Tag Archives: Human behavior

Having a blog rocks! And so does Josh of Joshland!

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If my daughter reads this blog one day, I hope she takes away the lesson that you can only get rewards in life if you take a first step in one direction or another. When I started writing this blog I had no idea it would return the level of support, intelligence, humor and kindness that it has. I’ve been blown away over the past year by the experience, as I thought I would attract two or three people who had read every page on the Internet and were down to mine. Like love, I find it best not to analyze anyone’s reading choice too deeply, lest the magic fade. I’m grateful for my new friends – I’ll leave it at that.

And then there is Josh from Joshland, a kind soul unlike any other who walks the walk of inner strength and positivity; a person who has experienced more than a reasonable amount of heartache in his life with cystic fibrosis and the death of his sister, Angie, from CF. Mere mortals might give up. Not Josh. He colors this world orange with his  crazy pal Moganko* and almost makes me want to believe in the goodness of humanity (almost, which is a future blog post).

So, what does this crazy friend of mine from the land of Vikings go and do? He creates two amazing graphics for me. The banner at the top of the page and the Unknown Graphic below. I opened my email and there they were – gifts for moi. And I like gifts. Yes, I am the luckiest person alive.

My humble thanks to Josh for the thoughtfulness and generosity. The banner will go into rotation immediately and appear randomly, depending on my mental state. Regarding the other graphic, I like admiring my handsome self in it. The resemblance is uncanny. Well done, Friend of Moganko.

Please raise your nebulizers for Josh tonight. Salute.

I rock in my purple shirt. Fox doesn't like the way he looks.

 

*There is some debate whether Moganko created the character Josh or vice versa. It’s a mystery that remains unsolved.

Facebook makes me want to kill myself

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I was a Facebook holdout until this month. I overcame the privacy issues that worry me and signed up. But I’m not giving up the bag on my head – that’s my security blanket until I can afford plastic surgery. I joined because my friends live on FB and I feel like an outsider not being able to read their FB updates. Now I want to kill myself.

Don’t call 911 yet. I won’t be performing any crazy suicidal acts, like throwing myself from the hospital roof the next time I’m in, though the thought has crossed my mind. FB may make me want to end my days, but that’s different from actually doing it or something crazy like jumping in front of the annoying ice cream truck that drives through my neighborhood on weekdays when kids are in school (what’s up with that anyway?). However, Facebook makes me feel depressed and more of a loser than I already am.

I started by looking up old school friends and girlfriends. Big mistake. The school pals are all more successful than I am – my best friend in high school went to Stanford and Harvard and is president of a company. Ex-girlfriends are living in exclusive parts of cities and married to successful men who are doctors and dentists, or who split atoms with a device they made in their garage from beer cans and Lego. The common theme: you did better without me. I’m not that surprised.

Look, I’m not a complete loser (arguable). I had a delayed start with my life when the period for feeling sorry for myself ended (the end of that period is arguable too based on this blog, but let me feel good about myself for a few minutes). I started college late while my friends were more motivated and driven with better reasons to believe they would live long enough to take advantage of a college eduction. I had what we’ll call a “rough patch” near the end of high school. It lasted awhile. (Is it over? Again, arguable) I would like to have a “do-over” on that time in my life, please.

So, I’ll be quitting Facebook soon. I’ve seen enough. Once I find a way to become more successful, I’ll rejoin. Until then, I can’t take the daily FB searches of successful ex’s. If only I could find one homeless old school mate, or ex-girlfriend unable to get over me, who now fishes for meals in a trash dumpster every day. Once I discover that person, I promise I’ll accept his or her friend request immediately. Life can be just like the old days again – on Facebook.

The woman with the blue hair

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I wish I could tell you the exact words spoken by the woman with the blue hair, but I was bending over having an argument with my daughter about not shutting off her Nintendo DS and I didn’t see the woman when she spoke to me. She said something like “If you spank your daughter in public I can only imagine what you do at home.”  Let me clear this up first: I don’t spank or hit my daughter, nor did I on the streets of Ventura that day. But somehow this woman in her late twenties with bright blue hair and a coffee in her hand thought I did. Somehow her mind saw something that did not happen and she felt the need to comment on the illusion.

“Sorry?” I said. “What did you say?”

