The give a shit factor

I’m going to start this one by refusing to apologize for the scatological title. I thought of using give a darn or give a hoot but… well… this is how I talk. Sorry if this offends anyone. Sort of.

Anyhoo, in my business there are certain factors that serve as early indicators of how successful the customer is going to be. Most of them are the standard business factors – do they have certain processes well defined, are they following the processes and are those processes effective, how do they respond to issues that arise?

I look at planning and delivery of training and at the strength of supervision and of course, the quality of the goods or services being produced. But the most important single element to my mind is the give a shit factor. When it becomes clear that the people in an organization really care about the mission and objectives of their collective enterprise, I can pretty much figure we’re going to make progress together. It also frequently means I’m going to learn as much from them as they will from me.

If the perople care about the job and about each other, we can fix just about anything else that's not going well. And if they don't, we're sunk from the get go.

Today, I was in a room with about forty people whose give a shit factor was as high as I believe I’ve ever seen. They included job coaches and managers and rehab engineers and working supervisors and vocational specialists. They ranged from early twenties to maybe sixties and from a few months’ experience to a lifetime in advocacy.

And every single one of them is devoted to the cause of erasing employment barriers for persons living with severe disabilities.

I have the best job in the world.

What we do for love

Some of the potential side effects of Botox injections include: Anxiety, back and facial pain, constipation, indigestion, sweatiness, fatigue, severe allergic reaction, eyelid swelling, irregular heartbeat, paralysis, migraines, seizure.  (Oh, and duck lips, but I guess that’s not so much a side effect.)

Get liposucked and you may find yourself dealing with infection, slow healing, severe fluid loss, allergic reaction to the anesthesia, blood clots, fat clots, skin damage or burns, nerve damage, organ failure. I’ll keep trying the eat-less-and-work-more route, thank you very much.

Taking Viagra may cause headache, flushing, dyspepsia, nasal congestion, urinary tract infection, abnormal vision, diarrhea, dizziness, rash, decrease or loss of hearing, anxiety, amnesia, priapism, bleeding and seizure. All this for a woody? Seems ironic that you spend your teen years praying it won’t happen at the wrong time and your later years wishing it would happen any time. (Not that I have now or ever expect to have this problem, doncha know…harrumph!)

I’m not trying to belittle the feelings of people whose self-image is so low that they feel compelled to seek medical relief. But damn! I just hope the view is worth the climb.

Green Grow the Lilacs

Yesterday, I was reading the lyric to Green Grow the Lilacs, which was the first song I ever learned simply because I liked singing it. I may have been all of five. It’s a standard story of jilted love, and sounds more like a cowboy song than the Irish ballad of its origins.

This is a song that’s claimed by a number of cultures and nationalities as being authentically their own and for a very good reason. It’s universal and timeless. There are a number of versions, but the melody is beautiful and simple and pure.

Folk singing comes and goes in popularity. I vote it’s time for a “come” cycle.

Why I love blogging

I’ve always loved writing. Any kind of writing.

Which is not the same as saying that I’m always as disciplined as I should be or as insightful as I’d like to be. But I do thrive on sharing thoughts via the written word. And I am never quite so at peace with myself as when I’ve crafted an argument or explanation that even if not compelling, at least accurately conveys my thoughts.

So, why a vanity blog? Why not just keep a journal? Or go to the other extreme and actively seek the attention of a wider audience of readers? I know the answer to the first question. I don’t keep a journal because  I just don’t see the point of being a writer without a reader.

It’s all about communication, which is necessarily a two-way affair. I need to have an audience. I’d like to think it’s not a conceit to hope that others will enjoy some of the same ideas as me.

Maybe it’s a way of asking for absolution. Having been raised altar-boy-Catholic, I can see the parallels between this little blog and the confessional. I lay out my thoughts and beliefs in the sure and certain knowledge that I’ll be forgiven by the person on the other side of the screen.

Certainly, there’s an element of egoism here. I mean, what little boy never wanted to stand before an audience of friends and family and shout, “Hey, look what I can do!” And the ego is safe because even if the stunt isn’t perfect, this audience will smile and nod.

