Changing the Radio

A commercial from my youth stuck with me through the years.  It didn’t resonate with me through poignant humor, over indulgent sexuality, or even for the product it was selling.  Instead, this particular commercial lodged itself in my memory through shock value and a message that is incredibly applicable to today’s society.  The punch line of the commercial - “John didn’t like the song on the radio, so he killed a little girl.”

For those of you who never had the opportunity to see this commercial, let me set the scene.  A young man drives down a typical suburban street jamming to the radio.  The mood is bright and happy.  Everything is fantastic.  The guy decides to change the channel, and as he looks down at the knob, a little girl runs out in front of his car.

Sad, I know.  

If I remember right, there might have been a series of commercials like this.  Or, maybe my brain has just been running with the idea, creating its own series of commercials that  could have worked.

“Ricky wanted the air conditioner on, so he killed a young boy.”

“Gerald decided to spit his gum in the wrapper, so he drove over an old lady.”

“Sarah couldn’t wait to get home to taste her french fries, so she murdered a father of three.”

The implied rationale is that driving contains a certain amount of danger; pay attention while doing it.  More often than not, the old commercial pops into my mind while driving through my neighborhood.  We have a nice running loop frequently populated by fitness enthusiasts, little kids on bikes, and parents with strollers.  The nicer the weather, the more people you will see.  Unfortunately, it is the people you don’t see you have to worry about.  I make sure to keep my eyes peeled.

In today’s tech heavy society, the idea of being aware while driving is even more pertinent.  The distractions of today are extremely commonplace.

“Harold wanted to dial his mom on his phone, so he ran over a pregnant woman.”

“Jillian wanted to text “;-)” to her best friend, so she killed a little boy who just turned three.”

“Brian was interested in whether or not it would rain, so he crushed a jogger pushing a stroller.”

The stark juxtaposition of two contrasting desires shocked me as a young person and shocks me still as an adult.  We are never 100% certain of the results of our actions, nor can we imagine the infinite possibilities stemming from any one of our decision.  Of course, remaining aware of our surroundings, acting responsibly, and being safe, reduces the changes of situations like these from arising.  

Please don’t assume I am perfect.  Despite the haunting memory of the commercial hanging over my head, I still have lapses in sound judgement.  As much as I loathe myself for doing so, I will occasionally pen a text or fumble for directions as I drive.  Usually, I realize what I am doing halfway through and reprimand myself for it. 

I have plenty of hypocritical moments when I see others staring intently at their phones as they drive.  I scold them internally, aware of my hypocrisy, hoping that I won’t make the same error in judgement again.  Maybe I won’t.  I hope not.   I have no desire to be in a commercial.

If you are unsure of whether or not your actions are dangerous, paint them in the stark contrasts provided by the commercial.  Is your email as important as the life of a child?  A family?  An old lady?  Anyone at all?  If it is truly urgent, pull off the road.  Find a gas station, a strip mall, a restaurant parking lot, where you can stop your car and take care of your business.  Otherwise you risk making the terrible choices illustrated above.

A Whole Nother Perspective

Nother.  I honestly have no idea to spell this “word.”  Is it nuther?  Or would it be nother, as its origins would suggest.  Maybe knother with a silent k?  For the longest time, I regarded this word with contempt, annoyed at what I considered an unnecessary mutation of our perfect English.  Wow.  How arrogant and pretentious was I?

I have long been one of those people who quietly laughs on the inside at pre-American Revolutionary movies in which the American colonists speak with perfectly formed American dialects, albeit minus such fine words as nother, a’int, or y’all.  The colonists were first, second, or third generation European immigrants, generally residing in homogenous clusters in which accent mixing rarely happened.  A significant portion of the population was English born or raised and surely sounded no different than their evil  Red Coated counterparts.

Hopefully the Brits discovered camouflage. 

Well, at some point during the last 236 years our languages diverged.  We don’t drive lorries, take trips to the loo, or snog our loved ones.  We eat our biscuits with gravy and not tea.  Our chips come in bags instead of accompanied by deep fried cod.  Frankly, I think those Brits sound crazy.

While living in London in 2003, I had the opportunity to make friends with some of our stage crew.  Every now and again, they would rip off a sentence sounding mostly of gibberish, full of dropped consonants and unimaginable slang; we would have to remind our English compatriots to speak English and not British, otherwise there was no way to understand them.

