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.

Friends

I've been thinking a lot about friends lately.

Obviously, some of that is explained by the post right previous to this in which I note losing a great friend. Less obvious is the reality of how that situation revealed friends. There were those who knew enough to say just a little, but to know how much the situation affected me. There were those who knew they were closer still and could expound on their view of the relationship and express their condolences.

And there were those who ignored the situation. I'm glad they did. Because it helped clear my vision of the nature of our relationship, something to which I can blind myself.

The combination of all that made me stop and think about friends again. We live in a world in which friend may have been minimalized. Social networking such as Facebook leads us to make the word a verb and "friend" people we barely know. It over expands our list of friends to include entire other genres such as acquaintances, business associates and people to whom we only nod in real life. For those who fear offense, it can lead to even enemies making a "friends" list because they don't want to hit that ignore button and instead sheep-like accept an offer.

With all that in mind, I not only thought about whittling my alleged friends list, but stated it was a process I was conducting. That too was educational. I had direct requests to not eliminate specific people, people who I would have thought were so on the periphery they could care less. Some people gave reasons for asking me to continue to consider them friends, even though we hardly communicated. Those said they silently maintained connection via things such as this blog or visible conversations with others. They weren't that comfortable participating, but wanted to keep the pipeline open.

And I'm certain there were some who didn't state it, but prayed they would be removed from any connection because they'd had enough of me.

But there was one specific other that blunted my cynicism. One that made me think through friend with a more open mind, to give me the courage to be friends.

We hadn't crossed paths in decades, and even then it was glancing. We had re-established a dialogue and found growing up in the same place at the same time sets a template that is an automatic connection. During the final days of my good friend's life, that person kept an eye on me. She offered experience, advice and quite simply a crutch. And when it was over and I had to deal with the reality of one friend being gone, she was a new friend who I quickly came to believe was there if needed. A pretty good definition of friend.

She wasn't someone I would have thought of as a friend. But she was a friend in waiting. Her time for friendship just hadn't arrived.

She taught me to not be so rigid about my friends. She helped me see that not all friendships are stated or obvious or even yet in existence. The only friendship that isn't for certain is the one I won't let be.

I still don't believe I'm friends with everyone. I still believe friendship is earned on both sides. But I don't think of it as obvious as I may once have.

I have to believe I have more friends than I know. And hope more people think of me as their friend than I let.

Sam

Sam was a confused pound puppy when he came to me. Well, I say puppy although the age is uncertain coming from an orphanage. He might have been two then.

From what I can put together, Sam had been adopted from the pound, brought back, adopted again and again brought back.

By the time I came around, I thought his demeanor was “what did I do wrong?” His method of communication in that cage was to simply walk up and lean on me.

I guess some type of cocker mix, but who knows what else. He had this big droopy mustache. Therefore, Yosemite Sam. Yosemite Samuel P. Puppy for formality.

The day I was to pick him up for adoption, they opened his cage for cleaning and he made a break for it. They pinned him against a fence and grabbed. Just as I would have, he bit them.

That earned him several weeks of isolation, allegedly to ensure he didn’t have rabies. (If he’d been previously adopted from there, and they require inoculation, didn’t that mean they knew it wasn’t possible?)

When he’d served his time all alone with no visitors, he was greasy and angry. In fact, I believe psychologically damaged. He wouldn’t allow anyone to pick him up. To go home, we had to fight to put him in the back of a pickup for the ride.

We stopped at PetSmart for some type of cleaning materials to at least make him not smell. We walked through the store and as we checked out, he looked up at me. And in his mouth was a yellow ball he’d pilfered from one of the bottom shelves. Guess he’d made a choice.

That type of dichotomy never left. He was thrown out of two grooming places for bad behavior. But he wouldn’t touch a trash can or walk out a front door unless you put a leash on him. Even I could not pick him up. But I was essentially only one he ever “kissed” in a decade.

Sam and I rode quite a roller coaster. Lots of people coming and going in our lives. There was one lady he grew used to coming to his home most early evenings for awhile. There was a couch in front of a big window out front and just about 6, he’s hop up there and watch for the vehicle to arrive. When she and I ended, he continued watching from about 5:45 to 6:30 for about two weeks. But then seemed to decide it was he and I again, and that was okay.

The last couple of weeks were harder on Sam. He’d always had a heart murmur and that condition worsened. Like many cockers, his hips were so weak I don’t think I’d ever seen him run. They began to betray even his interest in walking into the yard, much less farther.

When he reached that point, the slightest stairs or slick floors were too great a challenge. After more than a decade of maintaining pride and independence beyond even most pets, he let me pick him up and get him to the places he needed to be. Even seemed thankful.

When Sam and I joined forces, we were damaged. But we each gave each other little bits to try and work on that. Despite being betrayed so many times through his life by people, in the last days he gave me the ultimate trust of carrying him. And despite being a 52-year-old Texan man who has some belief you need to stand strong and deal with your emotions, I’ve cried more in the last week than possibly in the majority of my life.

Sam found trust and I had to deal with my heart. I think we’ll both take those gifts and hold onto them.

Social networking and our society

The last couple of days, I've been watching something play out on Facebook, and couldn't help but be struck by how it echoes the bigger picture of our society.

One of the dramas is a 20-something girl's ongoing saga. You can watch her involve herself with substances that every few days lead her to consternation and conflict. They're really just the trigger. But whether they lead to her battling other people, straining or even losing relationships or even getting arrested, it only takes her days to return to them and have negative results. But she doesn't admit to the cause and effect.

That's a serious situation. It's not up to the common observor to decide if she's addicted to something or not.

But it is interesting to watch the hue and cry that is always ongoing with her 20-something female friends, who feels slighted or wronged, who justifies and who swears off to only return almost as quickly as the page can refresh.

Although the substances may be reflective of some part of American life, it is the maelstrom that is always ongoing that is much more indicative of a dominating piece of our culture right now. It's like they've all watched too many episodes of The Hills and feel they have to make their own lives as "exciting," at least as gossipy. They would claim they hate the drama, but you can watch and see it gives them spark and energy. It is their cause for going on each day.

On the other side, I've watched a high school acquaintance learn of his cancer, reveal it to the world and deal. In contrast to the very public debacle of the young girls, his revelation was matter of fact. His internal consideration of what it means was a single sentence of how quickly he needs to ensure he's lived life. And his gratitude for the outpouring of attempted comfort from people he's barely crossed paths with for three decades was complete and compact.

Drama is an overused word in our society. I've used it too many times in this piece. Once there was melodrama used for the superficial and pointlessly public outcries that some love to draw attention. And there was drama for the true struggles of life. But we've lumped them all together under the simple smaller world anymore.

I don't think the gap between the two types justifies the compression of our language.

Living history

I think everyone ought to grow something. It gives you responsiblity and the enjoyment of seeing the fruits of your labors.

Now, for those parents, I'm not about to make that comparison. You may get something slightly similar, but parenthood has got to be so much more rewarding, is so much more important, that I'd never put the two anywhere near each other.

But I have a secret in my plants. They're people.

That doesn't mean I talk to them and believe they respond. It means they represent people to me. I'm lucky that I have a few that have been around for years and years. When I got them, I made the choice because something about them reminded me of someone specific. It might be the color of the flower, or the scent or even the way it grows. But each one is a person to me.

