My Christmas List

Haven't posted in two months, so it's probably rude that I'm sending out my Christmas list. This went to my wife and kids--however, anybody who wants to contribute to the cause, feel free.

Here’s what I want for Christmas:

1. Take me to see the Hobbit at an IMAX theater.  Feel free to pick up some Snow Caps or Sweet Tarts to eat during the show. 

2. Take me to the Elenor and Edsel Ford Home—I’ve never been there.

3. Take me fishing in Lake St. Clair. 

4. Take me target shooting.

5. Go with me on a trail run at Stoney Creek or Kensington Park

6. Go running with me to the end of Windmill Point, followed by coffee/breakfast/lunch at Janet’s Lunch

7. Take me to a baseball game—any place in 2013—could include Spring Training, I’m just saying.

8. Make me any of the following  meals:

Homemade pepperoni and red pepper pizza (and I'm not talking about pizza in a box)—lots of cheese (feta, too), fatoush salad, beer, chocolate ice cream;  OR

BBQ ribs, potato salad, corn on the cob and cherry pie, beer; OR

Ribeye steak, big baked potato, spinach salad, green beans and crème brule. Red wine.

You do all the prep.  I just get to eat with the cook and enjoy.  I will help clean up.

8. Download  two hours of music on my phone that you know I’ll like.  Suggestions:  Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tegan and Sarah, the Killers, Al Green, Maroon 5—anything new.

9. Take me to the Russian Tea room  for a meal AND sit with me and meditate in their chapel afterwards .

10. Take me to a movie at the DIA and a meal at Mudgies.

Or, give me a framed picture of me with the giver and a nice message written on the picture.  Make two copies—one for me.  One for you.

Goal Achieved

My New Year's resolution this year was to run a marathon in 2012--not just any marathon, but the Detroit marathon on my 51st birthday.

Well, Sunday, October 21 rolled around this year and yeah, I ran my marathon.  Not only did I run it, but I finished in the top third of all runners, which isn't bad for a first effort.  Actually achieved all my goals:  time under four hours (three hours and forty-eight minutes to be exact), ran the whole way (ok, I did spend a minute in the porta potty at mile 14), and no injuries.  Mission accomplished.

Fortunately for me, the day was perfect--cool temps, sunny skies and light breeze.  The view from the middle of the Ambassador Bride made me gasp.  The air in the tunnel was stale like I expected, but not scarey being down there.  And, the residents of the Indian Village are much cooler than most Grosse Pointers--they were blasting tunes, dancing, and passing out beer (for the carbs!) to thirsty runners.

Best moments of the day include my wife's loving send off at 6:20 a.m. and seeing my boys enthusiastically cheer me on--waving signs and yelling my name.  Also enjoyed my girls bragging about my exploits on Facebook ("my Dad is tougher than your Dad").  For a guy my age, these thrills happen less often than I'd like.

But the experience was not a one-day thing.  My serious training for the race began in June.  Armed with advice from experienced friends and following a training plan developed by Hanson's Running Shop, my preparation was methodical.  As the summer ground on, the plan demanded increasingly long runs that occupied more and more of my time.  Towards the end, I was running fifty + miles a week, and running became more or less my only physical fitness activity--I stopped swimming, biking and gym workouts--from September 1 on, I was a runner.

Fortunately, good friends helped make the long runs bearable, even fun.  Without Joe, Monique, Laura and Keith, I never would have stuck to the plan.  They pushed me to try harder and their wisdom regarding race preparation proved invaluable.

Since the day of the race, I've been feeling a little disoriented--not tired or sore, so much as hung over.  Despite all the praise this effort has garnered and my satisfaction at meeting a pretty awesome goal, I'm wondering, "What next?"

In the end, a race is just a race.  My achievement was not unique or all that special.  I didn't find a cure for cancer during this effort, nor did I come up with a plan for saving Detroit.  What I did do was push myself to do something difficult, something I had never done before, something that, barely three years ago seemed beyond my reach.  Which is why I ran this marathon.  I need to continue pushing myself if I'm going to remain physically and mentally fit for the next thirty years or more.  Rather than give in to physical limitations that are inevitable with age, I want to marshall the wisdom that comes with experience to drive me further.  Growing older should be less about limits and more about new opportunities.

So what's next?  Since the knees and ankles are still solid, I'm thinking about a new running goal.  I've never been a fast runner, but instead a steady one.  Next year I want to be fast, at least for a day.  My goal is to run a 5 kilometer race is less than 20 minutes.  That time would not qualify me for a high school cross country team, but it would represent the fastest time I've ever run.  Hey, if Oscar Pistorius can run fast without legs, what's my excuse?  In fact, I want to run this speedy race at the annual Grosse Pointe Turkey Trot Thanksgiving Day 2013.  How's that for a goal?

What's a life without goals?  A boring one.  An unfulfilling one.  Someone else's life, not mine.

Is There a Forest Beyond These Trees?

Until I actually saw Michelangelo's David up close in Florence this year, I never knew that the statue's hands were freakishly large.  No human being has hands so out of proportion.  Well, maybe Abe Lincoln did.  But, not someone considered "beautiful."  Yet, the size was not a mistake.  The artist intended viewers to see the statue from a perch forty feet above a Florentine plaza.  From that angle the hands look fine.