She told me I shouldn’t spank my daughter. I guess at this point I should have just walked away and ignored her. But as my daughter had already wound me up by continuing to play her game and giving me attitude about it, I was already in “fray mode.” I won’t go into all details of the loop that started at this point, but it started with me explaining that my wife and I don’t believe in spanking and never do it, which is true, as I got spanked a ton growing up and wasn’t going to inflict that on my child. So, this complete stranger accusing me of something like that got me pretty heated fast. My voice was loud and I was pissed, but anything I said was followed by something to the effect of “I saw you spank her.”

Now had this been an argument with another man, it would have escalated into a fist fight, which would have caused me to cough up blood, of course, and the police would have come and it would have been a mess. Fortunately, I realized two things: I couldn’t get in a fight with a woman, as that would cross a line I would never be able to live with; the argument was becoming pointless, as arguing with her would never change her mind of what she thought she saw.

My daughter started crying at this point, which should have a been a major clue for the woman that she was wasn’t crying before, a good indication she didn’t get spanked. “You made your daughter cry,” she said. “You made my daughter cry,” I said, which doesn’t sound that cool on the page but I said it with such intensify that the woman didn’t say anything after that. I hugged my daughter and looked back at the woman one more time. She flipped me off. I just waved her off in a way that said you’re not worth my time and walked away with my daughter, who had never experienced anything like this heated argument in her life.

We went for pizza and it turned into a great teaching moment. We spoke about how we couldn’t let the woman ruin our day. We could have gone back to the car and gone home, but she would have defeated us if we had done that. It also allowed me to discuss the types of people that exist in the world and how you have to be street smart, which is another reason you don’t walk along with your head down playing your DS. People and situations come at you fast. Head up, eyes open.

If there is a karma side to the story it’s this. As my daughter and I got back to the car later, a woman called out to me. She and her two friends were there when the argument was going on. She told me she had seen me standing with my daughter and I hadn’t spanked her, which is amusing as I didn’t need confirmation, but I understand she meant it as support. She said I was controlled and had it happened to her she’s not sure she could have managed it like I did, which is funny as I felt wound up and bordering on a lack of control, but I didn’t use foul language in public and in front of my daughter, which I was happy about.

This nice woman told me she debated getting involved and stating that I didn’t spank my daughter, which deep down I would have liked just to prove the blue-haired woman wrong. But who knows what would have happened or if the annoying woman would have even believed the witness. It may have escalated the situation. So, I let my witness off the hook and told her it was best that she stayed out of the situation. It seemed she needed to hear this, as her inaction was bothering her. I was happy to help her let it go and absorb all of the burden.

Now if I could just let the damn thing go. It’s several days later and I still replay the situation in my mind. It taps into my CF anger and OCD and I keep thinking about it. I like to win and perhaps that’s where my frustration lies – there was no way to win, but I still want to. I also have a new appreciation for the fact many witness statements in court are incorrect. Somehow this woman saw something that did not happen, yet was convinced it did. Or, she just wanted to mess with me, which is possible. Or who knows what her motivation was – and that bothers me. For as long as I live, I’ll never know what really happened that day or understand human behavior, including my own.

Why doesn’t CF make us stress resistant to life’s troubles?

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Cystic fibrosis stress is difficult to describe to others outside of the disease’s reach. But it’s not that nuance of stress bothering me tonight, though when I think of going back to the hospital one day I feel like an ex-con who says he’ll never go to prison again. They’ll never take me alive. Now that feels stressful.

Where's the hospital bed in this ICU picture?

Tonight, the part of CF irritating me revolves around being stress resistant to non-CF related stress. At one point in my life, in my 20s, I had that power. I didn’t care what happened and somehow survived my own consistent stupid acts of defiance.

I want that feeling back.

Cystic fibrosis should come with superpowers when it comes to fighting work and life stress in general. But it doesn’t. I worry about too many things and I feel I shouldn’t. CF should protect me from the bullshit. Perhaps, it helps reduce stress a bit. After the last two embolizations, I don’t sweat the small stuff at work as much because I don’t know how long I’ll be able to work. I’m in extra time now. I don’t get too bent over trivial matters.

