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.