It's all about viewing things from their proper perspective.

This idea reaches beyond the world of fine art, and it certainly pertains to the angst I'm feeling over . . . well, just about everything.  Maybe it's the approach of another birthday.  Or perhaps worries about this marathon I'm running.  I feel ill at ease right now--and I want to feel differently.  What I need now, more than anything, is a little perspective.

I ask myself, "What do I have to worry about, really?"  My life is amazing.

Leprosy has not claimed my nose (poor King Baldwin in Kingdom of Heaven).  Don't know anyone injured in a terrorist attack.  Most people like me, a few (thanks Clarisa) love me, and NOBODY hates me--those feelings around here are saved for Jose Valverde.  What nerve, to get worked up about insignificant daily life dramas.  Lost a client?  Imagine what it feels like to lose your house?

Kid giving me fits?  Imagine the parent whose son is in jail, or whose daughter just suffered a drug overdose.

Can't afford that new toy?  Imagine running out of food stamps mid month and not having decent food to feed your loved ones.  Perspective is amazing, don't you think?

But, nervy as it seems, feelings are still felt even if those feelings are immature, selfish and possibly embarassing.  I wish I didn't sweat the small stuff, or get worked up about things that don't really matter, but I do.  I spend too much time fretting about perceived slights and lost opportunities. I pray.  I meditate.  I lose myself in repetitive exercise.  But I also can rachet up the emotions meter pretty much on cue.  The jaunty, "devil may care attitude" I try to wear hasn't fooled anyone for years. I'm actually a red-hot poker who wants desperately to be cool.

So let me trot out some wisdom.  I am, after all over 50.  I know the Bible backwards and forwards.  And, I've taken the Dale Carnegie course . . . twice!

Preaching to myself, now, here's my best perspective advice.  First, from my own experience, I know with certainty that it's not where you start that matters, it's where you finish.  Hell yes!!!

Though I've always been a decent runner, I haven't actually participated in many track competitions.  The first time I ran in a timed race was in college, when I anchored the 4 x 400 meter relay for my dorm's intramural track team.  When handed the baton, I was so pumped with adrenaline that the first hundred meters were the fastest I had ever run in my life.  I was running waaaaay too fast, though.  And, all of a sudden, my legs started to get heavier and heavier.  Pretty soon they were like lead weights and I struggled to run.  My team mates had no idea what was happening--it's like I suddently went from  being Speedy Gonzalez to being the tortise--and in this relay, the tortise came in last place.

I learned my lesson.  Next time I ran I resisted the urge to sprint and didn't worry when the whole world seemed to be passing me by.  I looked around and said smugly to some of the jack rabbits, "I'm gonna see you soon."  And, sure enough, while the truly fast runners beat the pants off me, most of the showboats turned out to be slowboats.  In the end, I passed runner after runner, and actually won a medal.  Grind it out.  Stay the course.  Keep on the right path even when the way is hard, because nothing feels more satisfying than finishing something difficult--and knowing you did it well.

Second perspective lesson comes from the Bible. 

I love the story of Joseph.  Not so much Andrew Lloyd Webber's version with his technocolor dream coat, but the Moses version contained in the book of Genesis.  Talk about a man with troubles:  sold into slavery by his brothers, suffered in Pharaoh's prison, falsely accused sexual assault.  Wow, Joseph's life went from one bad break to another, and another, and another.   But, in the end, these troubles led him to a place where he truly saved his family's lives.

I'm not saying that there's a silver lining behind every sorrow.  However, troubles are the best teachesrs  When things go well, we sometimes falsely believe our good fortune is somehow deserved or earned.  However, when times are hard--we become motivated to correct what's wrong in our lives.  For Joseph, his remarkable gifts were bound to break lose as long as he stayed faithful to God's guiding hand.  The same is true for us.  God never gives us more than we can handle and always provides us a way of escape, if we just open.our eyes and follow.  Bad times are ALWAYS a prelude to better times . . . you just need to remember God cares for you.

Finally, a lesson from Dale Carnegie: 

He wrote in "How to Win Friends and Influence People," that if you want to be enthusiastic, act enthusiastic!  Yes, act as if you're feeling the emotion you want to feel. 

Emotions work backwards, too. When you're down and out, don't curl up and sulk.  Instead, try pretending you're on top of the world.  Want to feel happy?  Smile.  Want to feel joy?  Jump on your bed and sing a song.  If you are stuck with negative emotions then shake them off. Change your body – how you move, sit and stand – and act as you would like to feel. Enthusiasm and other positive emotions can be created in the same way sadness and negative emotions can be deepened when indulged.

And here's one more piece of good advice.  Want to feel happy?  Try doing something nice for someone else.  I should know.  After sharing some uplifting thoughts I feel better already.

Is That Really It?

David Simon, a former reporter for the Baltimore Sun, has a knack for creating television series with complex characters from various walks of life.  He has a reporter's knack for getting "gritty"--with corrupt cops, violent crime, liberal doses of sex--all part of the juicy plots.

I've enjoyed every series he's had a hand in writing/creating, from the groundbreaking "Homicide, Life on the Street," a show that along with the original "Law and Order" brought police dramas to the top of the ratings in the 90s, to his two HBO series, "The Wire," which was also set in Baltimore, and his current series, "Treme," which is set in New Orleans.

