Behind great men

I have a theory that has been espoused by many others with some sort of twist. Men with great potential also have great frailties.

Now, I'm going to use men for the example, although many of the same discussions apply to women. But some just don't seem to. So the gender choice is on purpose.

It's kind of the yin and yang of the human composition with the positives for success needing a likely negative. Men with compassion only have it because they have passion, which leads them down paths of sexual destruction. Men with the confidence to try great things teeter on the verge of arrogance which is always guaranteed to topple. Those who amazing focus require some type of escape to keep them from madness, escapes which are often debilitating.

I think it's one of the reason we see so much mediocrity in leadership anymore. For people to qualify for our vote or agreement to leadership, we vet them to pointlessness. Do we expect to find someone with the qualities to lead who hasn't made mistakes? How can they relate to the human condition after living unlike a human? It's likely the cause of our disappointment too. Maybe the "perfect" person can attain leadership, but their humanity catches them and they disappoint our expectations by eventually giving in.

This wasn't so true in the past. If we look at Washington, Jefferson, Franklin, Lincoln - politicians we forgo political parties and give respect - we see huge human frailties. Across the seas, examine Churchill. Their weaknesses didn't drive them to evil but there's no doubt they had a special appreciation for the pleasures of the flesh and their own egos. But they are peccadilloes compared to the big picture accomplishments.

I also believe there's a corollary to this hypothesis. Behind these men with weaknesses, there is quite often a "suffering" woman. I quote suffering only because those who would examine the situation would label her so. Yet she may be quite happy and tolerant of the situation. But the more important aspect is that she is there as a support that may be what keeps the weakness from overtaking the overall man.

I think these men of weakness are hard not to love. In the more general population, they are the bad boys. But where the majority of bad boys only carry the negative yang of the equation, those capable of bigger things also carry the positive yin. And their zest for life, constant interest, and altruistic face draw the hearts of many women. But those women have to be wise to understand and tolerate the combination.

They also must have a combination of traits, they are special women. Strong enough to not be run down but flexible enough to endure the dark leanings. Passionate enough to keep interest and compassionate enough to understand such immense weakness only they may view.

It is as if we've decided to take our human race into mediocrity by eating those who have such great possibility. We feel more comfortable with those more like the majority, the average instead of the exceptional. Our inability to understand and accept the humanity that is combined with striving leaves us mired. It frustrates the best of us by the refusal to understand the worst in us.

We need a renaissance of reality.

Who's driving?

My family lives 200 miles away. As in many Texas trips, it's so simple I know I can go from my doorstep to their's with four rights and two lefts.

But when I make the trip for the holidays this week, it won't be that simple although I'll make even fewer stops than usual. There's no co-pilot.

All dogs seem to love to go. Sam was the same way. Although with his cocker spaniel hips, he couldn't jump into the pickup and had to take a half jump while I pushed his butt into the floorboard. Sam also wasn't like other dogs who want the window down. The blowing even seemed to bother him.

Despite quirks, he loved to go. So, he got to. He just seemed to like to see the world go by in the windshield and the new faces out the window.

When I'd leave the vehicle, he'd commander the driver's seat. Not curl up in the seat, but park like a person. I came out of a restaurant once with a German tourist taking pictures of the Texan dog who drove the pick up.

The longest trips we took were those holiday sojourns up to my family. Three hours on the road isn't really that long. But it helped to have anything else breathing in the vehicle, to observe the goings on of passing vehicles and see their reactions. Sam and I had it down. We'd stop at this barbecue spot in Salado because he liked the dirt parking lot as a place to do first business. We'd stop at this truck stop outside Waco to the single patch of grass under the sign for the same reason. And then we'd march for the final push into Arlington.

It was holiday tradition. One that after more than a decade I guess I got used to without knowing it.

It'll be time to leave again in a few days. I'll notice packing doesn't require a couple of bowls and a bag of food. I'll catch I don't have to do a bump butt to get anyone in the seat. No matter how loudly I play the radio, it will be oddly quiet.

But I think I just might stop in Salado for some barbecue, whether I'm hungry or not.

The noise of writers

An acquaintance has a blog, like millions of people. Recently he sought recommendations for subjects, stating he preferred something he could "rip on." For him, it's a forum to ridicule and bitch.

Another acquaintance asked me to review her blog sometimes and comment. She stated she was looking to improve as a writer. She'd post about other people's writings or point out world events. When I asked if she ever considered revealing something about herself and her personal thoughts in the blog, she posted a sidebar hidden in a longer note that she intended the blog to be impersonal.

Many, many people want to be a writer. The previous incidents made me ponder what exactly that means. It probably made me judgemental. But I couldn't shake the question. When I used to coach journalists day to day, I stated that anyone could teach a monkey to write a story. It's really almost always a formula. I felt much differently about the innate talent it took to get information from people and to process that information, but presentation was almost plugging in a template.

It's the same in presenting most information. People can learn to arrange words in an easily digestible order, built sentences so the general populace can capture their meaning and construct a presentation that leaves a reader with the proper information. (Although it seems our society is less and less willing to do these things these days).