All of our languages evolve as culture grows and changes.  As much as we look at our younger generations with mild amusement for introducing text-speak into conversation, filling our ears with such gems as “tots,” “loled,” or “brb,” they are providing us with a window to the future of American English.  As our world continually shrinks thanks to technological innovation, our cherished language will open its doors to even more intrusion from outside sources.  

I remember the ebonics craze from a few years ago when the Oakland School Board decided to teach Standard American English by using African American Vernacular English (commonly referred to as ebonics) to bridge the gap between the dialect used at home and the one regarded by educational institutions as correct.  The technique is no different than using English to help a high school student learn German, French, Latin, Spanish, etc.  We have to create a bridge between the established knowledge and that which we wish to teach.

Now, let me provide a whole nother example.  My own distaste for improper language usage has evolved as well into something more than tolerance (which frequent readers know is a term I dislike).  Using terms such as nother, tumped, a’int, y’all, fixin to, or contained in text speech, or any other slang based terminology, does not reflect on the speaker’s intelligence.  These words are merely familiar to the person’s experience.  They use these words because they encounter them frequently.

My time in London didn’t grow my vocabulary, but it did alter the way I pronounced a few words - sorry and strawberry being the most notable.  Sorry altered from s-are-ree to s-or-ree and strawberry somehow became - straw-brerry.  I only spent four months immersed in British English and remained surrounded by Americans speaking American English, yet it still impacts my speaking skills nearly a decade later.  Imagine only hearing one slang dialect for the first five or six years of your life.  Does slang usage reflect upon intelligence?  I think not.

Funny enough, in writing this, I discovered that Merriam-Webster includes nother as a word in its lexicon (although spell-check doesn’t seem to agree).  This year, the dictionary standard expanded its catalogue to include other commonly used terms - man cave, sexting, mashup, bucket list, and underwater (referring to mortgages).  

Our language constantly evolves.  Usually we evolve right along with it, not ever realizing we have done so.  So, the next time you hear someone use a word you have never heard, before jumping in to correct them, consider adding it to your own list of favorites.  You may find yourself evolving ahead of the curve.

A Turd with a Bow

As the road to November 6 stretches on and on and on . . . and on, we find ourselves under constant bombardment by both sides.  Hate and negativity proliferate the airwaves, striving to direct a campaign weary populace towards one candidate or another.  Somehow, through the deluge of spun facts, slight distortions, and outright untruths, our voting population is supposed to pick the party that will lead us down a path to a better America.  Best of luck to us all.

Emotion will win the election, not facts.  Campaign strategists know this and exploit it at every opportunity.  Their job really has two simple aims - 

1. Energize the base with fiery rhetoric designed to enflame their emotional attachment to the party brand.
2. Paint opposing pictures of the two parties/candidates using an unequal mixture of fact and emotion to generate a gut reaction in the independent population

This week’s Republican National Convention provided a prime example of both, as I am sure the Democratic National Convention will.  Networks treated viewers to both the Republican All-Stars, standing at the bully pulpit to preach their conservative agenda mixed with the anti-Obama fear-mongering, and the Democratic talking heads (depending on the network), who offered the opposing ideology.  This week, the Democrats will present the yin to the Republicans yang, completing the circle of full cycle campaign rhetoric.

Most people have difficulty expressing their political opinion in a calm and focused discussion.  Usually it breaks down into emotional responses instead of intellectual ones.  This is the way the parties prefer it.  They want us thinking with our stomach rather than our brain.  If the only reason we vote for a specific candidate is the way we feel about them (or the other guy) instead of reasoning through the facts about each of their policies, then the campaign managers have earned their paychecks.  They don’t want thoughtful voters, they want panicked lemmings.

They way I hear it, from all media sources, not just the ones labeled as biased, from the messages in campaign ads, from the candidates themselves, from their PACs and Super-PACs, is that I have a choice.  My choice is limited to one disaster or another.  I can choose between two different economic dooms, two different types of destruction, two different kinds of American apocolypse.

Basically, I am getting a turd with a bow on it, but I get to choose the least offending bow.

