Bleeding with Vincent van Gogh

Twice a week for the past month and a half, I have voluntarily spent one hour bleeding with Vincent van Gogh. That’s right: I became a plasma donor.

I first heard of plasma donation back in college. A plasma center that advertised in the school paper claimed you could donate plasma and get cash in return. Curious about this sketchy-sounding arrangement, I visited the center and found it brimming with transients, beggars, and homeless hobos. It looked like a great place to get hepatitis. I decided to pass.

Fast forward a few years (okay, a few decades) and I found myself reconsidering plasma donation, thanks to the freaking bat disease that put a screeching halt to my paycheck. Turns out there’s a plasma center near us and, spurred on by a desire to stay current on bills, I decided to give it a try. Cash for plasma? What’s the downside, right?

What I expected to find were the usual suspects: drug addicts, criminals, thugs with face tattoos, nose rings, and names like Ice Pick and Crusher. Instead, I walked into a clean, well-lit, modern facility staffed by medical professionals wearing masks, gloves, and face shields. And the clients all looked like I felt: slightly bewildered, a little embarrassed to be there, but ready to “earn” some desperately needed moolah. Oh, and anxious to help people, of course - like the wall-sized posters throughout the facility are quick to point out: “Your donation saves real lives!”

I soon learned that they don’t let just anybody save real lives. They have rigorous entrance requirements that include an extensive questionnaire, blood tests, and a medical exam. They want the best quality plasma from the highest quality suckers... I mean donors.

If you’ve never experienced the joy of having plasma drained from your body, let me assure you that it is a very simple, relaxing, and painless procedure. Except for the times when it is complex, nerve-racking, and painful. Which, for me, is most of the time.

Each visit requires a new checkup in which they test you for things like protein levels and ask strange and intrusive questions about your personal life. I mean, is it really any of their business if you’ve tested positive for HIV, used meth, or gotten any new body piercings since your last donation? If the answer to these is no, which it has been thus far for me, they give you the green light to head back to an area with dozens of cozy little couches. This is where the torture... er... donation takes place. I tend to think of these as the sofas of suffering.

Once you lie down, open your book, and start pretending you’re not about to be hooked up to a machine that will literally drain your lifeblood, a polite attendant comes and makes small talk while jamming a huge needle into your vein. You nod and smile beneath your mask (your attempt at maintaining the calm-as-a-cucumber, macho façade is that elaborate) and act like you don’t even notice that fluid is being sucked out of your arm and is traveling through a tube, away from where it belongs.  

Piece of cake! That’s the mantra I use while trying not to eyeball that needle and trying not to feel it residing deep in my arm and trying not to keep checking to make sure I’m not leaking (which has happened three times and is horrifying!) and trying to mentally will the machine to hurry up and finish. But the thing is, you can’t hurry science, a good deed that will help others, or an opportunity to make relatively easy money. Nope. It takes the same amount of time whether you’re happy, sad, comfortable, about to jump out of your skin with anxiety or genuinely enjoying your book.

Which brings me (at last) to Vincent van Gogh. He has been my constant companion and very needed distraction - albeit, not always effective (especially when blood is trailing down my arm - “A little help over here...!”) - throughout these engagements. My dedicated plasma book has and continues to be Dear Theo: The Letters of Vincent van Gogh.

This collection of Vincent’s correspondence with this brother, Theo, is basically an autobiography of his life. It documents his work, disappointments, progress, worries, and victories. In addition to being a talented artist, Vincent was a writer who skillfully expressed himself, his passions, and his longings. There’s something quote-worthy on just about every page of the book.

This is my second time through, the first being in a non-needle-protruding-from-my-flesh setting. Rereading it in the plasma center accentuates the emotions and heightens the intensity of the drama. My own, anyway. (Yes, I am a wuss when it comes to blood and needles!)

What I’m remembering and learning about Vincent is that he struggled. Whether the issue was how to capture a landscape on canvas, how to afford food, how to make it in the art world, or how to deal with women, he was often in a place of frustration, even desperation.

Vincent never seemed to fit in. His first “career” as a pastor to miners ended badly. After gaining their trust by going down into the mines (think incarnational ministry), he fell ill. It was during this time, as he held small group meetings in his shack, preaching from bed, that his supervisors showed up. Deeming the situation unworthy of their prim and proper denomination, they revoked their support. Left without an occupation or income, he slowly and almost reluctantly turned to art.

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“Thank God, I have my work, but instead of earning money by it, I need money to be able to work; that is the difficulty.” -Vincent van Gogh

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Making a living as an artist was frowned upon back then. It’s still not a great idea, but in Vincent’s day, it was considered impossible. Artists were often viewed as slackers who were too lazy to do real work. And if they couldn’t sell their art, as in Vincent’s case, they were out of luck. Unless they had a patron.

Vincent’s patron was his brother, Theo, who faithfully supported his lifestyle. In other words, Theo funded all of the van Gogh masterpieces. Without him, no Starry Night, no Café Terrace at Night, no Bedroom in Arles, no sunflowers, wheat fields, or self-portraits.

I’m only halfway through the book (I never make it far when I’m concerned about bleeding out), but I know how the story ends. I’m already to the letters in which Vincent starts to sound a little frantic, frazzled, and hopeless. The mood swings are coming hard and fast.

Whether he committed suicide or was killed (I lean toward the latter theory), his life ended tragically and prematurely. We can only imagine what his body of work would have been if he’d had a few more years to paint.

Each time I find myself sitting there with a thick piece of steel piercing my arm, tubes filled with a bright red substance tethering me to a machine that churns and clicks and pops menacingly, I return to Vincent’s story and wind up thinking we have several things in common.

First, he was faced with great challenges and somehow persevered. I feel Vincent-like when I resist the urge to yank tubes and flee the sofa of suffering. Second, art was a lousy way to make a living. Similarly, plasma donation is not an especially fun way to pocket extra money. And third, Vincent led a difficult life, at one point, slicing off part of his ear. I understand and appreciate his pain every time I get poked.

My entire blood-for-money experience can be summed up in something Vincent once told his brother: “For the moment I am overcome by a great discouragement. I can foresee absolutely nothing; I see no way out.”

That’s exactly how I feel twice a week. Until they take the needle out, bandage me up, and send me home with my payment. Then it’s all good.