That’s not to say I’m not a perfectionist. I care about the work. I just try not to worry about what might go wrong or when something does. There is always a solution. Unfortunately, not everyone has spent a portion of their lives in the hospital. My co-workers stress over details that will never make an impact in life, or they’re afraid to take risks. Fear overwhelms them at times.

Why can’t I ignore all of these stressors when I know today might be my last? Well, bills have to be paid; daily life must be lived. I need health insurance. My life is not the romantic vision of dying with the mantra of  “you’ve got two months to live so go crazy and take care of your bucket list.” It’s a constant internal back and forth of living for today and planning for tomorrow. Blow all your dough today and you’ll be poor tomorrow.

Life would be much easier if when we were born, we knew exactly how much time we had. I’d like to know when I have 60 days left to go. Watch the partying of all time begin – I wouldn’t worry about a thing. Not one thing. That is until day 61 rolled around and I woke up flat broke, addicted to coke and sleeping in my wrecked Porsche 911 stuck in two feet of Pacific Ocean surf and sand. Worst of all, I’d still have CF.

Life is all about the correct timing of one’s recklessness, isn’t it?

Playing nice in the sandbox – being Swiss at work

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[adult language]

I miss the days when I used to travel light. When I threw clothes in a bag and drove away without six pounds of meds and compressors and nebulizers and CF-related paraphernalia. Luckily, this week’s business travel didn’t include an airplane flight where TSA agents’ main objective is to embarrass me by having me remove everything from my bags. I hate airplanes and air travel for so many reasons now. But again, I only had to drive this week. For that I’m thankful.

I had three days of meetings, many of which I had to lead. If I had a favorite moment it was the opening when we went around the room and introduced ourselves, stating our position, years of service and other standard information, ending with a question: “What’s your favorite vacation spot?” Lot’s of possible answers to that one. Islands and Disney were the most popular. I would have liked to answer “the hospital” because that’s where I spend most of my time outside of work. However, this would have raised eyebrows and revealed my secret identity, which is now known in HR but not to others.

I dream of winning the lottery because I’d live in a large house with a big yard, donate to CF research, and not worry about money and health insurance.  I also dream of winning so I could stay at my job for a few weeks and say what I want to say. That’s right, I wouldn’t quit right away after winning. I would stay. But I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone with my words. That wouldn’t be sporting. Rather, I would like to quit playing the dance of being Switzerland, of using the most neutral of phrases and replies. I’d like to be blunt and not worry about making people feel like their idea was the best I’d ever heard. I’d like to hit a buzzer and say “average idea, you can do better.” Or tell my bosses that micro-managing sucks and we have a proofreader for catching typos. Management’s job is to avoid icebergs in our path, not visit the engine room to fix a spark plug.

I’d tell the guy who sits back in our meetings and looks for things to criticize to shut the fuck up. I’d tell him I don’t want to hear anything negative and to keep his pie hole shut for the duration of the meeting. End of story. If he wants to say something positive, great, speak up. However, if he wants to point out that under the harshest of deadlines and editing materials while I was in the hospital, that I could have used a different event on our timeline, well, he can kiss my ass. Because in the scope of life, it makes no difference. And perhaps that’s what irks me more than ever as my life nears its conclusion – so much of the time we spend at work is spent on trivial discussions. It’s not that the work doesn’t matter, it does. People matter. It’s how our time is spent that both fascinates and irritates me. In our quest to play nice in the sandbox, it takes longer to get to where we need to go.

And that goes to my lottery fantasy – saying what we want to say, not being mean to be mean, but stating it as we see it. Not being afraid to debate, or of healthy conflict without the constant fear of losing one’s job.

I’d also like to tell those who think that they deserve special recognition every time they do their job or work an extra 15 minutes at the end of the day that they are really doing just what they get paid to do. No one hired them to be average. Imagine interviewing for a job and stating that you’re going to do average work and want recognition every time you do great work. You’re paid to do a great job, asshole. Do it without the need for constant recognition that you’re doing your job well. The coolest cats, men and women, are the ones who do a great job and keep quiet about it. They don’ t need daily accolades. They have their own internal scoring system.

I think of my daughter and hope that she will work hard in life and find a career that makes her happy. I hope it’s one where she feels free to say what she wants to say. And I hope that opportunity exists by the time she grows up. I’m not sure it will.

And now for today’s grift

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"Diamond teeth make me feel pretty, oh, so pretty."