Maybe most important to me, they are people who are now only on the periphery of my life. Even if I don't physically see them for years on end, whatever it is that made the person important to me at one time lives on in the plant I see daily. I get to keep the enjoyment.

I never tell them. It's something personal to me. Just a little something that keeps history alive.

Who you dance with

A little less than a week ago, I wrote something simply too dark to post here, as indicated by its title "Embrace the Insanity."

It was really Rickie talking to himself about just letting the demon in his head that he'd learn to manage go. To take a break from what can be the exhausting ongoing chore of control. To just be.

Of course, if I wrote it, I tried it. And I still can't process the result.

Without picking and choosing, I went down unexpected trails. I had to react on my feet instead of using experience. I felt the rush of adventure and maybe the fear of not knowing next. Even as the visceral part of me knew it was in situations it craved because they were unknown, the observer part of me was in the corner reviewing.

For almost all my life, I've kept Observer in the corner. He never forgets, he always comes around later to speak up, sometimes to even say "I've told you so before and will again." But he had to be second to Visceral.

I don't believe in regret. It's all about choices and consequences to me. Visceral was sort of a given choice every time. Observer was the expressor of the consequences. But they went in that order.

Except on the holiday I'd deemed for insanity embrace. The demon began to dance. He worked up a decent sweat. Visceral was in his prime. And Observer spoke up. Maybe it's better to say he expressed. It was almost as if he was just at the side shaking his head and taking notes for the consequences symposium.

I listened. I didn't really want to. In honesty, I'd covered my ears throughout the evening. But at a critical juncture, at the crossroads, I saw Observer's eyes. In there, I didn't see a need to control, but concern. Not concern that would reject me or even be disappointed, just concern that what I wanted wasn't what was happening. It wasn't happening with me, but to me.

I asked Visceral to take a seat. He argued, he even struggled some. And he's strong. But I told him it had to happen.

Observer didn't congratulate me. To this point, he hasn't really spoken up on what happened and the whys. But he also didn't have to note consequences.

I think I did embrace the insanity. The thing is, there's a chance the insanity has changed.

The sounds of silence

I've noticed an annoying speech pattern recently. People are afraid of silence.

It's highly recognizable in television commercials. Too often, that means marketers find young people speak this way - as that's the only ones they try to address outside the nightly national news - or the agency people are all that age and reflecting their own cadence. Either way, it means this is the way the next - or is it current - generation speaks.

The style is to refuse to let there be silence, to never end a thought and begin another. The speaker reaches the end of a thought and says "sooooo" until the next thought is expressed. Or says "annnnd" at the end of each thought. It ranges from the people fishing for love in EHarmony testimonials to the philanthropist who gives away shoes thanks to his cell phone.

I have a friend in which I recognize this too. Although I've known him for a decade and a half, he seems to squirm if common conversation lulls. "Sooooo," he'll say out of the blue. Worse is when he spouts "it is what it is." Even he's noted this annoyance, but utilizes it like a heroin addict taps methadone for relief.

Silence in conversation lets us process. It lets the less aggressive have a chance to chime in. It lets the conversation current drift and move somewhere else.

Maybe that's why this trend exists. There are people who need to not be required to think through their comments, to hold the stage forever and to control it all.

Or maybe they're just afraid they'll hear themselves in the silence and it will embarrass them.

Hope

On the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, I was watching tributes. It's nice to see the time when hope was so high, everything seemed possible and righting wrongs seemed a generation's mission. It was also fascinating for me personally to see the strength and struggle it took to enjoy the event, took me back to my own version of Woodstock and the odd circle that occurred.

Despite how I feel some mornings, I'm too young to have experienced Woodstock. But less than a decade later, I joined forces with a friend to leave Dallas-Fort Worth for Austin and an outdoor event we'd heard about there.

As near as I can recall, it was an odd amalgamation of bands. I think it was the Steve Miller Band high-flying off its album "Fly Like An Eagle." It was The Band with its ties to Bob Dylan and unknowing to us on the verge of dissolution with one of the best concert movies ever, "The Last Waltz." It was the band Chicago in its heyday. And it was a California band that was touring supporting a self-titled album and was working on something it gave us previews of called "Rumours."

Like many outdoor events in those days, the ticket sales and basic requirements didn't match up. The road to the venue was a two-lane country path that was soon jammed to immovability with thousands. Almost everyone abandoned cars and walked miles to the site, the bands' tunes wafting over hills somewhere in Austin I still can't identify. It was that walk that created camaraderie, all of us suffering together and sharing information on the music as we struggled to the site. We were joined, supportive, hopeful.

Years later when I called Austin home, I found that a curmudgeonly co-worker who tried to hide a gentle soul and with an eclectic past had been one of the promoters of that show. He cussed about the difficulties and financial loss, I told him the feeling I walked away with. I think he liked it.

One day, I found that man was gone. He wasn't young, but from all I can tell, he wound up taking his life. It's likely he was sick and didn't want to suffer. It's even more likely he simply lost hope.

In these days, I feel that way sometimes. The world's unsteady, the nation is vitriolic and intolerant in its disagreements, the economy seems to sit upon me like a bully on a playground. I look at the macro and micro and feel hopeless.

That night watching the Woodstock documentary, I enjoyed the old hope. I recalled the feeling of the Austin show that occurred after the hippie hope had been pummeled by stupid war, social revolt and assassination. I thought of the karma that let me tell the man who had given me that experience that I'd held on to it.

And I thought hope is something that survives because you don't know what will happen. And that unknown can be uplifting when it occurs. You've just got to find the strength to wait for it.

The Goatman and my innocence

Sounds like an early, bad Bruce Springsteen song, huh?

It was 40 years ago that the Goatman "terrorized" the Lake Worth area outside Fort Worth. He really was just a hulking bunch of hair that scared good behavior back into parking teenagers and now seems was likely some high school offensive lineman with a wig and 1969 summer hippie hair running prank.

The event was very clear to me in part because I lived in the burg right next to Lake Worth, White Settlement. It was transition time for a 12-year-old, the cusp of teenagerness and moving from elementary school into junior high. I remember peddling my bicycle into the area where the Goatman was sighted - during the day only, of course - and wondering if during the sunshine he crouched in the surrounding areas through which I peddled.

The bicycle had high rise handlebars and a gold banana seat with silver flecks. It was so flashy that if a child chose it these days there would likely be questions about his sexual orientation. But in 1969 it was almost standard issue and we seemed to believe that 12-year-olds didn't have an established orientation to consider.

The timeline made me think of that bicycle and our relationship even further. Even in the two years prior to Goatman time, I put miles and miles on those wheels, disappearing for entire days peddling over next to the then unnamed Bobcat Canyon where I knew every trail in the woods, along the gates of the then General Dynamics plant where unknown to me research was on for the next generation fighter plans and up to the fences along Carswell Air Force base where B-52s still made the earth rumble like California earthquakes and the rumor was they had atomic weapons just in case.

I probably peddled through creeks poisoned with the metals from the plants, dodged commuters along too small roads who drove gas guzzling vehicles and was always far from anyone who could identify me and who I was with. And there was simply no such thing as a bicycle helmet. It was my hair in the wind (yes, there was a time I had lots of hair) and crashes that left elbows and shins bleeding but from which I just got up.