"Treme" is a departure from his earlier series because rather than focusing on cops and crimes, the central characters are all musicians, looking to make a life in the Big Easy following Hurricane Katrina.  For me, the show had a bit of a slow start, somehow the characters seemed at little wooden, and I felt that I was watching something from a white, male liberal who was working overtime to prove he could present strong, authentic men and women of color to the screen.  I don't know--fortunately, as the series has progressed, the characters seem to be getting their footing--and as stories go deeper, the too self-conscious "I may be white, but I'm down with the brown" aspects of the scripts and dialogue are fading.

In fact, by the end of Season One, the show seemed to be hitting on all cylinders with one glaring exception, Creighton Bernette, the character played by John Goodman--the portly actor who shines in every role.

Goodman's character in Treme was a Tulane University English professor who lived with his wife and daugher in the heart of New Orleans.  Throughout the season, the scripts drop big hints that all is not well within the mind of Professor Bernette.  First, in a number of scenes we see him staring blankly at a computer screen, clearly agonizing through intense writer's block.  Yeah, we hear he's a novelist--and despite his words to family that the book was coming along, pretty much he was still stuck on the first paragraph of chapter one. 

Next we see scenes of the Professor teaching a freshman literature class where the students can't muster up much enthusiasm for the literature, but want to know every detail about "what's on the test."  The good professor gamely tries to warm up his students, but they never come around.

Finally, once the first post-Katrina Mardi Gras celebration comes, the Professor tries to get in the spirit, but instead goes home from the revelries dejected, muttering to his wife and daughter, "I just don't feel it this year."

So what does Professor Bernette do?  Well, he heads off to school one day.  Tells his wife to kick some ass (she's an attorney who battles police corruption) .  Tells his daughter how pretty she looks.  Then he goes off and kills himself.

Of all the inauthentic moments of Treme, the disposal of Professor Bernette, seemed to me most hollow.  And, of all the characters, this should have been the one writer Simon nailed--the middle-aged white writer experiencing all sorts of angst over the many changes swirling around him--and feeling powerless in the wake.  I understand that sense of helplessness, and I'm sure Simon did, too.  But the character was not suffering financial stress.  His wife and daughter appeared loving and dutiful.  No abuse or addiction in sight, other than the obligatory bourbon swilling while trying to put words on the page.

Despite John Goodman's best efforts to play this part with sensitivity, I just didn't buy it.  He did not appear mentally ill, narcissistic, or all that depressed really, just sad and wistful.  Does a person who longs for the pre-Katrina New Orleans kill himself and abandon his beloved wife and daughter?

As I continue to define my life in the face of advancing age and changing circumstances, I can't imagine why someone cashes in the chips, when clearly there are more hands to play in the game.  We all experience setbacks, and its depressing to realize our ambitions for changing the world have shrunk to far more modest goals.  However, when the sun rises over a lovely lake.  When we eat a delicious meal or savor a glass of fine wine.  When a story grips us and we want it to go on and on.  Isn't it wonderful to be alive?

Bad days visit us.  But fortunately, there's always tomorrow.  And in my book, tomorrow is always gonna be a good day.  Sorry Professor Bernette didn't know that.

Art is for Everyone!

My wealthiest neighbors are worried that poor, inner city kids in Detroit might lose access to Van Gogh, Diego Rivera murals, and some truly impressive suits of armor.

They were the first to put out lawn signs in support of a new tax to "save" the Detroit Institute of Arts.  Television commericals, direct mail pieces and press reports are all on message:  save our museum.  Detroit needs its art.

I definitely agree.  Detroit needs the DIA.  We've been members of the museum for years.  It's a treasure for sure.

But, I can't seem to get the smell of something disingenuous out of my nose.  While the DIA is a well-visited museum, open to visitors from all parts of our community, it is a rather "high brow" institution.  The well-heeled patrons sponsoring the current media blitz, the only ones who could afford hosting a private reception in the Rivera courtyard, say they are looking out for the best interests of the larger community.  After all, "Art is for everyone!"

And, I guess, since art is for everyone, it's only fair that everyone pays through higher taxes to keep the DIA's doors open.  Hmm.  I guess.

If only there weren't the obvious inconsistencies in this message that no one, I mean NO ONE other than Pat Caputo from sports radio has bothered to point out.

Where were these high minded community voices when the nation's oldest aquarium on Belle Isle was closing--guess fish aren't for everyone.  Or where were their voices when our president was fighting to provide health insurance to the uninsured--guess affordable medical care isn't for everyone, either.

I understand we all have our passions--and we work to promote those things that we find meaningful.  However, when one says, this passion in so important, that the entire community should support it through public funds, then it's important to step back and ask, "why?"  Or, better yet, in a time when first responders are being asked to take pay cuts, when public parks and community health programs are being trimmed, we need to prioritize.  Is art really more important than, say, prenatal screening programs?  Should the DIA flourish while the State Fair grounds remain shuttered?