An Audacious Proposal: The Butterfly Effect

If you haven’t seen Jurassic Park in a while, it’s time to revisited it. Stop reading right now, break out the old DVD or say “Jurassic Park” into your Xfinity controller, stream it on Amazon Prime Video... whatever it takes, go watch it! What you’ll find is a prescient parable for our time.

There are many aspects of this classic Spielberg movie - the first in a series of quickly descending quality - that speak to our present situation. I’m thinking specifically of an imminent threat to life, greed, human carnage, velociraptors that can open doors, social distancing over ice cream, and rampaging T-Rexes that can’t see us if we don’t move. In other words, it’s basically a blow by blow recounting of 2020 as we have experienced it thus far.

What I would specifically like to call your attention to you today, however, is Dr. Ian Malcolm’s succinct and, I believe, timely-for-us description of the Butterfly Effect.

The scene in question finds Malcolm (played by Jeff Goldblum) riding in a Jeep with Dr. Alan Grant (Sam Neill) and Dr. Ellie Sattler (Laura Dern). They’re taking a preview tour of the park, but thus far, haven’t seen (or been chased by) a single dinosaur. Malcolm adroitly points out that the Tyrannosaur doesn’t obey park schedules and thus illustrates the essence of chaos theory. When prodded by Dr. Sattler to elaborate, Malcolm says: “It simply deals with unpredictability in complex systems.” He dumbs this down for the viewing audience with: “The shorthand is the butterfly effect. A butterfly can flap its wings in Peking and in Central Park you get rain instead of sunshine.”

If you read the original Michael Crichton novel (it’s even better than the movie), you’ll remember that chaos theory ran throughout the book. Crichton had encountered chaos theory in the works of James Gleick, an American historian of science, and Ivar Ekeland, a French mathematician, and used Malcolm’s character to apply it to the dangerous and alarming technology of genetic engineering. Jurassic Park was a cautionary tale.

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Seemingly insignificant acts can greatly influence both world events and our personal lives.

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While I don’t necessarily agree with chaos theory (or fully understand it), I do believe in the butterfly effect. I believe small, seemingly insignificant acts can greatly influence both world events and our personal lives.

We know of course, it was true for Malcolm and company in the sci-fi romp. A corpulent coder (Dennis Nedry, played by Wayne Knight), hatches a sneaky little scheme to get rich quick and the next thing you know, people are getting munched by rogue dino predators. Small things can lead to horrifying consequences.

A recent real-life example involved one person’s encounter with a nocturnal mammal on the far side of planet earth resulting in the loss of another person’s job some 6,958 miles away, suddenly making unemployment checks and trips to the plasma center for extra cash necessary for survival. And on a larger, more significant scale, that single trip to the market for bat meat launched the social distancing craze, sickened and killed millions, and crashed the world economy. Boom! The butterfly effect.

But butterfly activity doesn’t always have to lead to mayhem, poverty, shrieks of terror, and a pandemic of death. I have a plaque on my desk that reads: “Great opportunities to help others seldom come, but small ones come daily.”

As I was glancing at this plaque the other day, it occurred to me that this is precisely the time in our history - or at least, the moment in our lifetimes - when small things are not only a good idea, they could be the solution to our problems.

That particular day was months into COVID-19 isolation and, for me, joblessness, and, thanks to the heinous butterfly act of a certain law enforcement officer, our nation was on fire - both emotionally and physically. My initial reaction was that I could do nothing. It was overwhelming. Sitting there in our spare bedroom/home office, I felt impotent to change anything or make a difference.

But that isn’t true. We can all make a difference - in some cases, massive, domino differences - through small acts. Science, my own experience, and Dr. Ian Malcolm all attest to this.

Which is how I came up with an audacious plan. A silly plan. A plan that is ridiculously simply, terribly naïve, not at all original. But I’m convinced that if we followed this three-point proposal, we could improve our world. It goes like this:

1. Smile. Studies show that when we see a smiling face, our brains release endorphins. These chemicals help us feel happier and calmer. They also relieve stress, which has been found to contribute to a number of diseases, including cancer. Smiling not only boosts your own mood, but that of others.

Granted, we’ve got the issue of masks in the mix. But even if they continue to be a thing, I still suggest smiling. It’s evidenced not just by our mouths, but by our eyes. People can tell when we’re smiling - even if it’s a partially obscured, coronavirus smile.

Butterfly Effect Scenario: You feel sorta crappy because 2020 has been about as much fun as a never ending root canal, but you decide to suck it up and smile. Another person sees you. Maybe their life is totally in the toilet and they can’t even see sky from their vantage point. Your smile causes a chemical reaction that results in a break in the clouds, sunlight seeps through, and they find the strength to emerge from the gloom, something they then pass on to their colleagues or family members. The impact could be exponential.

2. Be Kind. The above has the potential to be more substantial and lasting if it is linked with a kind act or word. Think random acts of kindness, except not random. More like consistent, intentional, and with purpose. What if we started going around smiling, actually looking for, seeking, ferreting out ways to help, assist, boost, bless, encourage, motivate, and otherwise be nice to other people (i.e. live the Golden Rule)? Yeah, many of them would think we had lost our minds. But being crazy/kind is far better than being sane/mean, don’t you think?

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What if we started going around smiling, actually looking for, seeking, ferreting out ways to help, assist, boost, bless, encourage, motivate, and otherwise be nice to people?

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There’s a video going around called “Shoulder Taps.” In it, a guy talks about getting the idea to tell an elderly woman that she looks beautiful. It’s a simple compliment. But when he steps out of his comfort zone and acts on this impulse, it turns out to be very important to the woman for a reason he couldn’t have guessed or anticipated. That’s the kind of thing that can happen.

Butterfly Effect Scenario: You see the neighbor across the street struggling to get the trash out to the curb. It dumps en route. Instead of sitting in the spare bedroom watching them clean up the mess, you go out and help them pick it up. In the process, you meet them for the first time, have a conversation, and, of course, offer a smile. Pretty sure that won’t result in a fistfight or the appearance of the riot police.

3. Pray. Even if you don’t believe in God, my challenge is to give prayer a shot. What will it hurt? What might it help? It’s clear that things are out of control (are they ever really in our control?) and we could use some divine assistance and intervention. We could pray for our own attitudes, for our country, for our leaders, for members of our law enforcement agencies, and for the chance to make little differences every day in the lives of those around us.

“Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” - Vincent van Gogh

I can’t see how doing any of the above would bring a negative result. Worst case scenario, our faces get tired from smiling, people don’t respond to our kindness, and we get the old silent treatment from God. Best case scenario, we all flap our little wings and life gets better.

I’m gonna give it a shot and see what happens. Who’s with me?

Finding Frida

Many, many years ago, we took a trip to Mexico City. Actually, it only seems like many, many years ago. It was really only this past February. Remember February? That calm before the storm when we were all happily waiting for winter to give up the ghost so we could race out and go spring skiing, then rush straight into summer for a frenzy of hiking and camping, gatherings with friends and family, and evenings spent hanging out at our favorite restaurants…

Yeah, I hardly remember that either. So let’s just say, in a previous life, we went to Mexico City. We were younger, more idealistic, COVID naïve, and the only Corona we had experienced came in a cold, sweaty bottle with a wedge of lime. It was the good old days! (Cue the song by The Script.)

Mexico, as you probably know, is the land of enchantment, home to the Carlsbad Caverns, the Santa Fe art scene, and the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde. Wait... Hang on... That’s NEW Mexico. OLD Mexico is a delightful, cultural mecca filled with street tacos, quaint little shops that close each afternoon for city-wide siestas, mariachis meandering through outdoor cafes, serenading lovers, and gringos getting kidnapped by drug cartels and dumped in shallow graves somewhere in the Chihuahuan Desert. Yes, that Mexico!

We traveled there against the U.S. State Department’s advice, which offered the above scenario of abduction and burial, with pages of cautions that basically said: “Don’t blame us if you get jacked.” Apparently things are a little dicey south of the border nowadays, whether El Chapo is on the loose or not. However, we had a bucket-list reason for going to Mexico City. We ignored the warnings and planned this trip six months in advance not only for the chance to munch enchiladas and mole, salsa dance the nights away, and flee from machine-gun-toting Federales demanding cash payoffs. Those were just side benefits. The primary reason we went was to find Frida Kahlo.

Editor’s Note: Frida Khalo is no longer living. If you didn’t know that, I’m sorry to break it to you so harshly. But she’s been dead since 1954 and remains in that state at this time.

We saved up PTO, paid for our airline tickets, set up an Airbnb in Coyoacán, Frida’s old stomping grounds, and threw caution to the wind, taking what was, perhaps, our last “regular” vacation of the twenty-first century. That’s right: no masks or social distancing or curve flattening whatsoever. It was wild and crazy!

If you aren’t familiar with artist Frida Kahlo, what you need to know is this: a. she was a pileous (i.e. hairy) woman who turned her unibrow into a brand, b. she was married to Diego Rivera, a fellow artist who looked like a giant frog, c. she was a prolific surrealist, d. she suffered from polio as a child, got into an accident at the age of 18, and started painting because she was stuck in bed, e. she was played by Salma Hayek in the 2002 biopic. There are many other interesting aspects to her life and career (including her pet monkey and her affair with Leon Trotsky - yes, that Leon Trotsky), but those are the basics that inspired our trip. We wanted to see how the real Salma Hayek... I mean Frida Kahlo lived.

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“Feet? What do I need feet for when I have wings to fly?” - Frida Kahlo

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Our Frida quest was anything but disappointing. In addition to touring her former home (La Casa Azul), seeing scads of her artwork and actually standing in her studio (“This is where she made those weird, rather disturbing paintings! Right here!”), milling around in her kitchen, her bedroom, and seeing a giant statue of Frida and her amphibian-like spouse, we had multiple opportunities to purchase Frida coasters, Frida mugs, Frida mousepads, Frida bobbleheads, Frida hats and t-shirts, even Frida temporary tattoos.

To our surprise, Mexico City is more than just a huge, 8.8-million-person advertisement for Frida Kahlo. It is also home to a plethora of other attractions, most of which can been found in districts the State Department deems highly sketchy. With this in mind, we bravely (or maybe stupidly) visited the Botanical Gardens, the Centro Historico district, and even the Teotihuacan Pyramids - just a 45-minute bus ride from the city down a highway which, according to the State Department, is brimming with criminal activity.

Pfft! We didn’t see no criminal activity! We did, however, encounter a number of street vendors selling food that was probably quite deadly. Following the guidance of a random online blogger, we only patronized food establishments with long lines of locals - the logic being if the fare was poisonous, the line would be short. This turned out to be excellent advice.

Part of our success at not dying revolved around preparation. We did plenty of research before we left, read about Frida, watched the movie, brought along a case of Pepto Bismol, drank only bottled water, and prayed diligently that we would not encounter anyone resembling Pablo Escobar.

This kept us from suffering from Montezuma’s Revenge and getting hijacked, but did not keep us from getting lost. Whether walking or Ubering, google maps managed to take us on long, ridiculous detours into places that were not always gringo friendly. Thankfully, I had been practicing Spanish phrases for these occasions, including “Por favor no me secuestros. Si, soy gringo, pero estoy con esta mujer mexicana y también soy pobre. No hay dinero aquí! Soy escritor, por el amor de Dios..” (Translation: “Please don't hurt me. Yes, I am a gringo, but I'm with this Mexican woman and also I am poor. No money here! I am a writer, for goodness sake!”). This proved to be quite useful.

In the end, our time in Mexico City was quiet and peaceful. We got our fill of Frida, enjoyed the museums and the cuisine, and even had time to sit in the Frida Kahlo Park (of course she has her own park) to engage in some art of our own.

The risky part of our trip, it turned out, was when we continued on to Acapulco. It’s just a short plane ride from Mexico City and hitting the beach seemed like a great idea when booking from the safety of our Colorado home. When we got off the plane in Acapulco and found a deserted airport, were shuttled to a deserted hotel (we only saw a handful of people the entire time - and they worked there), and walked a deserted beach - unable to spot another human being in either direction - we realized we might have made a mistake.

Consulting our friends at the State Department, we found a message that said, in essence, If you go to Acapulco right now, you’re an idiot! It seems that a few Americans had recently reported incidents involving abduction, assault, and murder.

Thankfully, we survived unscathed and returned to the States just in time for COVID-19 season! 