It's that innocence that's lost. What child could ride without a helmet anymore, much less for hours and wandering miles without his parents knowledge, much less accompaniment? It's a time that made me feel free and to instill a still-sought thrill for wandering aimlessly and anonymously. In that period I think I found a lust for unexpected adventure, for heading out and dealing with what I find when I get there. I still long for it.

But in our world we can't have children with free range, or Goatmen. We lock down their brains with helmets and curfews and limitations and danger. We round up search parties and infrared and satellites for Goatmen.

We just don't have an appreciation for the unknown anymore. And that seems to be a big blow to innocence.

For what it's worth

Lately I've been doing a lot of considering of my view of the value of the written word.

Previously, I've always held fast that if it was worth writing down, it should have impact. It should cause thought or laughter or feeling.

I know this review has arisen from my finally giving in to Facebook and to the inundation of Twitter in our society. I disdained the Facebook habit of telling me what you had for lunch or your mundane plans for a Saturday afternoon. I took special exception to the character limitations in Twitter. At first glance, there just didn't seem to be enough room to express in that limitation, and therefore we got mired in minatue.

I had to give second thought when I considered some of the great statements of Anglo literature. They are small phrases. "To be or not to be," for example.

Then again, they don't stand alone. None of them. The phrases that are critical to our feeling and thinking and part of our vocabulary are outtakes from something larger. Even Ben Franklin's greatest pithy quotes are from entire volumes of Poor Richard's Almanac.

I also considered if I'm just being elitist. Facebook and Twitter, like copious numbers of other Internet opportunities, have let anyone and everyone with a computer speak out. That should be a good thing, the benefit of widespread viewpoints.

But, again, it's not used to express. It's used by far the most often to just speak. Maybe babble is a better word.

I'm glad I did Facebook. I found mountains of former acquaintances. I got to see the faces of some very important to me whom I hadn't viewed in years. But I think it's like all the other information we all have to plow through everyone day. We have to cut through the volume to find the importance.

I just hope it doesn't become so much garbage we never discover the rose by whatever written name that smells as sweet.

A good virus

I spent most of an overheated afternoon watching Walter Cronkite's review of history during his time and his personal ties.

I came away with two very distinct visions of Cronkite. And a sadness welling up that those traits might not be around enough for the future.

The first was his seemingly innate feeling he served the general public, that it believed he knew that and therefore would do all he could to represent its interests and deserve its belief in him. Although he was personal friends with many powerful people upon whom he reported, the cornerstone was he would put aside his personal like or dislike of them to seek out reality. Where the cards fell after that was of no consequence because truth was the supreme goal.

The second trait was curiosity. He never seemed to be a political junkie or a war correspondent or an environmentalist. He was simply interested in knowing about a lot of widely varied things and people. This has always seemed to me the critical trait in journalists. It's what makes them informed enough to ask the right question. And the constant search is what leads them to what you want to, and need to, know.

I fear we've created a culture that doesn't have much use for those traits anymore. We've become so politically correct that offending anyone with an aggressive query or thinking outside the norm is considered wrong. We've become so cliquish and afraid of being alone, we do anything to avoid offending those around us. Plus, we don't respect differing opinions, but ostracize those who suggest there is another way.

And as for curiosity, it seems much more focused on Britney Spears' mental state or the machinations of some television sing off than what is going on in our world and, more importantly, why.

But simple statistics leave me with a glimmer of hope. As with Cronkite, the people who we have historically turned to to trust as our protectors of truth and providers of curiosity have been journalists.

Now that has faded over the last several years as what was once journalism has morphed into much more of a business seeking the highest profits and too often going to the highest bidder. Those curious people with a moral center of duty seemed likely to avoid this new journalism. There is also simply fewer of them around as reliable studies have estimated about 10,000 newspaper jobs have disappeared over the last few years, leaving a mere 47,000 such jobs in existence.

But I'm apparently wrong. Because in this time of useless journalism where people take their information too often from random blogs (such as this) and comics joking about daily affairs, journalism schools report enrollment skyrocketing, often in double digit percentages. In a world with such few jobs in the industry and the usual mediocre pay, something is driving students into building journalism skills.

Maybe they have Cronkiteitis.

Headline today, same as yesterday

In these dog days of summer (trust me, if you'd watch Sam the Wonder Dog start panting at 3 p.m. and go until 8 every night, you'd know dog days) I've come up with something that perplexes - why does the weather report need a third of every local broadcast?

Weather can obviously be news. In fact, people want to know about tomorrow. But let's be honest, particularly in Summer of 2009, tomorrow is a high of 101-103 and a low of 77. Again and again and again. Pretty much, until Sept. 15.

So why not take 30 seconds to say just that and give the other five of telling me for the 30th time why tomorrow is like yesterday is like today to some sort of reporting? Tell you what, just for folks with relatives elsewhere or traveling the next day, I'll give you another full minute for a national report and map.

The methodology of weather reporting seems weak to me too. It's all about the temperature numbers. But it's much more important to tell me how it feels. Right now, we're in a string of triple digits. Weathercasters are all gaga over the prediction we'll go only to the upper 90s soon. But that's because clouds are expected. Do those clouds arise because the humidity will increase? Then wouldn't I rather 103 and lower humidity?

So, here's the deal. Let's make the weather part of the news. If something is going to change dramatically, like a stray shower or even a front passing, we'll give you time at the beginning of the entire program. Then we can go straight from the City Council report to the Dallas Cowboys report (is Jessica in or out?). Except we'll ensure there's time at the end for the anchors who obviously have had enough of one another to stumble and snicker over the just finished video of the skiing squirrel.

Back talk

I was reading an acquaintance's blog which included a reference to a character trait.

"Bullshit," was my immediate reaction.

It's true I haven't spent time with the author in a few years. Prior to that, we were very close. That's the cause for the use of "acquaintance" as opposed to "friend."

Despite that gap, I found the self analysis misleading. I know people can grow and change, but believe in the philosophy there is a core that is built when you're still single digits in age. You can be cognizant of that base and try to consciously not act upon it. But in terms of who you are, it's always there. In natural reaction, that is what we will revert to.

Having thought that through probably even too much, I try to be aware of what I am, good and bad. I've fooled myself some in the past, but after having lived much longer than I actually expected, there is a history that forces me to review actions instead of just opinions.

But that's not enough. I also watch how others react to me. Sometimes, too much. I read more than is there quite often. In an example, my natural inclination is to closely examine what I think is a reaction and to question it. With a history of seeing how that blows up in my face too often, I try to just keep the questioning internal and to a limit. In terms of some philosophy, it is changing from feel, react and think to feel, think and react.

I wondered if the acquaintance drew the self character declaration from experience or thought. If it was only thought, I knew how an outsider calling bullshit would be helpful. But with my own experience, I also knew that is something that takes a trusting, extended relationship or an invitation.

But this is more about me than someone I haven't seen in four years. So it leads me to extend an invitation. I hope that those who have a view of me that isn't simply passing would call me out if need be. If they were to read something on this blog that they believe is false, they'd question it. Because I don't do this completely to yell into the empty forest and get a release. There's value in listening to the echo too.