I love art.  But I also love healthy communities.  I love the world's largest cast iron stove.  And I also miss the electric eel.  Maybe the drive to "save" the DIA might encourage my neighbors to throw their impressive credentials and deep pockets to save other important treasures still in danger in the Detroit area.  Or maybe, having saved the Roman statues, the Persian rugs, and the ivory carvings from being auctioned at Christie's, they can go back to criticizing poor people for needing public assistance, cash strapped municipalities for their wasteful spending and generally complaining about high taxes.

Maybe if Medicaid had a museum?

Science Guys Can Be So Tiresome!

My son thought the guy made sense.

I thought he was full of s**t.

I heard similar arguments before--from a guy I knew in college. "I could get A's in all the classes you take," he used to sneer. "But you wouldn't last five minutes in my classes."

He might have been right. He studied actuarial science. You know, the facinating course of study that prepares people to set insurance rates. All that complicated math--I would be lost in five minutes. And bored, too.

My undergraduate classes were far from boring. I took Shakespeare. I read Hume and Mill. I even studied Jazz music. My liberal arts studies included heavy doses of literature, philosphy, and speech classes. The closest I got to math was Statistics and Economics. No, not prepared for a job in the insurance industry.

Students who abandon math and science cut themselves off from lucrative potential careers. And, many commentators worry that our nation is losing ground to the rest of the world as interest in advanced Calculus continues to fade. At the same time, even "easier" courses of study in the arts and humanities require effort. Being able to do something doesn't mean you're good at it. There's a song, "If you can walk, you can dance." However, just because you can dance doesn't make you a dancer.

In the same way, just because you can write, doesn't make you a writer.

My son was speaking to a college recruiter encouraging bright high schoolers to pursue coursework in engineering. He told the teens not to waste their time taking writing courses, because, "All engineers can write. But not many writers can be engineers." Just love that logic, don't you.

Don't get me wrong, I urged my oldest daughter to study engineering--I thought she could write her own career ticket. She took political science instead. And the second daughter? No math there, either. And the youngest boy? The one who really is good at math and science? He'd rather study journalism right now.

Chips off the old block these children of mine. And, despite my pleadings to keep their options open--I can't be very persuasive when I followed a different path myself.

If I spent more time thinking about it, I could come up with a quippy comeback for the stuck up Math guy, but for now, I'll leave him and his socially inept friends to go figure out my insurance rates, while I go write a memo for my client. Or maybe download that new Stanley Jordan track.

Word Vomit You Can Use

Cady Heron, Lindsey Lohan's character in "Mean Girls," had a habit of blurting out things, even though she knew nobody wanted to hear the words.  She called it "word vomit," which was her term for uncontrollable utterances.

I know about word vomit--because I sometimes say things that I swear I can't control.  For example, when I'm in the street and see two adults on bikes with a child, invariably the child is wearing a helmit, but the adults are riding without.  It drives me crazy.  What's the child supposed to do when his/her parent suffers a traumatic brain injury?  What kind of example is that parent setting?  I always say something--I can't help it.

Fortunately I live by my beliefs.

Yesterday I decided to enjoy the early summer weather with a bike ride along the lake.  The weather was beautiful--and I actually enjoyed being out . . . until I encountered a couple of slow moving bikers.  Not wanting pass them by moving out into traffic, I decided to move to the sidewalk and pass on the inside.  Not a very good plan, but seemed somehow safer to me.  Bad idea.

Making a hard right turn onto a slightly raised driveway proved disasterous.  My bike went down and I flew over the handle bars right onto . . . grass.  That was lucky.  I did hit my head, hard.  And I hit my shoulder (even harder).  Of course about 100 people saw my crash, and all but two of them spared me their direct sympathy.   I was too embarrassed at the moment to listen.

"Are you alright?" asked the two bikers I was trying to avoid in the first place?

"Yeah, I'm fine."  I smiled back.  Relieved, they rode on.

But I wasn't fine.  My head had just bounced off the ground, and my shoulder . . . God, I hope it wasn't broken.  That would suck big time.

I was near the end of my ride--and my bike was undamaged.  I carefully pedaled the rest of the way home without incident.  I had not suffered a concussion--my balance was normal.  No ears ringing.  No pain.  I did have an abrasion on my forehead from the helmet, but no blood.  That would have been ugly, especially since I was reading in church for Pentecost Sunday in an hour.

And, I was less and less worried about the shoulder, too.  I had full range of motion.  Pain, but no swelling.  Bruised, yes.  Battered, definitely.  Broken, no.

Church went fine.  My wife and I were readers who were part of the mult-language babble to illustrate the miracle of Pentecost Sunday.  I read German.  Clarisa read Spanish.  And I did it without drooling, suffering from a splitting headache, and with clear vision.

You see, I was wearing a properly fitted biking helmet earlier in the day.  And, even though I bumped my head hard from falling, my brain was uninjured.  Thank God!

Talk about a Pentecost miracle!

As God is my Witness . . .

Yeah, it's a great moment in the greatest movie of all times.  Scarlett O'Hara, looking at the ruins of Tara--utters the famous words, "As God is my witness.  They're not going to lick me  I'm going to live through this.  And when it's over, I'll never be hungry again."