What we learned from this once-in-a-lifetime trip can be condensed to this: 1. Frida really was very hairy, 2. She looked NOTHING like Salma Hayek, 3. No one in Acapulco speaks English, but they are fluent in USD, 4. Diego was a toad, not a frog, 5. the State Department might be a bunch of party poopers, but we would still call on them if forced into a windowless van by an armed man named Gordito.

We also discovered that art field trips are fun. Next on our bucket list is a journey to Amsterdam to visit Vincent van Gogh - if and when travel ever becomes a thing again.

Surf's Up!

As of March 1, 2020, I had no games on my phone. Nada. Zilch. Zero. I’ve never been a big phone-game player and really didn’t have the time for them. Then COVID-19 reared its ugly head, resulting in a menagerie of edicts requiring us to stay home, work at home, eat at home, binge watch TV at home, twiddle our thumbs at home, watch time stretch like taffy in the sun at home...

Which is why I downloaded two games. The first was Who Want to Be a Millionaire, a trivia game based on the popular 1999 TV show with Regis Philbin. It comes complete with the same tension-inducing music and the same ramp up of five or so questions anybody and their dog could answer (What do squirrels like to gather? A. Rocks, B. Nuts, C. Toilet Paper, D. Stocks and Bonds), followed by a half dozen that get ridiculously difficult (What geothermic Icelandic site has the same name as a 1980 movie? A. Xanadu, B. The Shining, C. The Blue Lagoon, D. Caddyshack).

I find this game highly frustrating and very annoying. Yet I continue to play it. I’ve gotten to $500,000 several times, only to be struck down by a question like: “What was Shakespeare’s mother’s name?” My answer to that one wasn’t among the choices: “Who gives a rip? What kind of question is that? I’ve been robbed again! This game is rigged!”

Thankfully, I have another game that helps me unwind. It’s called True Surf. This is, as the name implies, a surfing game which provides a great sense of satisfaction. Here’s why.

Besides being highly addictive, True Surf offers a surfer-wannabe (who clumsily caught a few waves way back when and loved it but now lives in Colorado and can’t seem to find a convenient location for this activity), an outlet for his lingering desire to hang ten. And it does so without requiring travel, without the possibility of drowning, and with absolutely no risk of being eaten by a shark. It’s the best!

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Surfing is, in a word: terrifying! Thankfully, it can also be thrilling and fun.

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If you’ve never been surfing, then it’s difficult to appreciate being out on the ocean - the big, dangerous, predator-infested ocean filled with waves that could, at any moment, drag you into the depths and never let you go - bobbing on a little board, the sun sizzle-frying your shoulders, waiting for the next set. It’s also difficult to describe the feeling when that set finally materializes, rising ominously on the horizon, and then rushes forward to fling you around like a flimsy piece of driftwood. It is, in a word: terrifying! Thankfully, it can be also be thrilling and fun.

Why am I talking about surfing? In addition to having the old urge resurrected by True Surf, playing the game has caused me to notice a few similarities between surfing and the job hunting/job interviewing process.

For the beginner, surfing can be broken down into four phases: 1. Waiting/Watching, 2. Spotting/Preparing, 3. Catching the Wave, 4. Crashing/Gurgling. (Wipeout!)

Phase 1: Waiting/Watching.

As you trot onto the beach with your board, wax it up, and then enter the water, your anticipation is off the charts. Will you catch the perfect wave today? Will you cut yourself on a reef and draw sharks from miles around (been there, done that)? Will you get swallowed by an obscenely thick wedge that makes you think you’re going to be having lunch with God (been there too)? With those and other exciting thoughts racing through your mind, you paddle out and watch for the next set.

After applying for jobs, the waiting period is like that. You’ve done what you can, you’re ready - you think - and now, you just need that email or phone call. Will it come today? Maybe. Until then, the ocean is flat - i.e. your inbox is empty. You keep your eyes on the horizon.

Phase 2. Spotting/Preparing.

Oh, boy! Here they come! Multiple lines of waves. It’s great and it’s scary and you have to figure out how to get into position. Are they going to break outside, inside, on your head...? And they just keep getting bigger. Holy moly!

In my case, the interview requests have truly come in sets - two, even three on the same day. The initial thrill is followed by the sudden certainty that you aren’t ready. You need to prepare. You need to rehearse. You need to research the organization (Who is this? Oh, they produce widgets for sanitation trucks.), pore over the job description (What was the position?? Widget Development Manager... Right.) and do everything you can to be in the right place to snag one of these jobs. But which one? They’re all coming at once!

Phase 3: Catching the Wave.

This requires perfect timing, adequate thrust, and then the appropriate balance to get up on your board and (ideally) stay up.

The interviews themselves are an adrenaline rush. I have participated in nine interviews during my six weeks of unemployment. Some of these have been follow-ups because, in case you didn’t know, one interview is NEVER enough. There are multiples with various team members and organizational officers. The questions, however, remain the same. Things like: What are your three greatest strengths? What are your three greatest skills? What makes you a good fit for this role?

An interesting twist in this torturous process is the teleconference. In this case, the person searching for work must don a suit and tie, sit in their spare bedroom in front of their computer, and pretend to be professional, calm, cool, and collected, as the dogs bark in the background and the neighbor mows his grass. The only upside is that you don’t have to wear pants.

This is EXACTLY like surfing. (Especially the no pants part.) You get up, there’s a rush of momentum and... you go down! Hard sometimes. Sometimes, you stay up, even manage a few cut backs and tricks - riding that wave with a little style.

Phase 4: Crashing/Gurgling (Wipeout!)

The ideal wave is the wave you move with, not against - allowing its power to carry you rather than crush you. When you’re done, you’re either on the beach, or heading back out, ready to catch another. It’s exhilarating! However, sometimes, you wipeout. You go under and stay under for a very long time... (blurp...!).

At this stage in my job surfing, I haven’t really crashed and gurgled. (Thank you, God!) There have been a few positions I interviewed for that I didn’t really want. But I survived the interrogation process without injury. And as of this writing, I’m in the advanced stages with a couple of organizations I’d really love to work with. Surf’s up!

So that’s where things stand. I’ve ridden several set in this season of joblessness and I’m sitting on my board now, waiting and watching for that perfect wave to roll in. I know it’s coming. And it’s gonna to be awesome, dude!