Is this the kind of way we should be making our decisions?  Do you want the greatest country in the world run by a man placed there because you were scared of the alternative?  I certainly don’t.  I want this country to head in a direction crafted by thoughtful choice instead of fearful negativity.  Emotion is easy, but thinking will yield greater results.

Consider the facts.  Instead of reacting emotionally to a speech, an ad, or the chopped up soundbites loved by the media, do some research.  Cobble together your own realty-based impression of the candidates and the parties and use your brain to decide who you will vote for, not your stomach.  This is the only way to sort through the maelstrom of partial facts and misinformation thrown at us everyday.

Remember that you are an American.  You have your own voice.  You are allowed to be an independent thinker free of social pressures.  Wade past your emotional responses and find the issues important to you, then think about them.

It is this way that we can ensure America’s greatness.  Otherwise, regardless of the man we choose, or the party we put in power, we are guaranteed an America as the result of emotion tugging campaign managers instead of an America built by the thoughtful will of its citizens.

Live to Work or Work to Live?

It is the time of year when the familiar chug of yellow buses rumbles down the streets of our neighborhoods again.  It is the time when school zone hours can earn you speeding tickets again (and make sure you aren’t on your cell phone!).  It is the time when young people grow nervous and their parents excited.  It is time for school to begin.

Also, at least from my perspective, it is time for my blog to resume.  Ironically enough, my last blog post, from July 1, was titled The Balancing Act.  Since then, I have found anything but balance.  After nearly two months of being away (while not actually being away), it is time to return.

Staring at this all day long.  I am surprised I am not crazy.
Or maybe I am?

In The Balancing Act, I rhapsodized over the goal of finding work-life balance, and for much of July I convinced myself I was doing that.  I taught my lessons three and a half days during the week and had the rest of the week for myself.  Or so I thought.  Somewhere along the line I allowed myself to believe that working my marching band design business during my free hours was “my time.”  Don’t ask me how, but it never crossed my mind that drill writing and music arranging was not relaxation.

Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, but I displayed some amazing naiveté by not connecting the dots.  By the end of July, my days had become everything I had attempted to avoid by no longer band directing.  To further the irony, I had thrown myself to the mercy of my work a full month earlier than my high school band director friends.  I woke and wrote drill.  I went and taught lessons.  I wrote drill during breaks.  When I was done, I wrote drill, many times until well past midnight.  I wrote drill sitting next to Samantha on the couch, just so we would have some together time.  

Balance?  No sir.

So, as I sit here, not writing drill, but instead writing words - the entire reason behind my career change - I want to take this opportunity to remind you to find your balance.  For many of us, the aphorism “Work to live, don’t live to work,” doesn’t apply, but it should and we have the power to make the change.

For those returning to the grindstone, and to those who never left, keep in mind that the Earth rotates and the sun will rise tomorrow - your work will still be there to finish.  If it is quitting time, let it be quitting time.  Plan smartly and roll with the punches if things don’t go according to plan.  Remember the why of what you do.  Your business gives you personal days for a reason.  Don’t be afraid to use them.

I am taking some personal days starting tomorrow and have so far done a good job not feeling guilty about it.  I am making sure my ducks are in a row before I leave and I know I will have work to do when I get back, but as soon as I step on that boat, I plan on realigning myself.  My efforts will once again be centered on working to live instead of the other way around.  Take a look at your own life and let me know what you see.

The Balancing Act

Recently, tightrope daredevil Nik Wallenda bridged the void between the United States and Canada by walking over Niagra Falls on a taut wire (read about it here).  Millions of people watched the televised feat, caught up in the suspense of one man battling the dark misty night over the roaring falls.  After a thirty minute walk, Wallenda was welcomed to the Canadian side by a crowd of 100,000 cheering fans, accomplishing what no man had done in 118 years.

While Wallenda’s stunt garnered the attention of so many people, every single day each of us struggles to balance, often alone, on our own tight rope stretched over a similar void - unhappiness.  Where the Niagra stunt took thirty minutes to accomplish, our own balancing act takes our entire adult life.

For the last year, I have been adjusting to my newly chosen life as a private lesson teacher.  For the past five years, as a band director, I had certain challenges to my balance - where Wallenda had the dark blinding him, the mist condensing on his rope, and the roaring current pouring over the cliffs, I was challenged by the stress of performance expectation, the day to day business of running a high school band, parents, and the time required to feel accomplished in my efforts.  Part of the reason I stepped off the band directing tight rope was to have more control over the last - my time.  In my new life, this has truly been the hardest challenge.