 

My wife went to the dentist today – an honest dentist who shares a lot of interesting stories. One was about an elderly patient who brought in his more elderly mother for an exam. The woman was a few weeks out of bypass surgery and didn’t look like she was doing well and might not have much time left. They had gone to another dentist who recommended $35,000 worth of dental work. (It must have been same the diamond package Kayne West recently added to his lower teeth.)

Fortunately, my wife’s dentist did the minimum needed to make her comfortable and saved her enough money to buy a new Cadillac, if that’s what she wanted to do with the leftover money. Whereas the other dentist wanted to buy a new Cadillac for himself or perhaps the Ukrainian mistress he keeps in an apartment in Van Nuys. That’s how I see a person like that who tries to hose an elderly woman in the last stages of her life – he probably cheats on his wife too.

My wife’s dentist shared other stories about the methods dentists and doctors use to bill for money patients don’t owe per the contract of their insurance – if patients pay the bill great, if not and they complain, it’s wiped away like it should have been in the first place. That one really gets under my skin because we get those bills trying to trick us into paying what we don’t owe. It’s unethical.  Yet, it happens. And I wonder who allows it to happen. It’s not some computer that thinks up a great idea to rip people off. Computers aren’t assembled evil and ready to program devious billing practices. It’s a human who thinks this stuff up and somehow finds a way to live with him or herself, along with the pile of money made from the deception.

All of this makes me wonder how ethical we are as a society. Every day I read stories about people skirting the edge of what’s legal and a gray area of almost being illegal, but justified as a billing error or clerical mistake or medical recommendation. This isn’t a robbery of a 7/11 or someone embezzling a million dollars. It’s not an obvious crime that shows up on a grainy video on the 11:00 p.m news. This is a different kind of robbery. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy to detect. And yet, it feels like it’s happening more often and some justify its financial “cleverness” and ignore it unless by some miracle of detective work it’s exposed.

It’s modern-day grifting and the victim is our bank accounts and faith in others. One’s not so easy to recover.

What does the future hold?

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On Friday afternoon I led a conference call with some members of the department. They were upset because the senior management of the department is bringing in consultants to do the job they’re doing. So, naturally they feel threatened and discombobulated about the tactic and they worry about their jobs. I had to listen to 30 minutes of them imagining every possible negative scenario that might happen. Then after the maple tree of discontent and fear had been tapped dry and its sticky syrup rubbed to a nice protective lather, I asked: Is there anything positive that might come from this situation?

Silence on the phone. More silence. I refused to break it.

“Well, maybe,” one of the fearful said. “Perhaps management will get a better idea of the scope of our jobs.” Bingo. There is a possible positive outcome. And more of them came up in the conversation and the negative outcomes fell by the wayside. I’m not sure which will come true for the team when we bring in hired guns. I do know from experience it will never be as bad as some of them predicted. The sky won’t fall and lightning won’t kill them.

And I wonder how I’ve modeled this negative outlook over the years and now with cystic fibrosis. The belief that one can predict the future must come with the disease. And I’ve made the mistake that I can prognosticate all of CF’s negative outcomes. When I was young I predicted that no one would ever love me and I would never get married, and a child was impossible. Yes, one mother of a girlfriend didn’t want her daughter dating me because I had CF and no future. Yet somehow I met someone else who was brave, a fighter, and believed in a future with positive outcomes.

I also predicted I would never make it to 30. Wrong again.

I have a long list of predictions I’ve blown over the years.

So, today I wonder: What does the future hold for me now? My answer: I have no clue, and I’m not going to spend my precious time worrying about it today. I’d probably guess wrong anyway. History shows I have that talent.

Rant: Repainting films

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I’ve spent many days and evenings escaping real life and CF by watching movies – good, bad and mind-blowing. However, I’m irritated by trend of the enhanced version, or director’s cut, or need to release a second version of a great film for increased profits. It cheapens classics and makes me wonder why this craze haunts the film industry and not other art forms. What about novels and paintings?

Apple products would have a huge role in the new version. HC can visit the NYC Apple store.