I uttered nearly the same words the first time I was fired from a job. The experience was devastating.  At the time, my career choices were limited.  I lacked skills and experience that could easily transfer to new employment.  But, I had a family to feed and it was up to me to bring home the bacon.  So, thanks to good advice and a supportive spouse, I dragged my aging butt back to school, earned a law degree from a top-five law school, passed the bar, and, voila, amazing options opened.  It took long hours, hard work, lots of prayers for patience, and financial hardship.  But, like Scarlett O'Hara, I discovered the path to security required hard work, sacrifice, and a compromise or two along the way.

What kind of compromises you might wonder?  Nothing that would ever land me in jail.  However, I've been a few places on this journey I never expected, all in the name of making a living.  Maybe someday I'll dish--but the blog will be anonymous or told by the Lucky Lawyer.   What I can say here is this:  I was not in the room when the pepper spray was blasted. But, I did see the stripper with man hands.  She was remarkably pretty.

As God is my witness . . . .

Now that I've had my Scarlett O'Hara moment, I'm barreling down on a Kim Wayans moments.  Like in one of those In Living Color skits where she spewed out EXACTLY what was on her mind, all in the name of "keeping it real."  I'm in the mood to tell off somebody who has done me wrong. 

I wonder if I could curse and swear at the guy and say I've come down with a temporary case of Tourettes.  Or maybe, I'll just look him in the eye and say what I think.

I haven't been this disappointed with a professional colleague in a long time.  And, he needs to hear what I think about what he did.  We've been planning to meet for beers after work for weeks--it's my mission to see that this meeting happens.

As God is my witness . . .  this man has some explaining to do.

Flatter Me? Mock Me?

It's been said, "Imitation is the highest form of flattery."

That's true when the urge behind the imitator is emulation.  Teenagers want to look like the persons they idolize.  Older people wear sports gear favored by admired athletes.  Women ask hairdressers to cut their hair like fashion models.  However, there's nothing flattering when imitation is bent on mockery.

We laugh when Jimmy Fallon "slow jams" the news, serving up a performance Barry White would enjoy because we know Fallon truly admires African American culture and R & B music.  But when all-white fraternities and soroities host "Pimps and Hos" parties, I for one feel sick in my stomach.

It's bad enough when African American artists glamorize misogyny and prostitution, but the sight of sheltered suburbanites wearing afro wigs and fishnet stockings is hard to swallow.  I think even Al Jolson would blush.

So when does good natured imitation veer into frown-worthy mockery?  It's hard to pin down, but like Potter Stewart's famous Supreme Court obscenity standard, "I know it when I see it."

Unfortunately, even when the impulse is good natured, sometimes imitation truly is unnecessary.  Are any cultural divides bridged when political leaders or celebrities don native garb and dance some goofy friendship dance while cameras record every embarassing moment?  I don't think so.

And, my family wants to run for cover every time I try to speak a foreign language I don't know.  Or, worse, when I use broken, accented English to non-English speakers.

"Dad," Isaac said to me more than once.  "They expect you to know your own language.  They don't understand you better when you speak that way."

But I was just trying to be culturally sensitive.  So are many other patronizing foreigners when they encounter "less sophisticated" native peoples.

I guess it's all about respect and appreciation.

Keep slow jamming the news Jimmy Fallon--especially when you get a big assist from Barack Obama and The Roots play backup.  And me, let me focus on imitating Emeril in the kitchen and stop trying to be Meryl Streep with dialects. 

Maybe imitation is only flattering when it's good natured AND well executed.

Get Your Lazy Bones Out of Bed!

There are two kinds of people in the world:  morning people and lazy people.

Morning people are eager to start their days.  They plan.  They imagine.  They can't wait to face the world.

Lazy people want to sleep.  They stay in bed even when awake.  They avoid doing productive endeavors.  They make excuses for everything.  Why?   Because . . . because . . . well, who knows?

There are two kinds of people in the world:  robots and creators.   Robots sleepwalk through life without much reflection.  They get up.  They go to work.  They come home.  They go to bed.  Over and over, again and again, they do as they're told and do it some more.  Creators have little love for routine.  They see the work-a-day-world as a prison that stiffles creative thought.  Tight, rigid schedules make life intolerable.  They function best when free to move when their muse moves them.

Clearly there are more than two kinds of people in the world.  However, depending on the day, we can only see two types:  people like us and people not like us.  Usually people like us are imbued with every positive quality and characteristic, while people not like us are easily maligned or ignored.

The book Please Understand Me by David Keirsey and Marilyn Bates was all the rage a few years back.  Corporations and organizations bought copies of the 120-page manual and passed them out to their people.  The book included an abbreviated version of the MBTI (Myers Briggs Type Indictator) test with analysis.  Organizations and groups gave their members this test believing that by understanding various personality types,  members would know each other better and productivity would increase.

The MBTI is a test based on Jungian psychology (loved Michael Fassbender in A Dangerous Method, btw) and divides the world into various personality and temperment profiles based on answers to a series of questions.  No value judgments are placed on the various temperments--no one type is "better" or "worse" than the other, they're just different.  However, implicit in these categories is the idea that persons may be better suited for certain roles over others based on their personality.  For example, probably not a good idea to make an introverted thinker the head of your sales team!

While understanding people's personalties may be useful in knowing your friends, family members, and co-workers, does it help you enjoy being stuck with a thankless task because it "better suits your personality"?