Band directing, or teaching in general, has a tendency breed workaholics.  Though the work day finishes, many teachers choose to stay beyond regular hours.  As a band director, I had planning meetings, rehearsals, booster meetings, after-hours school commitments, lesson planning, etc.  My associates taught sectionals, ran jazz band and percussion rehearsals, and attended weekend competitions for various band related activites.  The list goes on.  

Stepping out of this life, only having to work the hours I chose to work, I assumed my work-life would balance itself against my personal life on its own.  What I didn’t figure is that I wouldn’t know how to not work.  I worried that if I wasn’t careful, I would succumb to the same routine I experienced as a band director.

This summer, I pledged to make sure to give myself days off.  During the school year, while the hours I worked per week were less, I was working seven days a week.  It has been weird, waking in the morning and knowing I don’t have to do do anything for my job.  Instead, I am able to fill my time with ME.

Finding time for me has settled down the currents battering my own wire.  I am learning how to be “off,” and that every waking minute doesn’t have to be filled with work.  I can still be productive - building personal relationships, working around the house, pursuing individual projects, training for a triathlon - but it doesn’t have to be work.  I also give myself permission to relax, catching up on reading or TV shows I have missed.  Having time for yourself builds the balance we all strive to achieve.

We frequently chain ourselves to our situations, crying about their permanence, but every situation is mutable.  Create the right conditions to traverse the void in your life and ease the buffeting forces threatening to knock you from your happiness.  Balance is possible.

Not to take anything away from Nik Wallenda’s accomplishment, but due to ABC’s insurance concerns, had his balance abandoned him, a safety harness would have caught his falling body before it plunged into the dangerous falls.  We do not have the same luxury.  Find your own balance before life forces you to take the plunge into the unhappiness that waits the unbalanced life.

Getting Burned

Every so often we do dumb things.  Most of us commonly share the Homer Simpson experience of slapping our forehead and saying “Doh!” because of some silly, simple error.  Most often, these moments are preceded by an uncalculated, rash act.  This is what happened to me today.

If you are a relatively new reader, you might not know that I like to ride a road bike.  Lately my schedule has only allowed me weekend forays on the bike and I usually keep my rides to an hour or so.  Personally, I love the feeling of flying down the road, in and amongst nature, with the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze playing counterpoint to each other.  

My normal ride takes me out of my neighborhood, down a slightly busy street, and into Bender’s Landing, a nearby burb whose wooded half and full acre plots sport a variety of architectural styles ranging from glorified row house to neo-mid-century suburban castle, from transplanted ski lodge to Mississippi plantation.  I love looking at the eclectic mix of homes as I press myself to push my pace, streaking by man-made lakes mixed with virginal nature.  The roads are well maintained and nearly traffic free, the trees provide shade without blocking the breeze, and the options for longer rides are plentiful with just an easy right or left turn.

In my nearly three years of riding, luck rides with me - I have never been injured.  Until today.  Now, there are many ways a bike injury occurs.  Collision with another object - animate or inanimate.  A surprise wind gust throwing off your balance.  An unfortunately placed speed bump.

My injury was none of these.  Most injuries occur as a result of something unforeseen.  Mine could have very easily been prevented had I just thought out my actions.

I had just left my neighborhood and was traversing Riley-Fuzzel Rd. (soon to be the Grand Parkway).  The two lanes of traffic each way are easily escapable thanks to a wide paved shoulder.  Frequently, to a cyclists chagrin, the shoulder becomes the repository for road waste - tire bits, broken taillights, periodic trash (Don’t Mess With Texas!), and broken glass.  I usually do well to avoid to obstacles, keeping my eyes ahead, but today I rode through a pocket of broken glass.

One of the first lessons I learned while riding the bike is to keep the tires free of broken class - duh, right - so I did what you are supposed to do.  I leaned forward and, using the portion of my glove between my thumb and forefinger, pressed against the front tire, clearing the tire of debris.  Then, I reached behind me, just under the saddle, and did the same thing.