Notable

I can't relate to all the Michael Jackson hysteria.

I don't deny he was a talented man, might even agree that he's an American icon thanks to a career that spans five decades (although the final decade might be more notoriety than fame). Yet I find a lot of what makes people go ga-ga derivative. I never had much respect or understanding for the gasps, squeaks and squeals he felt were part of songwriting. He was an excellent dancer, but his real talent was in creating an amalgamation of Gene Kelly, James Brown and some steps he picked up off the streets.

There's just nothing there I can see that should make people hold vigil or battle for the lottery chance to be part of a memorial service.

It made me ponder who I would consider American icons that I would miss. I came across names like Robert Duvall, Dustin Hoffman, Paul Simon and Willie Nelson. They would all cause me pause and realization something was gone, but nothing like creating a need for the barrage of information now created by Jackson.

I did stop to consider my off the cuff list was all white. Maybe it's a cultural thing, I thought. But here's the sadness I fear. If there were an African American who should be lionized in death, it should be someone like Sidney Poitier who created new career opportunities for American blacks and lived his personal life and used his fame to improve the lot of his entire race. I fear thousands of those who will push their way into the Jackson memorial will not even know who Poitier is.

That train of thought creates an even greater fear. Has our culture reached a point where we don't celebrate even fame anymore, but only infamy? We constantly seem to need to tear down what we build up. Do we need something lascivious to go with success to make those we note human?

Journalism must die

Recently the daily newspaper lauded one of its reporters for extended reporting on a local utility's financial abuses. About the same time, I reviewed the most recent Pulitzer prizes for journalism, and noted one for work on a local sheriffs department's focus on identifying and deporting illegal aliens and another for the Pentagon's recruitment of certain commentators for national news to bolster policy.

Although all those are properly lauded efforts, the truth is it's a miracle they happened at all. And reporting of that ilk is less and less likely - although tremendously important to the preservation of our society - as long as journalism is run by sales people and marketers.

Because you say you are very unlikely to read such reporting.

My case for what might seem mundane reporting is an open society needs watchdogs. Human behavior is there are those who will abuse freedom. But rather than limit it, there simply needs to be oversight to remind those same people there can be consequences to their actions. Be it misbehaving politicians or greedy businesspeople, there must be someone to represent the general masses, question actions and present them for judgement by the general public.

If you were to survey people, they'd tell you they mostly care less about such reporting. But when it doesn't occur, and economies collapse or the powerful run roughshod, they scream at the top of their lungs.

If the general public were completely in charge, a newspaper front page would be pictures of pretty girls and puppies followed quickly by the comics and football scores. I guess I'm calling the proper practice of journalism parenting in some ways. You can't offer a family a steady diet of candy. There must be vegetables even if they create grousing.

For the last several decades, those who made the decision to serve unpopular squash have had less and less influence in journalism. Those who say the way to make money in the business - and I would never deny it is a business - is to constantly give the majority what it says it wants. In addition, those folks hear most often from not only focus groups, but those who hand them a check for appearance in the bottom half of those newspapers. It has become imperative to not upset those advertisers.

While years and years of training and experience may lead some journalists to a mundane and potentially controversial coverage of government and budgets and influence, there is a Big Brother over the shoulder questioning if that coverage will have mass appeal and not generate that dreaded call from the major advertiser.

For the last few decades, that Big Brother has come to run the family. Look at the recent exposure of the internal workings at the Washington Post. The publisher offered access to journalism sources high in the White House and to the editors and reporters who keep an eye on those folks for a "sponsorship." Reporters are the representatives of millions of members of the general public when each of them can't question the White House Chief of Staff. Therefore, special access to the powerful. The Post publisher tried to sell that access to bolster the bottom line.

The result of all this print pandering and control by accountants instead of reporters is newspapers that don't really have a point in existence and have faded fast.

Ah, but you say, it's not bad business decisions, it's the Internet that is killing print. You're right. But not why you think. The Internet is even more skewed toward the lowest common denominator because you can actually count. It's way too often not the import of the story which justifies reporting, but the number of clicks it registers. Every newspaper Web site notes the most viewed stories right out front every day. Those who have the hands on the wheel also watch those closely and make the results the driving force.

An example is also in the most recent Pulitzers. Two other major stories that some might consider political malfeasance won. But they were for reporting on the use of prostitutes by the New York governor and the Detroit mayor's affair. Sex sells, baby.

My main point is journalism must die. It seems to me the marketers and sales people who have dominated the industry are causing that to happen. And no one cares not because this type of journalism isn't wanted, but it is not needed.

But journalism is a phoenix. Frustration at a lack of watchdogs will cause new forms to arise from the ashes. They will be extremely small, underfunded and provincial for quite some time. They will likely focus on subjects the man on the street would tell you beforehand he couldn't give a damn about. But when the watchdog has to bark, that same man will join the chorus with his angry yelling.

In the meantime, focus groups and advertiser conversations will have a major influence. There will be backlashes. Recently the same editors who lauded their reporter for the utility reporting stated it will build an investigative team and give it a special Web page to do the work. The folks down the hall will scoff at the few number of clicks it gets each year. But in that one week when its work is published and the social responsibility of journalism actually lives, people will scarf down their veggies ravenously. And then go back to the fast food offered in such huge quantities everywhere else.

Gender sickness

Having wrestled with the flu for a few days, I couldn't help but notice something. Men and women just handle sickness differently.

This isn't some 1980s Seinfeld rant about how men whine. But there does seem to be a gap between how men and women process through sickness in the United States.

When the boys on my playground asked me to come out and I told them I was down, they unanimously responded with a "take care of yourself."

When the girls heard I was taken to the bed, they responded with questions about what drugs I was taking and what the doctor had said about my suffering.

Now I'm one of those who think there are some illnesses that we just go through. I'd prefer to save antibiotics for when my arm is rotting off rather than when my lungs rattle a little. I don't even really understand putting down the Tylenol for a minor fever. All it does it supress the symptom, and I think of the uncomfortable fever as how my defenses jump up. As for going to the doctor for a bit of a virus he or she can't do anything about, well, how long do you sit needlessly in the reception room?

So when I responded to the ladies I was just riding it out, the ladies tsk-tsked me. I was being a martyr. Or just foolish.

I suspect I could find a psychologist to tell me this has something to do with nurturing instincts or something. Probably even one who relates it back to sex.

Circumspect sentimentality

I suppose it's good to know what people think of you. It helps you to understand how you come across. You can decide if you want to react to it. Or not. But even having a vision of other people's view is some form of self realization.

I'm fortunate to know there are some people who like me. They find me engaging, gregarious and adventurous.

I realize there are some people who do not like me. They find me blunt, even rude. They consider me overbearing and demanding.

Within both groups are people who believe I'm a bad boy, a rounder, a player. Whether they find that good or bad is in their own set of priorities.

The fact there is that division somehow pleases me. I suppose I think it makes me well rounded, real.

There are people in both groups who consider me a loner and moody. There are those I frustrate by their feeling I'm guarded, keeping a careful wall up to shield some parts.

I wouldn't argue with anyone who holds any of the aforementioned opinions. From my own internal viewpoint, I completely agree with them all. In fact, although I work to create a me I will like, there are times I do not.