That is what most people who try to express themselves do. They utilize a skill. They implement an English lesson.

But I don't believe that makes them writers.

I define writing as using words to be more than words. To invoke an emotion, from laughter to tears. To paint a vision, not just describe a scene but make it so vivid someone feels as if they're standing there. Something that pushes the thought process beyond the boundaries that seem to exist and go places not imagined.

I suppose it's something that can be learned, practiced and refined. I don't think that happens by doing the same thing over and over, just pushing information. It takes gambles and innovation. Maybe actually be a writer involves simple, innate talent.

The entire process made me think of a piano player. First, I don't believe people who do not know a note would ever sit down and pound away and call themself a player. Secondly, most people can practice and learn notes and communicate a tune. But there are those who turn notes into emotions, somehow put some of themself and their experiences into the instrument and are a musician.

In the same way, it's like the blogosphere has become a room jammed with thousands of pianos. Most people are in there banging away not because they want to make music but because the pounding feels good to them somehow. And somewhere in there, there might be a true tune, something beautiful and melodic, something that would move and inspire.

I wonder if we could even hear it.

A meeting place

While I was growing up, it was obvious my father and I were very different people.

He was a former professional athlete, I was skinny and uncoordinated. He was gregarious, I was a loner. He put together car parts, I put together words.

Obviously, we found long periods of time where we really didn't have much to say.

Yet about the time I was a junior in high school, I learned we'd found a regular meeting place to which I still refer to this day.

It started with a simple quiz. In those days, I ran with some kids who were older, more cultured and artsy. One of them asked me to quickly respond to the question what I thought of when he said Carmen Miranda. "Bananas," I blurted. "Exactly," he said with some astonishment.

Miranda was a 1940s movie musical character who most often danced with a hat comprised of fruit on her head. Now how did I know the character, much less the fruit compilation?

In that same time period, a new fad arose related to those musical. A movie was built of outtakes from the movie musicals over the previous decades called "That's Entertainment." It was a smash hit, and as I watched I questioned how instead of getting an education, I felt deja vu. I'd seen these spectacular dance numbers before.

It was similar when I stumbled across drama. Flipping through channels, I already knew Humphrey Bogart and Gary Cooper and the plots they were playing out.

It was then this hazy undefined memory arose. It seems like a dark den. My father is in a recliner and I'm on a couch. There's no conversation in the memory, but everything from "White Christmas through "Singing in the Rain" to "West Side Story" washed across me. And apparently registered.

It made me a departure from many of my peers in the future. Although I joined my redneck buddies in an appreciation for "Smoky and the Bandit," I found myself sitting alone and transfixed just as much by "Cabaret" and "All That Jazz."

All of our parents provide us with gifts over time. We think of values and education, a general upbringing. Sometimes I think that's just the genetic cycle at its best. But the human trait is often reflected in the things passed on to us subtly and almost unrecognized.

A place where even completely different people can meet for all time.

How am I alive?

I guess I started pondering that question right before Halloween. I was combining candies and considered Payday, peanuts around nougat. I started to put it back thinking of horror stories of children and peanuts these days. Then I remembered the peanuts in the M&Ms and the Snickers and decided I wasn't clearing the decks for something parents should review anyway.

Within days, I also saw a report on the growing percentage of children allergic to common things in our world.

It made me wonder, am I lucky or has something gone askew in the human condition? Because when I remember how I lived my childhood, I guess I should be dead.

We ate everything. The kid who was allergic to something was quite the anomaly. School lunches were an assembly line with Sloppy Joe's guaranteed one day and pizza another. Memory fades, but I'd suspect the other three days were top of the nutrition chain and reviewed to be allergy approved.

But it's even worse. I think of the creeks in which I played and sometimes foolishly ingested. I realize the world has gotten generally dirtier in the decades since. But I lived in a burg next to an Air Force base and airplane manufacturing site. Near the creek, they had a dump site which I recall once had an fighter jet tail section. The manufacturing site was also where they developed composites that eventually became the stealth technology we use today. Who knows what all leached out from those operations as they went through failed composites, leached into the creek from which I was catching crawdads on a string with bacon tied on the end.

And then there were my bicycle habits. The bike itself would probably be considered an outlawed death trap. Stingray, high rise handlebars and a gold banana set with sparkles (funny how what was fashion at one time would now get my sexual preferences questioned).

Our daily use of the bicycle would also be considered deadly today and only allowed as an extreme sport with adult supervision with paramedics standing by. We just found the biggest, steepest hill around, put a launch ramp at the bottom comprised of a big rock and a board and went flying.

Most importantly to the overprotective parents today, this is without helmets. In our day, such headgear would be more dangerous than banging your head as it would get you beaten to a pulp daily. I've never quite understood the mandate of helmets when I think of the plethora of bicycle rides for my friends and I, the amazing wrecks, and the dearth of head injuries. I've had friends who've been saved by their headgear as adults, but it seems as though we've legislated for the very few from my own experience. I also find it especially ironic as today's helmets remind me of half of the deadly peanut shell.