Self-analysis is a part of it, no doubt. Writing this blog allows me to look back on things I’ve done or failed to do, said or failed to say, and to reconstruct how I got to where I am. And perhaps be comfortable with where I’m going.

It could be that I write for the same reason a dog licks himself – because I can.

I love this little blog. And I hope you’ll continue to enjoy reading it. I just don’t like one-sided conversations.  

Money from the sky

Yesterday, one of my work buddies and I were walking toward our respective buses when at the corner of 3^rd and Pine, several dozen people start shrieking and laughing and running into the street. Right in the middle of commute traffic, blocking six lanes.

Down from the sky – okay, from some jerk on the top of a parking garage – comes floating maybe a hundred dollar bills. It was clear that this was a planned event from the number of young people standing around waiting for the event to start.

These people were disrupting everyone else’s attempts to get home for the sake of one or two dollars each. And of course, when the cops started yelling at them to get out of the street, they made videos which can now be found on You Tube.

There was an undercurrent of “police overreaction” to some of the comments. But the thing is, I watched it all from across the street. The truth is, they got yelled at. Not arrested or in any way manhandled.

They pulled a stupid, dangerous stunt and they got yelled at for it. WA-AH!

A matter of perspective

I’m a ‘member’ of one of those reunion sites, in this case dedicated to guys who’ve served aboard U.S.S. Long Beach. They have these sites for just about every “former military experience” you can name.

I signed up for the site a couple years ago and have received updates every now and again. I haven’t been active for whatever reason. By which I mean, I’ve questioned how welcome I would be in the company of “real” veterans, considering that I eventually left the service as a conscientious objector.

Today, I received one of their notification e-mails – “You might know this person” - and the name was that of a guy I’d wondered about all this time. So I went ahead and signed on, after first having them send me a new password since mine had retreated from the memory banks from disuse, and the next thing I knew I was scanning the names of former shipmates.

Hey, I remember this guy! I stood Shore Patrol with him in Subic a few times! And this guy used to stand Throttleman for GQ… I played chess with this guy, didn’t I? The names – McFeeley, Boone, Rankin – bring forth a series of nods and “Oh, yeahs.”  

Then, I started reading the comments they’d posted and I was amazed at how many of them have changed their views over the years. “I remember how much we bitched but now it’s all good memories.” And the one guy who posted an apology to anyone he might have hurt because he recalled being something of a jerk in those days.

As I read the words of these now-middle-aged men with whom I’d once been young, I realized how many of us recall ourselves as being the imperfect one in the bunch.

Truth be told, we were all imperfect. We were young and therefore, somewhat stupid. And we’ve mostly grown and become better versions of ourselves.

It was reassuring to find I’m not the only one who wishes he’d known then what he knows now. And disconcerting to find how many of these guys didn’t know how important they’d been to my own maturation. To our maturation as a group.

It turns out many of us question our inclusion in the ranks of our former peer groups.  It’s likely the same for vets and former high school friends and the gang from the old neighborhood.

 I suppose that’s the way of things.

Dogs make good friends

Odin and Zoey seem to know that I have a bad cold and am therefore not at my best in terms of coherency. They both scaled back their demands for the day. I slept much of the day and they just pretty much left me alone.

Mary will be home soon to ply me with comfort food. I may slip some to the canines. Don't tell Mary.

I have the best life!

Working with my hands

I’ve done a lot of things with my hands over the years. I’ve built beds for my daughters, end tables, an entertainment center, doo-dads too numerous to mention. For awhile, Mary and I supplemented our income making wooden craft items.

I can do electrical work, sweat copper, frame a house, hang drywall. I’ve built fences and walls. I can apply my own stage makeup, play guitar passably and make a mean waffle.

All these things I do with my hands. All these things require some degree of dexterity.

So why is it, when faced with my injured daughter’s need for help, that I proved an abject failure at wrapping a cast so that the shower stream can’t infiltrate? And why do Dad-made ponytails never look centered and tight?

I know I’m good with my hands, so these last couple of failures must be my daughter’s fault.