Think back to the biblical story of Mary and Martha.  Martha was stuck fixing food and cleaning house when Jesus came by, while her sister Mary sat at Jesus' feet and listened to him speak.  Jesus said Mary made the better choice by skipping work and listening to him.  I see his point.  Seriously, how important is the pita and hummus when the Son of God sits in your living room?

I know people who never relax.  They are so busy futzing around that they miss seeing rainbows and hearing birds sing.  Too bad for them.  At the same time, does a person get a pass from menial tasks and drudgery simply because it's counter to their personality type?  Does anybody really enjoy scrubbing toilets?  I don't think so.

Knowing personality types helps us understand the people around us.  We know why certain tasks seem more difficult for some and why others enjoy doing the tasks they enjoy.  Diversity in personality and temperment is not, however, a measure of ability or a limit on responsibility.  We can be good at things we don't enjoy.  And, if our group needs that task performed, we might be stuck doing it.  Further, our positions may require us to "take care of business" even if we wish somebody else would step up in our place.  You can't expect a willing minor to run to the the 24-hour pharmacy when the baby is sick at night.

In a perfect world, our lives would be unending bliss--and everyone would perform only the tasks that bring us joy.  We all would feel fulfilled, self actualized, and free from pressure.  However, in the world where I live, someone has to wash dishes, clean up dog poop, discipline the children, and struggle with bills.  Not always fun--but necessary.

Do I feel put upon or frustrated when some of these tasks fall on my shoulders?  Yes!   But, I'm not alone here.  Do I feel guilty when these tasks fall on other shoulders?  Sometimes.  Many families and groups share the same or similar personalities--that's why we were attracted to each other in the first place!  Therefore, when we all want to be the head, there's nobody left to be the feet.  Here's where communication and negotiation come to play.  Find a way to share the load so that no one person ends up being dumped on all the time.

Yet, communication and negotiation require work, while anger and resentment are easy.  Which will I choose today?  Which will you?

Welcome to Juno Alaska!

Yes, I know how to spell. The capital of Alaska is J-U-N-E-A-U. Juno is a Roman goddess. "Juno" is also the title of a 2010 movie starring Michael Cera and Ellen Page. And, Juno is the name we gave to the pictured Siberian Husky who moved into our house three weeks ago.

Hard to tell if she knows her name is Juno. After ongoing training efforts, the puppy understands "sit" (though she doesn't always sit when commanded). She understands "come" (though she doesn't always come when called"). She seems to know her name if there's food involved. Maybe she's just not attached to the name Juno. Maybe she still remembers "Tina"--the name her original owners called her.

I'm not sure I'm all that attached to the name Juno either. First week home, I think I preferred "Ghost Dog" because of her haunting blue eyes. Half the time I call her "Carly," the name of our 10-year old Lab--who, by the way, dithers between fear, disdain and grudging acceptance of the baby interloper. Lately I've been spitting out "Devil Dog" as the exuberant pup jumps on cabinets, chews chair legs, and poops everwhere but in her designated pooping spot.

There's no denying this puppy packs charisma--with her fluffy fur, bandit's face, affectionate personality, not to mention THOSE EYES! But she's a ton of work, too.

None of us clearly remember whether training Carly was this hard. Now moving into her final years, Carly is a mellow beast whose behavior mostly pleases her owners. She never messes the house, she doesn't jump on visitors. Her life is regular and orderly. Was housebreaking difficult for us ten years ago? I don't remember.

What I do recognize is that Carly, a submissive litter runt, might soon get alpha femaled by her new canine housemate. This Juno is willful, confident, and eager to explore. Katey bar the door!

Seriously, I'm gonna bar the doors--or at least set up some toddler gates.

Fasten your seatbelts, it's gonna be a bumpy night!

You aren't kidding Margo Channing. Early this morning (I'm talking 5 a.m.), I heard Juno yelping in her crate. It had been several hours since she last had been out. I figured her baby bladder needed relieving, and I got up to take her outside. When I got downstairs, Juno was jumping excitedly, and I tried to settle her down. Then I noticed puppy feces strewn everywhere. I took her outside, where she urinated as expected. Brought her in and gave her breakfast in an enclosed area. Then I began the stinky cleanup.

What made this mess so distressing was the fact that it was her third crate pooping incident in the same day! Has she decided the crate is her "designated pooping spot?" I thought dogs didn't poop where they slept?

Clearly we're doing something wrong.

Our puppy training manual says you can let a dog roam free in the house once you've gone an entire two weeks without an accident. Right now I'd settle for twelve hours!

Despite our muttered threats to give the dog back, or send her to the Humane Society, we know Juno is here to stay. And, like her namesake Roman goddess, looks like she has plans to become queen of this castle.

We'll see about that.

Mary Magdalene First

When Jesus rose from the dead on Easter, the Gospels agree that he appeared first to Mary Magdalene. But why Mary? Why not to one of his other friends? From the Bible we know precious little about Mary Magdalene. We know she was from Magdala, a small fishing village near the Sea of Galilee. We know that Jesus cast from her seven demons. And, following her release, we know that Mary was one of Jesus' most devoted disciples. Beyond that the Bible says precious little.