There's also something else I've been thinking over for quite some time. There's something only a few people who have ever encountered me would place as a label. But it's a gigantic part. I am very sentimental.

It is reserved for those who have at some time shown me a little of their heart. To me, that's the ultimate trust. Even if they withdraw it at some time, I remember that glimpse and retain it in a special place.

For those who have ever given me a peek and those who still do display that trust, I've noticed a trend. My expression of that sentimentality makes them uncomfortable.

I used to believe that it was important for me to make such expressions, that others' discomfort was something which could be overcome and they come to accept my feeling. But it has simply never proven true. So, I've become circumspect.

This review comes on the heels of my finding a need for a minor expression of the sentimentality I carry for two women. I've been as close as you can to the two at one point, although the connection has frayed greatly. But I had cause to drop each a note, and within it I simply stated "I sometimes miss you."

One dismissed it as quickly as possible. The other, whom I believe has gone through quite a emotional growing spurt in the last year, accepted the feeling with grace.

I can easily play the character that is the image almost all see and upon which they make their opinions of me. It gives them comfort and a sense of consistency, fulfills expectations. Inside of that character the sentimentality can grow for people I encounter. But these days whether they know of it depends on how I see them look at me.

And my own simple bravery or cowardice.

Legacy

I've known teenagers Jamie, Casey and Jordan all their lives. That's because I've known their Dad for more than 30 years.

I got to spend some time with them the last few days and was reminded how much I like them. They're feisty, quick-witted, sweet and real.

It also made me think of a girl I know who just left her teens who, for soon to be obvious reasons, I'll just call L. L is smart. L one of those girls who makes men gulp when they look at her. She's long and blond and big eyed.

She's also afraid, frozen in time and determined to meet a destiny she recognizes but refuses to acknowledge, one that will chew her up and leave her unfulfilled.

Why would I put the four together? Because I can see how each got where they are.

The first three may have come from a "broken family," but the parents kept them priorities. Even at the worst of times, they did the right thing for the children even if it was painful for the adults. Both parents broke the mold of their own parents, and therefore a potential cycle. They recognized what they didn't like about the way they were raised and made a conscious effort to not repeat the mistakes. But when it came to the positive lessons, both parents echoed those good efforts again and again.

L tells me her father raped her before she was in double digit years. He was then out of her life for almost all the remainder. Her mother seemed to just give up and L took it upon herself, most likely only by default, to keep things together for Mom and the two younger brothers. You might think that gave her maturity and a lesson in perseverance that applies to this day. She is older than her years. But it comes without their seeming to be a childhood. There is no innocence left in L. Having such responsibility meant she simply could not fail.

These days, when there's a chance she might disappoint someone, she simply doesn't try and distances herself from that person, eliminating the potential for having that disappointment. I see the reason for her struggles and her potential. But when I told her such, she took it as an expectation of success and rather than face it, she had to stop communicating with me. That way, she would never fail.

We are all constantly measuring the people we know. I've only found one fail safe review - look at the children they create. Nothing is more truthful, covers more time and has a greater impact on the world.

I believe in a philosophy of choices and consequences. We make choices, pay with the consequences and learn from them but don't regret them. I have a single exception. I regret not having a child.

Because I'm one of those people who wants to change the world. I can do my own part, campaign for others who can have a still wider impact. But the single greatest opportunity I had, I let slip by.

I hope I would have created a Jamie, Casey or Jordan. Maybe even prevented an L from having to face the next 60 years.

You know your balloon will burst

With just a little bit of review, you can't help but be amazed at how entitled we seem to think we are. So much that we're more than willing to suspend common sense.

I find this particularly true economically. We seem to have insisted on believing that everything is wonderful and will always be wonderful. The reality is, sooner or later the bottom always had to drop out. We've been lucky for decades that the drop out was a singular industry with just a bit of blow back. The current Recession is really just when all our pretend came tumbling down as if the entire fairy tale book went up in flames at once.

In terms of personal experience, I guess I could go back to the early '80s and the savings and loan implosion. The falsity there was lending practices. To put it best, there's the story I watched personally. I was consulting for an entrepreneur/attorney who was also building an office tower. He needed some extra funds to finish the building and deal with some business ancillaries. We went over and visited the S&L with which he did business. He walked out with a $2 million check. He showed the note referencing the collateral as a motor home. It was worth less than $100,000.

I quit working with him and he continued down the road to the scenic area of Big Spring and the federal jail there. He just didn't seem to believe the gap between reality and his "opportunity" would ever end.

It was a similar situation in the tech boom a decade and a half later. Everyone crowed about innovation and entrepreneurship and opportunity. Seeing early companies which offered a service or product people could really use make some ridiculously rich, venture capitalist put together funds to invest in other companies and drive them to a point they could go public. Hoping to get in on the feast, regular people bought up the stocks. The original investors cashed in, the companies "paid off debt" and "invested in marketing."

But it had to go Humpty Dumpty on us for a simple reason - after the original surge, so many of these companies explored technologies or put together products no one wanted to buy. It was a Ponzi scheme of a great magnitude, except the books were much more open. There were seldom profits in the companies. But everyone wanted to get theirs before it all came tumbling down and just kept pouring it on.

So much of the current economic failure is blamed on the homebuilding and lending industries. But who couldn't see it coming with just some common sense? Maybe population is increasing, but not in the numbers homebuilders were churning out structures. It was misleading because there were buyers. But more importantly than the volume of homes being built was the size of the market which could actually pay up when the bills came due.

When that market was exhausted, in order to keep the ball rolling, loans were simply made to those who were destined to eventually find themselves unable to pay. Obviously seeing the pending Jericho, lenders packaged up such loans and sold them up the chain and up the chain. But it was inevitable and obvious. We just didn't want to see it. We were too busy getting ours.

Economics isn't really that difficult. You can throw around phrases like supply side and global marketplaces and obfuscate. But in the end, it's common sense. If you're not so wrapped up in your personal greed, you can easily see a bigger picture of success or failure.

It doesn't matter how much the pretty red balloon floats around. You keep inflating it, a pop is a certainty.

Who's surprised?

I'm not going to pontificate too much on this, just get to business.

So we spend the first several weeks of every Texas legislative session patting each other on the back and passing resolutions honoring or recognizing this and that. Lobbyists buy dinners, legislators meet at the Brown Bar and Four Seasons Hotel for drinks and conversation with their very young and attractive interns who happen to be the daughter of a major contributor.

And then we helter skelter for a couple of weeks to actually take care of needed business. So why are we surprised that nothing gets accomplished on the state departments that our ability to move and the cost of our life and health insurance? That the clamor starts for a special session with all the attendant cost in tough economic times?

This gives new meaning to both words hope and despair.

Happy

"I had lunch with and old friend last week," she told me. "And she asked me when was the last time I was happy. I had to think and decided it was two years ago."

I have to admit to being no less than stunned. I try to keep the temperature of my friends, from both near and afar. But I didn't really see this coming. Two years without happy just didn't seem like her. She always tried to present strong and self reliant. And to just admit to a dearth of happiness caught me off guard.

But it's something I ponder quite often. I have long kept my mind on a paraphrase that I think is Emerson. In essence, "most men lives of quiet desperation."