Cowabunga!

Lessons from the Unemployment Line

Okay, so there isn’t an actual unemployment line anymore. Between the advent of the internet and COVID-19, the process of groveling for federal handouts has been transformed into a no-nonsense, virtual experience: you go online, fill out forms, explain your hardship, click buttons, and wait. No need to encounter a surly clerk or hang around outside a shabby inner-city office building with a bunch of fellow hobos.

Filing for unemployment is, in fact, crazy easy compared to the actual process of finding another job. Hunting for your next place of employment with the no-paycheck vultures circling overhead and shouts of “Get off your lazy rear end and find a job, you lousy bum!” echoing in your mind creates a less than ideal environment in which to conduct your search. If it has been a while since you’ve found yourself in this situation, or you’ve never had to go through it, stop reading right now, get on your knees and give thanks to God, the Keto Diet, Starbucks, the payroll department at your place of work - whoever/whatever you tend to worship.

Job hunting is not easy or fun. It tends to follow this pattern:

Step 1. Engage in full-blown linear panic, followed by a frantic, compulsive, meticulous, ongoing search of the internet.

Literally moments after being eliminated and deemed non-essential by your former employer, as your self-confidence swells accordingly, you efficiently set up alerts on all of the major online job boards. This immediately boosts your incoming email by 804%. With this onslaught of notifications comes a furious roller coaster of emotions - a pendulum swinging wildly from giddy hope to bone-crushing despair - as you discover the various shortcomings of job alerts. It seems they are not always on target or in line with your search criteria.

(Scroll, scroll...) This is THE job...! Finally! Except... It requires you to purchase a franchise license. Shoot. (Scroll, scroll...) Oh, wait... This one! I could do it! Except... ‘Must have a doctorate in Puppetry...’ Crap! (Scroll, scroll...) Here it is! Yes! No... You have to have a top secret clearance and it’s an unpaid internship. Rats! (Scroll, scroll...) Hey, check out that one! It’s perfect! Just what I’m looking for! And wow... the pay! This is it! This is the one! Woo-hoo! Hold on...Hold on... It’s in Beijing and requires fluent Mandarin. Dang it! (Scroll, scroll...)

Step 2. Glom onto anything and everything that you might possibly, maybe, in a stretch, with the same odds as winning Powerball, actually land.

As the cascading avalanche of job openings continues, a host of possibilities is laboriously sluiced out of the muck like little flakes of gold (or is that pyrite?), and after verifying that the employer is looking for English language speakers living in the Western Hemisphere, the real application process begins.

Step 3. Revise your resume, ensuring it’s factually accurate and/or believable.

You have to update your resume - again and again. The goal here is to make your career sound like you’re a legitimate rockstar in the XYZ field - without including a host of obvious, bald-faced lies. This is no easy task (unless you happen to be an accomplished fiction writer). When the resume fabrications and exaggerations have all been camouflaged... I mean removed and replaced with authentic facts, it’s time to move on to step 4.

Step 4. Write a clever, attention-getting, kick-ass cover letter.

The key to a successful cover letter is to fawn and gush over the organization your applying to, regurgitate the language used in the job description, and literally pound into the hiring manager’s retinas the fact that you are so freaking excited about working at XYZ company that you are about to explode. Here you’ll need to consult a thesaurus to avoid using terms like passionate, nitroglycerin, detail-oriented, C-4, self-motivated, and nuclear more than 15 times each.  

Step 5. Endure the dreaded online form.

Once you’ve got that cover letter, it’s on to the long (l-o-n-g) form many employers have you fill out online. It involves retyping all of the tedious lies... I mean details from your resume. It will make you want to beat your head against a cinder block. But don’t. This is a test to see how much you REALLY want this job. And you do want this job! Probably.

Step 6. Go fishing.

The reward for all of this intense, energy-sapping effort is a long, horrible silence as you wait to see if and when the HR department will respond. It’s exactly like fishing. You hike to a peaceful spot in the great outdoors next to a beautiful creek flowing with cold, clear water, bait your hook, cast your line, and sit there drinking beer until it’s time to go home. The only difference is that, in this case, the beautiful spot is your spare bedroom, there is no water or great outdoors. Just beer.

The fish, it turns out, are also in short supply. And when it comes to job seeking, they can be cold-blooded, scaly jerks. Many of them never even show up at the creek that is your spare bedroom. They ghost you! After all that work trying to convince them you are a bona fide genius - basically the blond reincarnation of Steve Jobs - and are frothing at the mouth for the opportunity to grind out an 8-5 existence in one of their lovely cubicles for the rest of your life, or at least until a better job comes along, they respond with: crickets!

Step 7. Keep sifting, wading, and trudging.

But you don’t have time to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, raining down curses on company XYZ. No. You continue to sift the flotsam and jetsam of Indeed, wade through the debris on LinkedIn, trudge through the listings on ZipRecruiter, eyes peeled for that perfect job. Or even a less than perfect job. As time passes, you decide to settle for a crappy job if it at least has a paycheck attached to it. You’re even willing to learn Mandarin. You also start applying for positions you know you can’t get in this lousy, virus-impaired economy disaster zone without an act of God rivaling the Second Coming.

Step 8. Start praying Hail Mary prayers.  

This is where prayer comes into the picture. You begin praying for any and all divine and/or angelic assistance that might be available. You imagine your application arriving on the computer screen of some kindhearted, blind-in-one-eye, grandmotherly HR administrator, having her miraculously take pity on you, pluck your application from the slush pile, gasp at the value you are offering their company (“OMG! This guy is basically Steve Jobs, except not as smart or successful! And he’s blond!”), and immediately emailing you an offer of employment. Your Hail Mary prayer goes something like this: “Pleeez, God, let One-Eyed Gramma Sophie, the unofficial patron saint of unemployed schnooks, be the one who gets this application! Pleez, pleez, pleez...!”

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The entire job hunt creates a Twilight Zone-worthy time warp in which the clock and calendar cease to function properly.

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At this point, you’ve arrived at the stage I like to call “Desperation Station.” It is comically pathetic and lasts for approximately 7543 years - or at least, it feels like that because the entire job hunt creates a Twilight Zone-worthy time warp in which the clock and calendar cease to function properly. They decide to move forward very slowly. Or as Justin Bieber would say, “De...spa...cito.” Muy despacito!