The Bible does not say whether Mary was rich or poor, whether she was married or had children. Further, the Bible never suggests she was a person of low moral character. She was not a prostitute. She had not been caught in adultery. And, she was not the weeping woman who bathed Jesus' feet with tears and annointed them with perfume. Modern stories that portrary Mary as Jesus' spouse or even the mother of his children are pure fiction.

But, of all the friends of Jesus, she saw him first following his resurrection. That seems meaningful to me.

Whenever something remarkable happens in my life, I want to share the news. When my children were born, the phone calls started ringing immediately--first parents and siblings, then other relatives and close friends. But, when my mother died last summer, I was overseas without a phone, surrounded by people I had only recently met. Fortunately I found solace with my wife, my son, and with people who happened to be with me.

The resurrection stands out as the most sigificant event in history, and Jesus shared the news first with Mary Magdalene. I wonder, did she "earn" that honor, or was she merely at the right place at the right time. I believe it was a little of both.

"Lucky" people are also often outgoing people. You can only be at the right place at the right time if you go places. If you sit at home waiting for the telephone to ring with good news, you might wait a long time. But, if you're out in the world--meeting people, working hard, trying to make a difference, things happen. I know the importance of times for reflection and contemplation. People who are busy often get overwhelmed with their lives. Quiet, alone time is necessary to help us keep perspective. However, in Mary's case, her actions put her in the position to see Jesus first.

While other disciples fled, fearing for their lives, Mary stayed near Jesus. She witnessed every gruesome step of his march to Calvary. She lingered at the foot of the cross as Jesus' life slipped away. She helped wrap the bloody corpse and prepared it for burial. Others were there, too, but Mary Magdalene, alone among the friends of Jesus, witnessed every agonizing moment. And, early Easter morning, who first went to the tomb? Not Peter, not John, not one of the other disciples, but Mary and her friends. She saw Jesus first, because she refused to leave him, even in death.

True love and loyalty are far more precious than power and popularity. Power is often based on position. Take away the position and the power is gone. Similarly, popularity is fleeting. We feel affection toward people who amuse us, flatter us, or possess something we want. But such feelings should never be mistaken for true love.

Throughout his life Jesus, won crowds of admirers through his teaching and his miracles. Yet, this affection dissipated after Jesus' ministry moved in unpopular directions. When Jesus overturned the merchants' tables and condemned the temple authorities, suddenly his popularity faded.

It's remarkable that despite the many lives he touched, Jesus suffered the cross nearly by himself. But Mary was there. Her loyalty to Jesus was nurtured by personal experiences that extended over many years. Her love for him was no passing fancy, but touched the core of her soul and easily survived even the most disasterous circumstances. She would not abandon Jesus. He freed her from seven demons. He transformed her life. And, for her devotion, every generation since has honored her memory.

Luke tells a story about Jesus healing ten lepers. They all were infected with leprosy and lived as outcasts. And, thanks to Jesus, they all were made clean. While all ten received the same cure, only one returned to Jesus and said thank you. How surprising.

Whether or not Mary Magdalen performed any more remarkable deeds in her life, we can only speculate. However, in the Easter story, her love and loyalty earned her a place in history. And, we should all follow her example.

Too often, I am like the disciples who run away from Jesus when I'm afraid. Or, I'm like one of the nine healed lepers who shares my blessings with everyone while failing to bless the one who blessed me first. Fortunately Easter comes back every year and we are reminded that some friends showed loyalty to Jesus, while others betrayed his love. Are we all that different? Fortunately, Jesus loves us unconditionally, and allows us to choose the example we will follow. This year, let it be Mary's.

New Normal Needed

Hey Jamie Lee Curtis, get your smug mug over here and feed me some Activia. Seems like your yogurt has magical qualities. If you're distressed, out of sorts, dissatisfied with your life, a few spoonfuls of Activia and, voila! A "new normal."

Damn, I need a new normal.

Since I got back from Italy two weeks ago, everything in my life has seemed out of sorts. Can't focus, no appetite, haven't exercised much, and work? Do I even have a job? And my wife and kids. Yeah, they're here, too. But what are their names again?

Maybe I'm suffering from Renaissance envy, or perhaps pasta withdrawal. Or, maybe, I picked up something on that Air France flight--a bug in the cognac, perhaps? And I never drink cognac, either. Something about that trip. Can't stop thinking about some of the things I saw there.

Of course nothing prepares you for the experience of seeing your son sing Michael Jackson songs in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa while Asian tourists took pics. Yeah, that happened. Or hearing them perform a Mozart mass selection in St. Peter's Basilica while the Pope listened from his private apartment. (Well, what else would he be doing while our kids sang?)

Other images are sticking in my mind, too. Like, in Rome, there are apartments built on top of Roman ruins. Right on top--the builders didn't tear down the old, they simply used it as a foundation. Can you imagine? Levels one and two are an unoccupied municipal building built in the third century. And level three was added one hundred years ago--and the units have electricity, running water, and satellite dishes. Rome is this bizarre juxtaposition of old and new--always colliding and kind of messy.

Predictably, in Florence I came face to face with David. Yes, THE David statue by Michelangelo. Of course I've seen pictures of it hundreds of times, but here's a few things I didn't know. First, he's enormous--like 16-feet tall. And, he has a back. Which I'd never seen. Running down the middle of his back is a leather strap--which is attached to the slingshot he's holding in his left hand. How come I never noticed the slingshot? Oh, and his hands are freakishly large, even for a 16-foot man.

