that they were not alone in their struggles. That there were others out here that have their own struggles as well. That we were in the same camp. Perhaps not the exact same dysfunctional cabin, but definitely in the same dysfunctional camp.

It also gave me the inspiration to write about an issue of my own.

My wife, after I finally reached the point of considering marriage as an option at age 37, quickly tagged me within the first year of our marriage as “Defenso-Reacto-Man”. Translation? I have a short fuse and an unusually defensive nature. I take way too many things very personally. Way too many things.

Hell, even the most sincere, innocent and innocuous questions like “Did you take out the trash?“, “Where’d you put the remote” or even “how was your day?” can and have been met with the assumption that there’s a thinly veiled criticism lurking behind them, that I’m being told I’m not taking out the trash soon enough, that I have to get out off my ass and find the remote, or that her day with the kids was miserable and I should feel bad if I had a good day.

I know it’s not rational. Hell, it’s ‘borderline’ in it’s own right. And it’s not just at home that this happens. it’s at work, too. And in traffic. And in line at the grocery store. It’s a constant tone and presence in my daily life..

I think I know where it came from. I think it came from childhood experiences and insecurities that come from moving and struggling to make friends, and then from working for so long in an engineering community, where even the slightest ideas or efforts get aggressively critiqued and dissected in order to refine and improve them, regardless of the cost to one’s pride. I think I’ve had one too many projects or ideas that I’ve labored to produce and then have brought before a group of my peers, dramatically unveiling it with exuberant pride, only to have every little aspect of it pulled apart and analyzed for the slightest possible issue, fault, or usage scenario I’d never envisioned.

I understand that nobody’s out to get me and nobody’s out to prove me wrong, make me look bad, or put a “kick me” sign on my back when I’m not paying attention. But I also know that just because everybody’s not out to get me doesn’t mean that they’re not all lying and they really are all out to get me.

See? See what I’m dealing with here?

And more importantly, see what my poor wife’s had to endure? She’s been closest to the flame and the recipient of far more teeth-gritting responses then anybody should have to deal with. And what’s worse is that my own kids have been witness to negative rants, frustrated mutterings and even the occasional improper language usage.

And then we wonder why they talk back or exhibit aggressive behavior.

Well, we don’t wonder, we know what’s behind a good chunk of it. Sure, temperments involved and one’s not nearly as bad as the other, but I’m not helping thing by modeling impatience and frustration, now am I?

I’m trying desperately to find a way to maintain a better balance and think before I react.

I’ll be honest. I’ve gone for some counseling before, and even tried Wellbutrin and Ridlin at times, each with no lasting or sustained success. I’m not opposed to giving something else a try. I do believe that many people suffer from issues that are honestly tied to physiological conditions. Wiring, if you will. And chemical imbalances in our systems are known to be significant factors in depression, aggression, and numerous serious illnesses.

Yet I also think that, if everything was picture perfect and I had not a care in the world, I’d be managing just fine. I know I would. So I have to take a great deal of ownership for my own expectations as well as the way I react or handle things that don’t go my way. The very same things that don’t go their way for everybody else. Whether it’s bad traffic, somebody asking the one question in a meeting that I can’t answer, or the fact that after going through the checkout to find I only have the cash for the eggs and milk, I drop the eggs by the car and find the milk’s gone bad when i open it the following morning.

It’s about how, or perhaps even if I let these things get to me, that will make a big change. And perhaps some meds, too. Maybe I can get my hands on some GLeeMONEX.

I’ve already started working on this. I’ve made some progress. I’ve lost a little ground too, but I’m still feeling good about the distance I’ve come. I’ve got a good deal of work ahead, and I will continue to try and get my perspective aligned with the realistic expectations, and the waste of energy that is a negative or frustrated reaction.

That’s all i have to say for now. I’m sure you’ll all start talking about this as soon as i leave the room.

PS: I’ve also started messing around with the new ‘iPhone to .Mac’ feature as well, where I can take a photo on my iPhone and directly post it to a Web Gallery. It’s just for grins and giggles. I call it iSnapped.

Lenny Bruce has gone down in history as having been well ahead of his time. He was unjustly persecuted for saying things you’ll see on cable TV on any given day today. It’s a tragic story of a man’s rise and fall, and the powers and system of a society taking an extreme and unreasonable stance, as if to make an example of a man that in time becomes recognized as an innovative genius.

The Carnegie Hall concert is considered by many to have been a creative peak, and it’s still an amazing performance to listen to. It’s a complete recording of an entire show, not just the snippet of ‘bits’ that were found on the majority of his ‘comedy’ records. And it’s brilliant. It’s a wonderful opportunity to hear a creative man blend humor and social commentary, to follow his “stream of consciousness” dialog through a 2 hour performance, and to consider and question the norms and hypocrisy of our society at the time that still applies today. And over the past 30 years I’ve routinely returned to this recording over and over again, always finding it as good if not better then I remembered from the last listen. And always with a greater appreciation for the message and the man.

A great documentary, “Swear to tell the Truth“, was aired a few years back on cable TV. It’s an insightful look at the man and the events that transpired that took him from being a “Hollywood darling” to a black-balled outcast, unable to book performances without being summarily arrested. He spent the last couple of years of his life battling for the rights for free speech.