Once you’ve reached Desperation Station, there are only three things keeping you from leaping off a cliff. First, there are no cliffs readily available for leaping (this is key). Second, there’s still a chance - although only a fiberoptically thin one - of finding employment before you have to start challenging the dogs for their kibble. Third, you have a blog to finish and it’s Tuesday after a long weekend and... Hey, one of the fish might contact you. Today! Gramma Sophie could be emailing right this moment! It could happen! Anything is possible!

Right? Right?!

Next time: When the Interview Requests Start Rolling in Like a Set at Waimea Bay (cue “Aloha O’e”)

Get Used to Disappointment (Okay)

“Hallo, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

 If you don’t recognize that quote, and didn’t hear Mandy Patinkin’s voice in your head delivering it with an over-the-top Spanish accent, you are clearly not a member of The Princess Bride fan club (yes, they really have one). While I’ve never joined, I have watched the movie approximately 2.4 bizillion times - enough to enable me to quote large portions of dialog from memory.

Among my go-to lines:

“You’ve been almost dead all day.”

“No more rhymes, I mean it!” “Anybody want a peanut?”

“Life is pain, Highness. Anybody who says differently is selling something.”

“Inconceivable!” “You keep using that word. I do not think it means, what you think it means.”

“Have fun stormin’ da castle!”

“As you wish.”

My very favorite lines, however, take place as Inigo Montoya and the mysterious Masked Man engage in a fierce sword fight on top of the Cliffs of Insanity. Inigo is impressed with his opponent’s skill and curious about his identity. Their conversation goes like this:

Inigo: “Who are you??”

Masked Man: “No one of consequence.”

Inigo: “I must know.”

Masked Man: “Get used to disappointment.”

Inigo: “Okay.”

That scene has always impressed me because the Masked Man is dropping some bona fide wisdom. Disappointment is part of life. Getting used to it - i.e. realizing it’s a given and you will experience it, sooner or later, whether you want to or not - is great advice. I also love Inigo’s reaction. He doesn’t object, argue, or get upset. He just accepts it and keeps fighting.

If I was mentoring a young writer or artist, I would refer them to this scene. It’s not only useful for life in general, but specifically the life of a creative. Disappointment is a real thing. Accept it and keep fighting.

This is a vital lesson because when you start sending out your work for publication, acceptance in galleries, or otherwise putting it up for sale, you will be rejected. While rejection isn’t exactly the same as disappointment, they are partners in crime. I would go so far as to call them two sides of the same coin: When you get rejected, you will feel disappointment. Trust me. I know.

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Disappointment is a real thing. Accept it and keep fighting.

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How do I know? Well, en route to getting 20-something books published, I received thousands of rejections. That’s not an exaggeration. It could be in the tens of thousands. The hard copy form-rejection letters, if properly filed and boxed, would fill a single-car garage. The digital versions would overload my cloud storage account. Not even kidding.

Take the novel that I just signed, for instance. It’s scheduled to be published next year. I originally wrote it about 20 years ago. That’s two decades. During that time, I regularly and passionately submitted it, pushed it, pedaled it, promoted it, and otherwise begged and pleaded with nearly every agent and publisher on the planet to take it on. While this particular project has earned lots of kudos and positive reactions along the way (“We enjoyed the story, but...” “We love the writing style, but...” “You are clearly a gifted writer, but...”), there was always a “but.”

There were even a few close calls: the agent who took it on, asked for changes but never committed, the publisher who read it and enthusiastically boasted “We’ll publish this, I guarantee it!” before eventually ghosting me. That sort of thing.

“It makes exactly the same impression whether you say, ‘No’ with or without compliments; it is perhaps even more irritating when it is said in such a complimentary way.” -Vincent van Gogh

So when Odyssey Books recently responded that they loved it AND wanted to sign it, I was shocked, dumbfounded, and, to be honest, continued to harbor a seed of doubt. The book is called The House ‘Cross the Way and I never gave up on it because: 1. I think it’s good. Rereading it recently to prep the manuscript, I was very pleasantly surprised. It is definitely some of my best writing and, in a few passages, I was genuinely amazed at the prose (I wrote that??). 2. It has a lot of me in it. I call it a semi-autobiographical novel because it weaves in pieces of people, places, and events I have experienced. In other words, it’s not business, it’s personal.

I’m telling you all of this because, as a writer who could possibly hold the world record for rejection letters, and who survived the subsequent bouts of crushing disappointment that resulted, I should be used to it, even immune. The situation I currently find myself in - suddenly jobless, seeking employment - should be a piece of cake. Right?

Yeah. Uh-huh... Sure.

Here’s the thing: despite my extensive experience with disappointment and an appreciation for the Masked Man’s wise words, I still haven’t gotten used to it. Rejection stings. Disappointment hurts. They’re like a one-two punch in the face. And, if you let them, they will sap your confidence and convince you to stay down, if only to avoid future pain.

Being laid off was like that. For me, the ax arrived via teleconference. Instead of the boss sauntering up to my cube and ominously requesting, “Can I see you in my office...?”, my moment of truth began with an instant message from a higher-up asking if I had a minute to chat before a special, all-company tele-meeting that had just popped up on my Outlook calendar.

Gulp! (Insert Jaws music here.)

I took a deep breath and responded, pretending to be nonchalant and naïve, as though unaware of my impending doom: “Sure,” I typed with trembling fingers.

The Zoom call was short and sweet, the hatchet quite sharp. I don’t recall the exact words, only the gist: COVID, unexpected, slowdowns, loss of projects, cutbacks, positions eliminated... blah, blah, blah... Translation: Re-jected!

I sort of lost focus - and maybe consciousness - as the face on the screen continued to offer a sad, empathetic smile, mumbling about how everything would be fine, how I wasn’t alone, how we would get through this together. If “together” means some people still working and collecting a paycheck and me not working and not collecting a paycheck, she was spot on.

This is where the tsunami of disappointment flooded in.

The world went dark for a while. It was the first time in my life that I had lost a job. Until that morning, I had always been the one doing the talking: “I want to let you know that I have accepted another position and will be leaving in two weeks.” Bazinga!

If you’ve never been on the receiving end of the workplace bazinga, let me assure you, it’s not fun.