The story is that Michelangelo was concerned about perspective--because the statue originally was meant for display high above the square in front of the Florence Cathedral. And, from that vantage point, the freakishly large hands looked postively normal. I guess.

Now Venice had its unforgettable sights, too. I was most taken by St. Mark's Cathedral--which is gilt in gold, and absolutely sparkled in the February sunlight. Yet, for all the beauty they amassed, the Venetians, I discovered, were a bunch of conniving thieves. For example, the golden lions in front of St. Mark's were stolen from Constantinople in the 12th century when, in one of the darkest moments of the Crucades, the Catholic armies forgot about liberating the Holy Land and decided it was a better idea to settle a few scores with the Byzantines. Why fight actual armies when there was so much plunder so close to home?

And the bones of St. Mark? Well the crafty Venetians sailed to Alexandria in Egypt, lifted the relices from the great evangelist's final resting place, and shipped them to Venice under a cargo of pork. Turns out the Muslim Arab authorities in Egypt would not touch swine and let the Venetians leave Alexandria unscathed, even when the local Coptic Christians pleaded with them to stop the plundering. One macabre detail in the story is that somehow St. Mark's skull was separated from his body--and, miraculously, the head "appeared" again in Alexandria after the grave robbing incident. Charming!

So for all its grace and beauty, Venice was built by a bunch of criminals, who after attaining wealth, decided they were artists and defenders of liberty. Talk about an image makeover!

Which brings me back to my "new normal." As much as I love my life in Grosse Pointe--with its sweeping lakefront views, stately homes, clean sidewalks and parks, it seems rather staid and mundane after the historic riches of Italy. Can't even get interested much in reading about our salacious local murder yarn, or planning my spring garden, or thinking about new clients and projects. My kids seem fine, my wife and I are getting along well, time marches on, but I'm feeling restless and out-of-place nonetheless.

Was there something in that lasagna I liked so much in Bologna? Or, perhaps I should just start eating Activia. God knows I need a "new normal."

New Years Resolutions

Here's my top 10 for 2012:

1. Compete in my first marathon. Ok, I said it. Now I gotta do it. Notice I didn't specify whether a half or full.

2. Attend fewer funerals. Entirely too many people in my life died in 2011--and, if you can believe it--I kinda ran out of things to say. Death is final--and while memories live on, you can't call up a memory on the telephone. I'm done with funerals.

3. Get rid of stuff. After Lonelli moved to Boston, my house felt noticeably lighter. Especially now that the basement is no longer a storage unit, I'm looking around and thinking, where did all this stuff come from?

4. Make a new friend (or two). Nothing wrong with my current crop of friends and family, but, I'm well aware that much of my life is wrapped up in my children. As they continue to make their own lives, and need me less and less, I need to nurture other relationships as well. Which, leads me to my next resolution.

5. Work on my marriage. Clarisa and I have been together 22 years and throughout that time our relationship has focused on our kids. While our love for each other is strong, this year we need to find more things we enjoy doing together BESIDES eating, traveling overseas, and watching NCIS.

6. Build a grotto. I've identified a spot in the backyard for quiet contemplation. It would be so cool to build--just gotta move some dirt, plant some shrubs, and install a bench.

7. Pray more.

8. Write more.

9. Preach more. Haven't delivered a sermon in two years--and I miss it.

10. Get out of purgatory (subject of a future blog post)--but only if that means finding some heavenly bliss here on earth. I appreciate all prayers to that end.

A goal without a plan is just a good idea. I know I'm planning to tackle this list with discipline and hard work. And, while I'm ticking items off the list, let me know if I can help you achieve any of your goals. Why? Because my 11th resolution for this year is: "Be more generous and less self absorbed." Come to think of it, that one might be the most difficult of all!

I Shot Your Dog?

"Did he just say what I thought he said?" I asked my daughter as I listened to the song. She said it was her favorite tune currently getting played in Chile's clubs and on popular radio stations.

My wife and I were in Chile to retrieve our daughter Amelia who had just completed a semester of studies overseas. She loved her stay and we could see why. Chile's mountains, lakes, cities, farms and beaches are beautiful--and the country itself, while still firmly rooted in it's Latin American culture, also felt different than other places we visited in the region. Chile is cleaner, more prosperous, more European than its neighbors. For North American guests it's easier to visit.

But back to the song my daughter was playing from her IPhone. The song was in Portuguese, with an infectious beat and happy, almost joyous vocals. So why did he say, over and over, "I shot your pero, I, I."

"Why is he so happy if he just shot my dog?" I asked.

To all you non-Spanish speakers "pero" is the Spanish word for "dog."

Alright, I have no idea what he really said, but "I shot your dog" just seems funny to me. Kinda like the "haunted bear" I'm sure was in that Green Day song. Or being asked, "Do you wanna make fudge? Or do you just wanna fool around?" from that old 70s song.

Now I sing those lyrics every time my daughter plays that song--much to her annoyance. My kids swear I'm the only one who thinks my jokes are funny. I don't really care. If I'm laughing--and not hurting anybody's feelings in the process, who cares if the jokes are lame!