Lenny Bruce died of a drug overdose at the age of 40, on this day in 1965. Forty-one years ago today. He died beaten down, obsessed with the law and the unjust outcome of his court cases. Today, I don’t know of a comic that’s not tipped their hat to the legacy and influence the man had on the art of comedy and of social commentary.

A few days ago I put the documentary on while doing some work at home, and I stumbled across the reminder that he died on August 3rd. Over the course of the past few days I’ve made a point of listening again to the Carnegie Hall performance as well as the Berkeley Concert and selections from the wonderful box set, Let the Buyer Beware.

Any and all of these recording or the documentary are well worth your time. I can’t recommend them enough. If you’re a friend, let me know and you can borrow any or all.

I hate stuff like this. And not out of some dramatic empathy for the bird, but because it’s removal is really not something I wanted to have to return home to deal with. It seemed ridiculous that she’d not do so herself. I literally asked her “You mean to say that you want me to come all the way back home to scoop up a dead bird?!“. “Yes” was her reply. Said in a way that, seasoned veterans such as my self will attest, clearly indicates a futility of furher discussion.

Having not made it all the way to work yet, expecting that the delay of it’s removal could become a messy situation if the smaller birds or a neighbor’s cat got to it before I did, I circled back, heading home, and instructed her to leave a paper grocery bag on the patio for me to put it into.

I’m so glad I did. Because what happened next was incredible, and not an opportunity one frequently finds outside of the confines of an aviary or zoo.

When I got to the house I got out of my car and as I was heading towards the back yard, paper bag in one hand an a large shovel in the other, I heard an exclamation by my daughter, saying “It moved!“.

I’ve had to deal with bird removal before. And rat removal as well. It’s not news. But when my wife had indicated that a large bird had died, I envisioned a chunky pigeon. This was not a chunky pigeon. This was something that would devour the remains of a chunky pigeon for lunch. This was a talon bearing, meat-tearing-beak wearing hawk. A small one by relative measure, but a hawk nonetheless.

It was not dead. And the birds in the trees above were none-to-happy to have it around. They had been swooping at and pecking at it when my wife had called and even with my presence, they were still coming unusually close and being uncharacteristically vocal.

I recall, earlier that morning, having heard a great deal of commotion in the trees outside the bedroom window. I even stopped to look out the window and see if I could spot some reason for the activity. I saw nothing but heard lots of bird chatter. And rustling. Perhaps the hawk was the cause for this, and likely scouting out his breakfast amongst the branches.

As I approached it, a bag in one hand and a shovel in the other, his head started moving about slightly and he wobbled about a bit. It looked oddly familier. It looked like the dazed and confused bird encounter I had at our rental house. I’m seeing a pattern here.

But this hawk was beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. The photo does not do it justice. And it sat there as I approached, slowly, squatting down to take a closer look.

The kids were inside the house in the outer room, windows opened so they could hear and talk to me, and my son was instructing me to “not shovel it”. Whatever that meant. I assured them that I’d not hurt him. My wife and I briefly discussed if we expected he’d recuperate or expire. And the angry birds swooping overhead were coming temptingly within range of the shovel in my hand.

For a brief moment, the hawk made a futile effort to stand, and I got an amazing glimpse at it’s bright yellow feet and razor sharp claws. I can understand why trainers have those heavy gloves, and I expect you can understand that, at that point, the fleeting thought of gently attempting to pick it up quickly disappeared from my mental checklist of options.

As he rested back down on the cement of the patio, I turned to my wife and said “Call animal control”. I had to get to work, she was leaving with the kids, and I figured they’d be able to come out and either remove the body if that was the outcome, or take the injured animal away for medical attention. And they’d have thick gloves at their disposal.

At the instruction of the animal control representative on the phone, we placed a ventilated box over the bird and I put a few bricks on top to prevent it from toppling it over in case it regained strength, and to prevent the birds or any cats from coming to attack in our absence. Before doing so I shot a series of photos to capture the moment.

I found out later that they did indeed arrive shortly after our call, and took the bird away to a habitat where they’d tend to it and re-release it. As to what happened, its anybody’s guess so far. Perhaps it hit a windows or fell when it flew into a wire. Perhaps the bird in the tree had been attacking it. Perhaps it was just ill.

I think the kids will be talking about this for some time to come.

All those details are foggy. But what I do remember are three very distinct events. One of which was the decision to fly into Yosemite Valley and “buzz” Half Dome. It’s apparently not kosher to do so, or perhaps even illegal, but we did it anyway, and it was incredible. We flew right over the top…. close enough that when I looked down all i saw was the granite surface below and a sudden drop as we crossed over the face and looked down into the valley. It remains one of my “deathbed moments” to this day. This photo was shot as we were circling around above it.

The other two distinct memories? Doing a momentary “free fall” that caused my camera to fly out of my hands but be caught by the experienced and aware son of Jack. And buzzing a nearby dam, where we skimmed above the water and pulled up at the last minute to avoid colliding with the cement dam at the last minute.

And yes, I literally did fall to my knees and kiss the ground when we landed :-)