Then, there is night. Night is a special memory for me. Even for a child, there came a point in Texas when day just was too debilitating to be outside. But summer evenings were an escape, a chance to burn off energy and see the world in literally a different light. We got to run the streets in the night, and dash through backyards. There were almost no fences for some reason, the neighborhoods weren't cordoned off house by house but an open field. If I lived my summer nights now as I did as a child, I'd be shot within 10 yards. Although no self-respecting parent can allow their child to enjoy a summer's night in a world suddenly full of disappearing children and Nancy Grace trumpeting the failures of everyone but herself which led to the tragedy.

Surely, if I were a child today, I'd be dead. Maybe that reality - or that view of reality - is what makes childhood seem so much shorter these days.

Stages

I have an odd hobby. I'm a stage sampler.

Using tactics that can be described between sneaky and blatant, I find my way onto performance stages.

It's not simply some fantasy/hero worship. I've had official access to many stages and during The Lost Years when I helped manage some performers, I stood on stages with various performers to argue not over who went before an audience in what order, but who conducted sound check in what order. I understand stage pettiness.

And although I've been on stages with thousands of people out front and gazed upon the adoring throngs, I'm not so enamored with that either. To me, I guess it's like a history lesson.

I look from blank stages out onto the audience site and try to remember the vision for when I'm on the other side. I trace backstage to dressing rooms and consider the ingress and egress of musicians. I look closely at the backdrop and note the vast difference between the flimsiness you see in immediacy and the falsity from an audience. I consider the floor and review whatever is in my memory of the footsteps and perspiration of performers I know have worked and played in that spot.

Some of those stages are ones anyone can access, like Gruene Hall and Luckenbach. Although I was lucky enough at Luckenbach to find a posted set list from the previous night's Pat Green show, which I stole.

Some just take the right timing, like the Austin Music Hall and La Zona Rosa. Although those were as much fun for the ragged room/nasty couch backstages into which I sneaked.

Some are just pure luck and timing, like The Erwin Center when I walked in the wrong door at the right time.

But without doubt, my favorite is Austin City Limits. I was in the building on a Saturday morning to do a public television show as an alleged watcher of the economy. Like lots of television and movies, it was a bunch of hurry up and wait. So I wandered. And in an adjacent studio, I got into ACL.

The famous backdrop and the corridor through which so many unbelievable performers had passed to applause growing in their ears. The simplicity of it all. The boards that had supported a score of names I reviewed in my mind. And the view all those people had of the simple bleachers in front of them.

I'm glad I squeezed that one in. As we speak, a new studio is being constructed for ACL in downtown Austin, ensuring it will be engulfed in the shadow of all the condo buildings that are so not Austin it makes the famous ACL backdrop have to be either misrepresentative or pointless. I always laugh at venues which move and carry the stage itself or a piece to the new spot. It's kind of like carrying around a lock of a child's hair in your pocket. It's not the smile or scent or complete package that creates the whole, it's a false sense of connection.

So I get to carry all those complete stages in my mind's eye, especially ACL. What's next, Madison Square Garden?

Friends II

Circumstance has led to the need for an addendum to the previous post because a new question has arisen. How forgiving should you be as a friend?

The reality - there is someone who I really what to be my friend, and believe we have been friends. But there has been a lot taken for granted. Repeated failures to follow through on agreements and promises. A belief that a basic apology or profession of feelings makes it all okay. So, I very likely put a knife in the friendship this weekend.

Of course, I feel guilty and sad. I'm too focused on my limited friendships to be casual about losing one. But there comes a point when you must have self respect.

A friendship is a two-way street. Both people have to invest. Each has to treat the other as valuable and worthwhile. It requires time. It requires dedication. You cannot expect a friendship to be self-sustaining. It needs nurturing.

I have friendships that have endured for decades although the interaction between myself and the friend may have gaps of months or even years. But they were each established long ago over long periods of more work. They have a foundation.

But for newer ones, I believe they need time spent together. Friendship grows or withers with interaction. Because within that interaction you see proof of trust, connection and mutual respect. The two prove they value one another by what they do, not what they say.

I have been told I'm too rigid and I'm unrealistic about friendship. Some came to that conclusion from experience, and I agree with them. There have been times in my evolution where I spent more time telling everyone to constantly prove it than actually looking at the reality. I hope I've remedied that somewhat, and believe the proof it's better is in the fact some who fed me my medicine have come back around as friends.

But I still have a line I have to draw. I'm one who does not allow myself to be taken advantage of for very long. I know it limits my friendships. But it also makes the ones I have real. I used to honestly believe one strike and you're out. But as my own foibles became so much more apparent, I've come to realize so many factors can cause a friend to fail you now and then. Circumstance, maturity and humanity can cause my friends to fail.

Yet I still must have a limit. I believe it makes me more valuable as a friend. It maintains my self respect. And it expresses my expectations, which allows people to choose to meet them or not.

I can forgive. Even more than once. But not forever.