Now, those of you who ride bikes, or understand the basic laws of physics, know that when you ride a bike, the tire rotates.  When something touches a rotating object, frequently, it is influenced by the velocity of the rotation, pulling it along.  Touching a rotating bike tire is no different.  When clearing the front tire, I did what I was supposed to do - I pressed my glove against it just past the prongs, making sure my hand was pulled away from them.  On the back, because I didn’t think, I just acted, I touched behind the prongs.  In a fantastical display of the laws of physics, the tire pulled my hand along with it, cramming it into the gap between the tire and the back prong.  Of course, I was still moving (and in fact pedaling), meaning the tire kept moving in the same direction, despite my hand being in the way.  Finally, after the surprise ripped away, I yanked my hand out and continued my ride.

My glove protected most of my right hand, but I still managed to tear the skin off in a couple of places and give myself friction burns on others.  For a musician, it could have been much worse.

Make sure to think before you act.  It doesn’t matter if you are riding a bike, in the middle of an emotionally charged argument, or pursuing a like changing decision, always give consideration to the results of your actions.  I learned an important lesson today (one I am certain I have been taught before), but I know, had it been any number of other situations, the results could have been much more dire.  Take it from me: don’t get burned.

The Stained Shirt

One of my favorite shirts is a striped polo from Banana Republic the salesman practically guilted me into buying.  As I headed back to the fitting room to make sure the shirt would actually fit my odd frame (wide shoulders, narrow chest), the salesman made a witty comment about how cheap it was - $7 - and how I would be an idiot not to buy it.

My $7 shirt has been great.  It is comfortable to wear, breathes well in the Houston heat, fits me comfortably, and works well within my seasonal clothing rotation.  But, a few months back I had an unfortunate lunch incident involving guacamole, which left the mostly white surface blemished with a few greenish splotches.  

I used a Tide-to-go pen, but I think it was old, and only served to smear around the green color, expanding the blobs beyond their original borders.  I used stain removers at home before washing it, but to no avail.  I bleached it.  I used Samantha’s Mary Kay Oil Free Eye Makeup Remover (which is great at getting set in stains out, by the way), but even it was not successful.  I never dried it in the dryer, working to prevent the heat from setting the stain, but no matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away.

So, it sat on my dryer for weeks and weeks.  Finally, I got tired of it sitting there, so I washed it one more time.  Then, clenching my jaw as I did so, I tossed it into the dryer.  When I took it out, the stain was gone.  I don’t know how.  I don’t know why.  I just know it is a clean white surface again, graced only by the thin green horizontal stripes that drew my attention in the first place.

So . . . this is the point I could wax rhapsodic about the values of patience and never giving up, but I won’t.  I’ve played that song before.  I want to talk about has happened every time I have worn the shirt since.

I have gotten to the point where I don’t cringe any longer when I reach into my closet to grab my favorite shirt, certain that this time, when I remove it from the plastic hangar, the green, faded avocado tinge would have returned again, mocking me with its longevity and staying power.  But, every time I wear it, I still expect to see a hint of the stain, a faint, shadowy reminder of my clumsiness when eating.  It doesn’t matter if I catch sight of myself in the mirror, or glance down when driving, my brain constantly plans on seeing my stain.

I am glad it is gone, but I had become so used to seeing the stain sitting there upon the white fibers that my expectations became dictated by my past.  I have somehow become trained to expect the worse when I glance at my shirt.  But, I should not.  I know  my reality isn’t dictated by my past experiences, but, for some reason, I can’t bridge the gap created by that stain.  Keeping my stain free vision in mind, I know I can correct my expectations, keeping them in line with reality.  It simply takes persistence and correct mental positioning.  

Anytime I walk into my closet, reach up and grab the white sleeve, I do so with the knowledge it will be blemish free this time, freeing me from the discouragement I have experienced in the past.

Your own personal disappointments and discouragements work the same way as that stain.  Just because circumstances worked out one way in the past doesn't condemn you to repeat them in the future.  We are not Bill Murry in Groundhog Day, repeating the same day over and over.  

Now, though my brain isn't quite over the stain, whenever I don the $7 Banana Republic polo, I am reminded that every day is a new one.  I have the opportunity to experience a different reality this time.  I am not condemned to wear a stained shirt every single day.