So after the shock and awe, after growling into the mirror and sending the dogs scurrying for cover, after the woe-is-me pity party and a childish, foot-stomping tantrum (“Not fair! Not fair!”) - a grieving process that lasted at least seven minutes, maybe eight - I sat back down at my laptop and began frantically and compulsively searching for open positions. What I didn’t realize then was that this exercise would be defined by, steeped in, and overflowing with rejection. It is like an open invitation to a short course in disappointment.

More on job applications, interviews, and near-misses in the next blog. In the meantime, I leave you with this optimistic bit of dialog from The Princess Bride that, I feel, applies not only to my situation, but the situation our nation and world currently face:

Princess Buttercup: “We’ll never survive.”

Westley: “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”

Street Tweets

On most nice weekdays in 2019, I spent my lunch half-hour on a metal bench facing Pikes Peak Avenue. While that introduction might not carry the same literary impact and dramatic promise as “I had a farm in Africa...”, I can assure you, the characters and events I witnessed were every bit as wild and untamed as those in the Isak Dinesen novel.

For starters, Colorado Springs has a significant homeless population. One of their favorite gathering places is the Penrose Library, just a block away from my bench. Destitute individuals congregate at the library every morning seeking shelter, comfortable chairs, and a place to nap while they wait for the soup kitchen (two blocks away) to open.

My bench was also just a half block from Tejon Street, the main downtown thoroughfare. It’s lined with offices, stores, and restaurants. Beyond Tejon, down a few more blocks, is Palmer High School - which boasts an “open” campus. So throughout spring, summer, and fall, that part of town is brimming with both vehicular and foot traffic. At least, before Coronavirus season arrived.

Imagine volatile vagrants and derelicts, eager-faced out-of-town and out-of-state visitors, suited business execs, and surly teenagers framed by a fleet of delivery trucks (USPS, UPS, FedEx, Budweiser...) converging into a crazy, colorful, noisy, always-in-motion, widely diverse tapestry of humanity. That was my view at noon.

Sitting on my bench, munching a sandwich, trying to read Kingsolver, Styron, or maybe Hassler, I usually didn’t get through many pages. There was always an exchange of horns, one driver waving a middle finger at another, trucks backing up, herds of students slinking past, high-heels clicking by, men and women in shorts pushing dollies laden with boxes, and a menagerie of mentally deranged individuals shouting curses at imaginary enemies.

In other words: it was quite entertaining!

Not long after I began this habit - something originally motivated simply by a desire to escape my cubicle and soak in some desperately needed vitamin-D-infused sunshine - I began to notice something interesting. If, instead of only paying attention to the loudest, most annoying activities taking place around me, I listened more carefully, I was actually privy to some rather bizarre, private conversations.

Perhaps all private conversations are bizarre if taken out of context. But the comments I heard were at turns humorous, fascinating, disturbing, and just plain weird. I was soon taking notes, entering these bits and pieces of dialogue into my phone. I wasn’t at all sure what I would do with the growing list of quips, remarks, and commentaries, but I had a feeling they would come in handy for something - a short story, flash fiction, a collection of poems... a blog.

Fast forward a year. Instead of occupying a downtown bench at lunch, I’m eating at home, on the back porch, surrounded by three dogs who are watching my every move, slobbering generously as they wait to see if I will share my sandwich with them. (Nope.)

But yesterday, while they jealously drooled and I happily chewed, I rediscovered the list on my phone. As I read the one-liners I had recorded, I not only laughed, I also realized I had succeeded in taking a series of verbal photographs - audio snapshots of strangers I had never met and will never meet. They walked past my bench, momentarily grazing my life, leaving in their wake a montage of statements to ponder. I think of these random snippes as street tweets.

Below, you’ll find a portion of my collection, without alteration, embellishment or editing (except punctuation), in the order in which I put them into my phone. Each was snatched from a separate, passing conversation.

“Kicking back in my own pad... I used hairspray once.”

“Remember that drink you bought? It was disgusting!”

“Look both ways, idiot!”

“He says all the right things.”

“Yeah… it happens a lot... basic life.”

“Wolverine!”

“I don’t think you have to be a lesbian to support them.”

“Good news: she has our voucher!”

“This is a good day for a solar watch.”

“This isn’t how you live life.”

“Terrified! Horrified of things that go bump in the night!”

“I’m a very social person. I don’t need that jealous sh*t in my life.”

“That gave him a leg up - he was so respected.”

“My password never expires.”

“Personally, I think he devoured that salad.”

“So is she still struggling to replace you?”

“It takes longer than 15 minutes to get cows down Tejon.”

“Hey, can I get some unsolicited advice?”

“What more could I possibly want? I have enough money for the next two weeks.”

“I don’t care! I’m sadder than bleep.”

“They have monitors the size of walls.”

“That guy was so struggling with the door - trying to carry out umbrellas.”

“Backpack... backpack... Yeah!”

“Start acting correctly. You’re killing me.”

“We can’t see a double shadow right now.”

“Certain things you take into a hotel. Certain things you better not.”

“Right from the center, I might be able to push it.”

“This is so bold! OMG!”

“My teacher says that’s a cop-out. I was like, ‘No, it’s not!’”

“I’ll have it when we go to Florida for Christmas.”

“So you did make it out of the wedding...?”

“Hey, can I get some unsolicited advice?”

“They’ve got spicy. Do you like spicy? I like spicy but it doesn’t like me.”

“Come on! We still gotta go places!”

“Whatever happens, happens...”

Who were these people? What were they really talking about? Where were they from? Where were they going? It’s fun to consider how those conversations might have developed to that point and also, how they proceeded afterwards. Reading them together reminds me of playing Mad Lips.

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God purposefully created an eclectic breed of beings, each with unique talents, quirks, and passions. He’s the Artist and we’re His body of work.

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Taken as a whole, the things I overheard on Pikes Peak Avenue caused me to realize once again how grand and amazing humankind is. We are a spectacularly diverse collection of personalities, lifestyles, opinions and attitudes. Wouldn’t it be great if instead of fighting about these differences, we acknowledged them and viewed them like an artist views his palette: with respect and appreciation for the value they add to the overall painting?

Conversely, think how boring the world would be if we were all exactly alike, acted the same, said the same things, always agreed with each other... Dull as toast.  