It was just not what I wanted. And nothing like what I'd hope for my friends. Even if I can't label myself happy, I'd like to see it in them.

I do watch closely. In the immediate vicinity, I watch eyes and actions. I see when they openly laugh. I see when their eyes glitter. We all have ups and downs, but when laughter and glitter are gone for too long, I wonder about their happiness.

I do it from afar. I read old girlfriends' blogs trying to get a handle on their lives. I quickly understand I'm much more confessional in what I write in public. But just sitting to put anything down says something to me about their strength, which I believe comes from happiness. I drop hints in emails. Some people like to keep a little emotional distance. They like email for that exact reason. But subject matter and phrase of expression can tell a lot even in those block letters.

I fail to keep too close tabs on my happiness on purpose. Maybe I don't want to know. Because it frustrates me. Maybe it's part of what makes me watch for everyone else's happiness. Because I fully understand, it's hard.

I've been financially secure and it didn't bring happiness. I've had success and didn't find it created happiness. I've been in love and found a modicum of happiness but not the type we seem to believe from fairy tales. I've been told I refuse happiness. I'm not that self aware to agree or disagree.

Now lack of happiness cannot be called unhappiness. I guess I call the in between the state of just being. Maybe that's Emerson's "quiet desperation." It's never where I've wanted to be. I've often told people who claim I inflict my challenges upon myself that I understand it's easier to ride the high middle rise in the road, but I'd rather bounce from bar ditch to bar ditch just because it's more fun to see what's everywhere.

My original friend told me the story to see if I could up with recommendations for happiness. I haven't stopped thinking about it in the weeks since. I just have no answers. Not for her or myself. I sometimes wonder if I'd be standing in the middle of happiness and never even know it. But I'd like to try. Just so I could tell someone else all about it.

Breaking it down

As a writer, I'm a collector of fragments. Sometimes, I sit down and just spew. But other times I'll collect a few words or phrases that I like the way they go together. Or I'll throw down a few lines that try to capture an emotion I can't quite get my hands around at that time.

When I hit that spot where I emotionally crave to write, but can't quite get anything useful out, I'll sometimes visit my fragment graveyard and try to dig up old stuff. And it can be truly old stuff.

For instance, I was pushing through some old papers recently and came upon an aborted attempt that I recognized immediately. It was a girl who could never quite commit, who always tried to always keep me from investing too much in our time together and always seemed to have a guarding hand over her heart and an eye on the door. But I couldn't identify the feeling that was she and me those years ago when I threw down a few lines and saw them just peter out as I got lost.

I thought maybe I knew myself a little better now, maybe had a better perspective on everything. So I began to try. But just couldn't find it. With years of distance and hard lessons learned, still I couldn't get the feeling. I could get the situational description, but just no feeling that made it alive.

In the background, I heard two girls talking. They were in the early 20s and they were trying to understand why not only the boys they cared about acted the way they did, but why they themselves took the actions they did. They used examples, "he does this" and "I keep doing that." They knew both genders felt, but couldn't see it reflected correctly in the actions. I had to see the parallels in what both they and I were wrestling.

I thought maybe I'm looking from the wrong angle. And that was what I tried. Instead of remembering my experience and looking for my feeling, I turned the tables and looked at it from the female viewpoint. I found all the same actions fit exactly, but it was easier to put them in emotional context. I couldn't find the feeling in it until I tried to describe someone else's feeling instead of summon up my own.

Sometimes the fragments have to be broken just one more time before you see how they really fit together.

A cooling fire

Three deaths in the Austin community were related this last week. Stephen Bruton, Bud Shrake and Poodie Locke all touched based on an 80s movie called "Songwriter," via writing, appearances and the presence of Willie Nelson in the film.

But their passing is a major reminder. Although their deaths are punches to the heart for those who knew them personally, they should also be a persistent tap on the shoulder for those of us who loved an Austin they represented on a much wider scale.

The three were key components to an Austin that was about art, be it music or letters. They were also about life that is like music, impressive and inspiring to be done hard, fast and full but with a realization of the critical component that is the easy, quiet spaces in between.

And although it may sound like old man nostalgia, I fear it's an Austin that is almost gone.

It's an Austin that's been fading. I picture it in the mid-1970s. I didn't even live here, but had to visit every three months or so from Dallas-Fort Worth for another baptism. It was a time of transition for all of Texas. Generations had grown up if not entirely rural, with a deep tap to the rural roots. But cities were exploding and those base values were proving more and more difficult to keep in sight.

It was then and here in Austin that an amalgamation which already had an excellent base took hold. It recognized the value of urban knowledge, but didn't disdain country. It wasn't just in music, although that was a key outlet. It was in literature that used Texas as a base to talk about the modern human condition. The two artistic communities intertwined, maybe too often over potions and powders that were bound to run down the consumers. But it was like shooting stars burning unbelievably bright to astound viewers.

Austin was a place where it was possible. The atmosphere was more tolerant for odd and misbehavior. Someone looking for their voice could simply afford it. There were affordable places to nurture and visit and take a chance.

I find it very hard to find anymore. Simple survival in Austin is much tougher. It seems the more we struggle to simply stay alive, the less ability and remaining will we have to live and express life.

At the same time old wood frame houses sheltered by 100-year-old oaks crumble under the weight of 40-story condominium towers, written words seem to become lighter and lighter. Finding a hearty affordable meal is washed away with wine and sushi bars and music becomes less about lyrics and more about rhythms only. Country life is considered owning a mini-ranch in Dripping Springs close enough to the new HEB to fetch a quart of milk at 9 p.m. Living the quick and dangerous life is subordinate to ensuring you're in line with the decibel limit and curfew.

There are other icons of Austin as an artistic place for whom timing is ticking away. And there's simply not that many I can identify who look to take their place when the torch is passed. I just hope the fuel isn't running out and that torch isn't extinguished.

Karmic balance

My friends probably believe I use the word "karma" too much. But I can't avoid it. Not from habit, but evidence. I almost never fail to see some balance that eventually comes.

Statisticians would likely say if you look and wait long enough, you're bound to dig up correlations. But last night was the perfect example of how it just seems to balance out.

I went to catch up with a friend at a downtown establishment. It is the same spot where I last spent meaningful time with another long-time friend, someone who I in ways considered a mentor. It had been years since I'd been to the site, probably because that same friend wound up committing suicide.

Having arrived a few minutes early, I took the opportunity to make a call checking on a pregnant acquaintance. With minutes of my having made that call, she gave birth to a little girl.

Right there in those few minutes, I confronted sad death and had it salved with beautiful birth. It balances.

Living and dying are words

An acquaintance recently noted a difference she sees between a writer and a content provider.

It's an interesting division to me. I've been tagged as a writer for more than 30 years. During most of that time, I could be labeled professional writer because someone was willing to write me a check for it.

During that same amount of time, I've taken tons of criticism for what I've done. Not just the constructive "I'd do it this way" type of review, but comments that suggest those writing the checks and myself have been fooling ourselves. My most cherished is "you write too conversationally."

See, I don't think I need to follow the very specific constraints of someone with an odd name like Strunk to consider myself a writer. To me, writing is expression. For pay, usually to express information, like in newspapers. Sometimes to just get something off my chest. And to me, the proper placement, or even use, of commas, colons and assorted punctuation shouldn't be what rule applies, but what gets the point across easiest.