If we can re-do films, why not pen updated versions of the Catcher in the Rye or Catch-22? Or paint new brush strokes on the Mona Lisa. Perhaps my examples are cheating, as the novels came out in a different time period when movies didn’t get updated (along with the fact J.D. Salinger, Norman Mailer and da Vinci are long gone).  However, should that really matter? Couldn’t these works be freshened up for modern audiences? Think of the possibilities: Mona Lisa sports a Bluetooth headset in her ear, reflecting the busy, independent woman she is now. The current painting doesn’t do her lifestyle justice. In the repainted version, the porcelain veneers of her $10K J Lo smile sparkle when she’s caught mid-sentence ordering another five thousand shares of DreamWorks stock.

Let’s not stop at paintings. Think of the possibilities when it comes to adding modern, marketable technology to novels. Holden Caulfield gets a cell phone to use in TCITR II, the Technology Cut. Or better yet, Holden gets an iPod playing marketable hits while he walks around New York City contemplating life, which will be the cherry on top to sell the music rights for a massive amount of money. Now there’ll be a Catcher soundtrack album, or two, and a Holden Caulfield special-edition iPod. And McDonald’s Catcher in the Rye drink glasses that will be recalled due to some nasty Chinese metal in the coating that causes us all to want to kill ourselves, which is how I feel thinking about this.

There is no greater example of my hatred of revisionist history than Star Wars, which I remember waiting three hours to see when it was released and have since seen a dozen times. But, and it hurts to say this, George Lucas has killed it for me with updated versions that include added scenes that weren’t part of the original footage. In the ultimate unfair do-over, he added scenes created with new special-effects technology. Why not just re-shoot the entire movie with new technology, George, if you’re going to apply that rule? Why make a quilt of old and new? Might as well get rid of the cheap masks in the cantina scene while you’re tinkering with your masterpiece.

Imagine the Na'vi in pink or purple or ecru or Home Depot orange, the latter creating unique marketing opportunities

Why not re-shoot the whole damn thing, George? Re-shoot it every year with new actors and you’ll have a billion-dollar hit every June. Or, instead of re-releasing 4 or 5 different versions of your crowning achievement, as you clearly screwed up the last four of the movies you made, why not let someone else take a spin with the characters and make new movies? My eight-year-old daughter would jump at the chance to see new Star Wars films, not Star Wars films with new scenes.

I know my cause is hopeless. There’s too much money involved. And that’s our world now. Marketing and packaging – or repackaging. Maximizing the return. I don’t blame anyone. I would do the same thing if given the chance. If I had made Avatar and had had total artistic control, I wouldn’t release a second version less than a year later like James Cameron did. No, no, no –  I’d release a new version every month with different skin colors for the “Na’vi.” Then, when I ran out of colors, I would give the Na’vi iPads. Today, Avatar 1, version 27, would be in theaters.

Oh, well, it’s a shame some artists can’t leave their masterpieces alone. It makes me sad, though hopeful that one day someone will release a director’s cut of Troll 2. Hopefully the new version will be a total of nine minutes long and come with 100 dollars in cash for those of us who wasted two hours of our lives watching it the first time. One can only hope.

If I had courage

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If I had courage, I would . . .

Everything you need to make your point in a meeting.

wear a toolbelt everywhere and with all types of clothing. Like a three-piece suit at a business meeting or a swimsuit at the beach. Though I would have to take it off to swim, as my first try would be my last when the tools dragged me to the bottom of the ocean. That might be the only kink in the plan. However, the toolbelt would be helpful with a business suit. Especially when the smart ass at the meeting says, “hey, Joe Toolbelt, what gives?” One whack of my rubber-gripped hardened-steel hammer to his head would answer that question. “Yeah, that’s what gives, part of your skull, Jerky. Hope you enjoy your stay at the hospital. Now would the rest of you like to hear my idea for increasing revenue or would you like a screwdriver in your ear?”

get a tribal tatoo that covers one of my arms. I want to be a member of the tribe with tribal tattoos, though I’m not sure who exactly is in that tribe. Is it really a tribe? A secret tribe? It looks like a pretty diverse group of people with this type of tattoo. I can’t pinpoint one type. But I know if I got a tattoo to match theirs, then they would regret getting their tattoos because I’d be a member of their tribe and it wouldn’t be a cool tribe if I was a member. No squares allowed. Especially freaks wearing toolbelts all the time. Nope, these secret tribe members would have to go to the plastic surgeon and have their tribal tattoos removed and get new tattoos on their arms. Then they’d start a new tribe. That’s okay. All I wanted was the tattoo, not membership in their stupid club.