I also believe there is something hardwired I don't understand. I was very surprised in my teen years to discover I had an ability to convey emotion with written words. I don't really know how that happens, but people have told me repeatedly they can feel the words or are moved to smile at them. Yes, I consider humor a major emotion.

But lately, I haven't found many words to express emotions. I know the emotions are there, but making that connection to the right word has been beyond difficult. I've kept putting out words as I believe writing is a muscle that atrophies if not used. But I know I've been a content provider.

I think it has a lot to do with how my life has gone lately. I'm not sure I've been living. Maybe subsisting is the proper description. Maybe even hiding. But living is not near the right word.

It's happened before for little periods. Sometimes I've felt in overload. Sometimes I've just slipped into fleeing, for unexpected periods almost not able to deal with people or myself. Sometimes life's flow takes its own little break.

But this is a combination of the worst of those and nothing at all to do with the latter. I've behaved jaded and cynical and distant from others and myself. It's frustrating. And the punishment is I've got nothing real to say about anything.

Most people would see this recognition and recommend stopping the disturbing action. But it isn't that easy. It's really a cause and affect without an ability to define which comes first. Obviously, not living creates a vacuum of subject. At the same time, not having that examination and expression makes me less interested in being part of the human experience. Living gives life to writing, not writing makes living feel like dying.

Pay attention to me

Maybe it's only been about a week to 10 days. But I'm ready on this day to declare the swine flu panic (don't you love how the name changed when an interest group complained) was a media invention.

I'm not usually a black helicopter kind of person. I like to believe I'm even more informed than the average guy. But this wolfpack journalism where half of newspapers and newscasts were dedicated to a single issue seemed to lead government to come blazing with both barrels which led to the circle being completed with more coverage.

Theories on why: People were tiring of economic news and tuning out. A basic disease is easy for journalists to understand and reflect, certainly simpler than economics or world politics. The flu can be illustrated with cute children having check ups. Politicians can say "we're here for you" in such an issue.

But at the base of how much coverage was needed is simple math. As of this May 3, estimates are there are about 24 million people in Texas. And 43 cases of this flu. If that is the ratio that calls for such major news action, I'd bet on about 100 other diseases that should demand even greater review.

Gotta love the British

Maybe it stems from centuries on that cold, dank island. Maybe it comes from a society that has so long had such huge gaps between haves and have nots. But I gotta love the British for simply being naturally quirky.

Quirky is a big thing with me. I cannot stand those who put it on as a pretense. There's a lot of that in current bands, their suit of "we're weird because we play instruments." The truth is, quirky comes from just who you are. It tends to not be a reflection of something of the past and the quirky usually can't identify themselves as such. They just are.

So when I find organic quirky, I revel in it. For example:

A good example was on the world page of the Dallas Morning News one recent day. It included two stories on British actions I found particularly indicative of the natural quirk.

The first was of a couple who had been visiting Windsor Castle. The queen's residence is one of the most popular tourist destinations in the nation. These two decided to celebrate their visit by having sex - on the castle's front lawn. The report was the two had "been drinking a lot of champagne" and not only weren't cognizant of the number of tourists in viewing vicinity, but in fact didn't realize "exactly where they were." In the name of full disclosure, the woman was an American, but it's likely she was heavily influence her British paramour. And in the quirky British way, the two were charged with "outraging public decency." This despite the fact several in view expressed their outrage by taping the act for future posterity.

The second was on the British poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy. The story focused on the fact she is not only the first woman to hold the post, but tacks on the fact she is openly lesbian. But the quirk is in her remuneration. The poet laureate gets $8,500, which she donated to a poetry contest. But she also gets sherry from the Sherry Insitute of Spain. Only the British would understand reaching the muse might take a nip of sherry or two. Imagine the United States of Religious Rightists' reaction to boozing up an American writer on the tax dole.

I bet it would outrage the public decency. But then we American are pretentious in our quirky expression.

Badge of influence

It's that wonderful time of year when it warms up and political flyers bloom in our mailboxes.

Although they're often full of half-truths, bluster and pointless accusations, they're also very telling. For example, who you should really fear.

It's the most common complaint in Austin politics, and the one most used by single-member district proponents - this city is run for and by those who live in Central Austin.

But you ought to have much more fear for those with badges. That's the real powerbroker.

It is almost impossible to get elected to city office in Austin without the police and fire political action committees. They are the most moneyed, organized and involved groups in this town. Look at how loudly the candidates who get those endorsements trumpet the prize.

The members of those PACs and their friends also have a very narrow agenda that has an impact on every citizen in town.

Under the label of public safety, police and fire budgets take up almost three-fourths of the budget. And it is in the best interest of the employees under those budget numbers - police and fire - to keep those numbers up and even growing.

You may say that it is incumbent upon us to maintain such status quo. I am all for maintaining safety, and those two organizations are the spot where it happens. But I'm also for all departments always being reviewed and reorganized to ensure money is spent to do the core duties and not too much involved in administration or layers of bureaurcy. And that's harder to so when the PACs' approval prove to be the most sought after in local politics.

Public safety gets into the field with the other sacred cow, education, much too often. In education, we say "it's for the kids" and people are automatically willing to authorize tens of millions. Public safety says "it's to keep you from getting robbed or your home burning" and we nod like cows watching cars go by.

You want proof? City Manager Mark Ott has told all city departments to cut 7 percent in their proposed 2010 budgets from what they have in 2009. Except public safety. They should cut 3.5 percent.

Don't think Ott made such a decision on his own. This council chased off the last city manager saying it wanted to work the budget details. Now, it does such a little quieter since we're in recession and the decisions are difficult, but you can be assured Ott was consulted by council members who dearly wanted police and fire on their side at election time.

It's not even a vote thing. Large percentages of the two departments live outside Austin. But they carry clout - dearly sought endorsements and money.

I believe members of the police and fire departments have as much right as anyone, resident or not, to speak out on Austin politics. I admire them for being involved. But no one should believe city elections are controlled by a few zip codes between Ben White Boulevard and Enfield. Those areas do cast votes more often, but those votes are greatly influenced, as are many, many city council decisions, by those in uniform who have a very special interest in all the tax dollars.

Buffoons, skanks and culture

I have friends who brag they never watch television. But I've always felt, to be part of and understand our culture, you have to sample. Some you may watch, some you may visit to get a taste. But to know who we are as Americans, there's no broader vista than television.

It's kind of sad to view.

I'm not suggesting television is all-encompassing, although from Discovery to M-TV and all in between, you get a pretty extensive set of choices. I guess my discouragement arises from how pervasive the lower rungs of our society are displayed, particularly in what is called reality.

In a more specific question, how can they find this many buffoons and skanks and why are they so popular?

Subquestions that lead to the big query:

1. Why is Terry Bradshaw doing sports analysis? He pretty much plays country bumpkin and yucks a lot.

2. Could Ben Stiller, Seth Rogen, Jim Carrey or David Spade make you laugh by appealing to your head instead of contorting, stumbling, playing a ridiculously broad and shallow character or appealing only to people who feel antisocial because pot isn't a part of everyday life?

3. Who are these throngs of women who want to twist tongues with yesterday's used up rock musicians like Bret Michaels?

4. Who are these women dying to join any household wired with television cameras so they can flounce and sleep with any moving object?

5. Who are these guys who join those houses and get their testosterone so flowing they can only express themselves screaming in tempter tantrums and with flying fists?

6. It's a been a few years since I've been to California, but is it possible the 20-something residents are that shallow, self-centered and simply stupid?

I'd like to deny it's a generational thing. The Three Stooges, Three's Company and even Beavis and Butthead weren't exactly enlightening. It's just the proliferation that makes me question right now.

Is this America? Does that "reflection" give insights into declining high school testing and graduation rates? Did someone slip something in the water? Maybe high school is just our training ground for the next generation of television stars.

Still a ways to go

In the middle of December, I wrote an unpublished piece about the sliding economy having an up side.

My thought was this is when the flotsam is cleared, the bad boats moving up on a rising tide began to sink and the best would rise to the top. It would be a time of innovation and increasing customer service as everyone battled to draw the dollar.

By April, anecdotal evidence has me thinking we've got a ways to go.

I'm still not convinced there are so many critical businesses that should be kept afloat by artificial means. At least not at this cost.

But I'm also unsure how many are getting that it's now become better or be dead.

Here's my example. In a somewhat innovative move, the local outlet for a national pizza chain I've patronized for decades dropped a note at my home. It said it wanted to be thankful for continued business and therefore offered a good discount on a pizza. "It's a straight deal for straight dealing folks," it claimed.

Things got crooked. I ordered to pick up the pizza with a cohort on the way. I was then informed the offer was only good for delivery. I questioned how that could be as the offer made not such stipulation. "It's a typo," the poor order taker responded. I questioned why that was my punishment. "That's the manager's policy," she said.

Ah, the customer is always right unless a manager has blundered.

I cancelled the order and filed a complaint with the corporate office. Nothing much has changed there either. I've traded three or four emails with always the promise "we're looking into it."

Now, in the interim I tried a different, more local brand and liked it. So my habit has now changed, frustration level continues to rise dealing with a corporate bureacracy and I'm questioning the business sense of what used to be a given.

In tough times, attitudes have to be reviewed and change. That is survival. That is common sense. You can't even let individual customers go as the margins are so slim those individuals add up to be here or not very quickly.

Little bites out of business soon turn into consumption entirely.

My town

I have to applaud the Austin City Council for standing up for the city's sovereignty today.

It voted unanimously (when two are fighting one another for the mayor's seat, it says a lot when they take the same position) to fight proposed legislation by State Sen. Wentworth that would force single-member districts upon Austin.

Now I am against single-member districts as I find they create provincialism and are a detriment to getting anything done. But that's not the cause for my admiration.

This is an Austin decision, not a state question. Austin has held elections and declined such districts SIX times. After another census, it's likely Austin will look at it a seventh time. Sen. Wentworth needs to mind his own business.

Now, some of South Austin is in Wentworth's jurisdiction. He claims he received a request for his legislation from some of those constituents. But if you watch the ID next to Wentworth's name, it says San Antonio, not Austin.

(By the way senator, after years and years of simply sucking cheap water out of an aquifer, has San Antonio dealt with its water crisis yet? Wait, isn't that the site of the greatest drought in the nation right now? And it still doesn't have a proper reservoir because voters look at the cost and keep saying "no"? Maybe some state legislation is the answer.)

Every senator gets requests for special interest legislation. One way this is a representative democracy is those folks weed out non-viable requests that have nothing to do with a senator's job. I don't find Sen. Wentworth very representative, nor discerning, here.

We've got financial difficulties out the wahoo, an education system that isn't turning out productive citizens, infrastructure that is underfunded and crumbling and Sen. Wentworth thinks the senate should wander off into meddling in Austin's affairs.

What the city council did was not turn its back on single member districts. It told Wentworth to mind his own business. Just because he spends a few months here every two years doesn't make this his town. It's our town.

And as for those consitituents who made the request. Tell them to vote. And get their neighbors to vote. That's how you create change.

Into the lioness' den

I'm a single, middle-aged guy. So I've long ago not only determined I'm unlikely to meet decent prospects in bars, I'm as unlikely to get much of a shot. Unless I alter the hunting grounds.

You don't hunt deer by hanging around your backyard and expecting a big buck wander by. You go into the woods where they feel safe and comfortable. And although I'll take the gun immediately out of the metaphor, it seems sane to do the same with women.

Now, at this point, I haven't really taken aim at anything. I've kind of been in an observational mode. And it's been fascinating and educational.

I've chosen two "habitats." Both are flush with women. Both attract limited men, in numbers not necessarily in ability.

One is a downtown Austin restaurant. I've dropped by a couple of times and eaten there once. I've seen dozens of females and only about three men in all that time. The only explanation at which I can arrive is the restaurant's base product is salad. Hearty salad, tasty salad, yet salad. And that seems discouraging to men.

In fact, I've noticed quizzical looks when I'm there as if I walked through a door without noticing the shadowed dress on the person on that door and hadn't yet noticed the lack of urinals in the room. But all there is to note here is the lack of smell of burning meat and absence of bread crusts on bowls on unbussed tables.

At the tables, women of all ages and types lean in for conversation in the exact opposite of how men lean back to talk to one another. They seem proud they've chosen a vegetable spot for lunch, albeit a bit put off one of the other side is catching them grazing. But they seem to instinctively know this is their world and a certain air of relaxation permeates the room. As long as I don't pollute it with seeking a ribeye on the side.

The second outpost I've visited is a wine spot. I wouldn't suggest that wine and men are anthema. But this spot in Southwest Austin seems a female hangout. So much so, and with an atmosphere that is so different than the restaurant, I feel an interloper. In general, the visitors here are in their late 30s to mid 50s. They've been through the gender wars with the skirmishes in bars. And they seem a little bitter. Whereas the restaurant denizens seem surprised at my male visitation, these seem a little defensive. Maybe pissed is the truer word.

But it's not like guys don't exude the same attitude in certain situations. Visit a sports establishment during a critical University of Texas game and watch men relegate any female tag along to imposed silence. Maybe more indicative, I've seen men in gentlemen's clubs reject the mere presence of half-naked beautiful women when the big screen has been dropped for a mixed martial arts pay per view event.

But this feeling is different. I suspect there was talk of a "girls' night" and my simple existence in the same place wasn't on the imagined agenda.

I visited twice. The first time I felt so uncomfortable, I pretty much sought invisibility. I compared it to accompanying my lesbian friend to ladies night at her favorite club. I was more than ostracized, put in my place. The second time at the wine spot, I tried a different gambit. I minded my p's and q's like a little child. No hint of reviewing the room, no whisper of flirt, minimal conversation - actually closer to only introduction - followed by an immediate "I'll let you ladies get back to your evening." Recognize their ownership and get the hell away.

The result - I felt tolerated. Not appreciated, certainly not accepted. I am still one of them.

It was educational to visit these hideaways of female domination. I quickly learned my place. I recognized that experience has, probably deservedly, created some wariness for the male attitude and action. And I know these are also not spots I'm likely to meet someone for future interaction of any kind.

These are lands with No Hunting clearly posted.