Ladies, this one is for you. Not in a million years did I ever imagine putting a photo like this on my site. Consider this your birthday present.

wear g-string underwear in the hospital and pretend I was a male exotic dancer. In fact, when anyone asked what I do for a living, that’s what I’d tell them. “Yep, not earning any tips in here while I’m on IVs, am I, Doc?” Then I would make it sound authentic by adding, “The ladies at the nursing home will be missing their love dancer this week. Hey, doc, you think I could do a gig here, in the hospital? Cheer up some patients?” While in my room, I’d play AC/DC and all sorts of dance music and ask the doctors and nurses to tell me if they liked one dance move over another. “Do you like it when I shake my hips first or kick my leg out and pretend I’m a karate guy?” I know this strategy would get me released to do home IV’s sooner rather than later. Nothing scares medical folk more than dealing with a guy in a leopard g wearing a toolbelt and sporting a tribal tattoo on his arm.

write a novel. Yep, I would sit down and finally give it shot and get it out of my system. Or finish one I started. I would overcome the fear that it would suck and would be a complete waste of my time. I don’t think I have enough courage for that. Not in a million years. Can I paste a bunch of blog posts together and call it a novel? Maybe not. Oh, well, let that be a lesson to you. Or not. In fact, there’s not really a lesson in there at all. Not if I have to call it out to you. It has to spring forth organically. This post is a lesson in what not to do. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? Good. Neither do I, which is exactly why I shouldn’t write a novel. No one would get past the nonsensical first page. Or the picture of me in a g-string on the cover. I can’t get past the stupid male dancer photo I added. It’s creeping me out. What was I talking about?

Stay well.

Digging holes

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Strange that the bottles on the web site don't match the ones I bought.

The morning started out rough with me feeling like the Human Torch. Tylenol acted as the bucket of water. I resisted filling the Vanco Rx, which was the right decision, so far. I’m feeling better tonight. I spoke to my stomach doctor on the phone today and he allowed me to move up to Ensure, telling me that four of these a day would provide me with the protein and nutrients I needed. (But not much eating satisfaction.) Unfortunately, they don’t come in an M&M’s flavor. So, I had to violate the liquid diet this afternoon and eat a handful, or two, or three of real M&M’s. Though I did chew them up until they became liquid-like.

*               *                 *

My gardener came by in the afternoon. I hired someone else to do some water-saving landscaping. He did a crappy job and I got hosed for over $1,100. I didn’t really complain to my gardener about it. I just mentioned it in a matter-of-fact kind of way. I may have to go to small claims court for the first time in my life and my gardener may get the job after all.

So, there I was mentioning the botched job the other guy did when my gardener told me that he had purchased over 100 acres of land way north of here where he and his family would one day create a farm with corn and cows. And he’d retire there. Watch his kids work the land. Milk the cows. Eat the corn.

That’s really cool, I thought. Really cool.

He needed water on the land to do all of this. Of course. Corn needs it to grow. Cows drink it to survive. Makes sense. So he hired a guy to drill a well, which was going to cost him around 50K. He gave him 10K to start, then inspected the progress which was going fine. He gave the driller another 24K. The work stopped and the lawyers came out and the driller declared bankruptcy. My gardener got a half-dug hole and lost his life savings.

I knew he worked hard for that money, in the dirt. It didn’t come easy.

He wanted me to know because, I think, he, like many of us, wanted to share a painful story. And because he wanted to give me some perspective on what losing real money is like. I didn’t lose my life savings. He did. I wasn’t complaining, but my story triggered his.

When he told me it was going to cost him 25K to fill the hole, well, what can you say at that point. Of course I said something stupid like, can’t you just fill it in with dirt? Wrong, you can’t. According to the government, a 50K hole has a proper way it has to be filled. That put an end to my talking about my $1,100 hit to the wallet.

The situation reminded me of the times over the years when I’ve listened to someone talk about their health issues – they had the flu and had to stay in bed for three days, or they had knee surgery and stayed overnight in the hospital. Of course I’m thinking if you only knew how many days I’ve racked up in the hospital, my friend, if you only knew. But I keep my mouth shut in those situations. And I wish I had today.