My personal belief is that God purposefully created an eclectic breed of beings, each with unique talents, quirks, and passions. He’s the Artist and we’re His body of work. Of course, each of us is a work in progress. 

Three Unlikely Amigos

What do Edgar Allan Poe, Vincent van Gogh, and Stevie Ray Vaughan have in common? Aside from their three-piece names and the fact that they were all human beings... not much, right?

In my life, however, they are elaborately and irreparably tangled together, contributing members of the complex mosaic that is me. While there are a nearly infinite number of other influences - most notably God, my parents, my wife, my family and my close friends - this trio of unlikely amigos has had a uniquely powerful and enduring impact on who I am and what I do.

(Editor’s note: I would include Miles Davis, William Faulkner, Monet and a host of others. But the list just gets long and clumsy. I’ll hit on those important figures another time.)

If we were playing seven degrees of separation, the connection point for Poe, van Gogh, and Stevie Ray would be simple. The nexus is me. Not in meeting them or starring in a movie with them (as in the Kevin Bacon game), but in being steered, pushed forward, and inspired by their work and passion. They influenced my life in peculiar ways.

“You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded.”

-Edgar Allan Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart

Let’s start with Poe. Good old Edgar - rather dour and slightly unhinged Edgar - is the first writer I can remember really enjoying in high school. Aside from reading comic books as a kid and blitzing through the Hardy Boys mysteries, I wasn’t a huge reader. By the time high school came around, I was too busy with girls and sports and girls and band and girls and... girls to crack many books. But I do remember an awakening of sorts when I read “The Tell Tale Heart.” Soon I was zooming through “The Pit and the Pendulum,” “The Murders at the Rue Morgue,” and “The Fall of the House of Usher.” Wow!

In retrospect, I think what drew me in was their length (as short stories, they were easily digestible), their subject matter (dark, scary, full of guilt and terror), and the fact that they were well written and accessible. You didn’t have to do an in-depth, CliffsNotes-assisted research paper on them to discern their meaning.

And then, along came an assignment in English that required us to rewrite a familiar fairy tale in the style of our favorite author. I retold “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” Poe-ish-ly, complete with a creepy narrator and gruesome twists. It was singled out by the teacher as a success. That was my first close encounter with fiction writing and most certainly played a role in motivating the creation of my own short stories and novels.

On to van Gogh. I’m sure he’ll show up in other blogs. He is, after all, the man, the myth, the legend. The dude is my art hero. But I didn’t really know anything about him - except the ear incident - until I was married with children. We were visiting family, it was raining cats and dogs, and I had finished the only book I had thought to bring with us. Desperate for something to read, I discovered a National Geographic in the bathroom and devoured it cover to cover. One of the articles happened to be about van Gogh. I was struck. Energized. Hypnotized. I was immediately curious to know more and, here’s the part, suddenly anxious to try my hand at painting. I don’t know why, but that article was the spark that set the blaze burning. As soon as we got home, I borrowed my daughter’s crayons and started attempting landscapes. Which, by the way, were terrible.

“The way people come into your life when you need them, it’s wonderful and it happens in so many ways.”

-Stevie Ray Vaughan

Stevie Ray Vaughan, if you don’t already know, was a blues guitarist from Texas. He burst onto the national scene in the 1980s. I had been playing guitar - poorly and irregularly - since the I was about 12 or so. Nothing had really grabbed my attention until I heard Stevie Ray. That was a sound that excited me, a sound I wanted to learn to replicate. Fueled by his machine-gun-style blues, I eventually got a Stratocaster and began refining my own sound, something that has been described as “two cats fighting in a chimney.”

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The crazy thing about life is that you never know who or what is going to influence you, be that spark, or set you on a course you never expected and couldn’t have found on your own.

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I’m not a wealthy, successful, world-renown writer, painter, or musician. However, I have fun in all of those pursuits. And I often wonder if I would be writing novels today (my ninth is slated for release next year!), producing crazy amounts of pastel and acrylic art, and stumbling my way through “Pride and Joy” and Lenny” on otherwise quiet afternoons, if it hadn’t been for those three guys. Doubtful.

The crazy thing about life is that you never know who or what is going to influence you, be that spark, or set you on a course you never expected and couldn’t have found on your own. For that matter, there are plenty of events - good, bad, and otherwise - that take us on journeys we might not have chosen ourselves (see the last two blogs for more on that subject). I think the key to not only surviving but, as the folks at Kaiser Permanente would say, thriving, is being flexible, patient, and watching for opportunities to go in new directions.  

With that in mind, I leave you with this encouragement from Vincent: “Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well.”

Post Script: Speaking of influencers... As I mentioned in a previous installment, while sequestered in my second-floor office doing the stay-at-home shuffle, staring out at our leafless maple tree, watching the neighborhood squirrel inexplicably squirm his way to the top, I happened upon a great podcast: The Lonely Palette. Not just happened upon, started binge listening. The great thing is that, like Poe’s stories, the podcasts are short and easily digestible. The other great thing is that they are fascinating and filled with information! Host Tamar Avishai is an art historian who worked at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. The tagline is: The podcast that returns art history to the masses, one object at a time. Whether you’re an art fan or not, you’ll learn about important pieces of art, understand how and why certain artists and movements were significant, and appreciate the role they played in the art we see today. I highly recommend it. Start binging today.

Serendipitous Detours - Part Dos

Turns out the last blog entry - Serendipitous Detours - was only part one of this theme. Who knew? No me. Until I was in the basement this morning, carrying buckets of rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Let me explain.

BP (Before Pandemic), Fran and I were gym rats. Serious gym rats. When the gym was open, we were there. When it was closed, we used our handy dandy key card to access a small section of the gym that was open 24-hours a day. See? Major hardcore gym rats.

So Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday (break to rest my fingers... whew, all that typing!), Thursday, Friday, and, yes, you guessed it, Saturday, we would hop up before the sun and head for the gym at either Peterson Air Force Base or Fort Carson. There we would lift heavy things until it was time to stop lifting heavy things, get cleaned up, and either go to work, go back home, go to church… whatever.

Obviously, a few things have changed.

AP (After Pandemic), the gym is closed. For that matter, work is closed. Working remote went to looking for a job remote and, thankfully, doing interviews remote. (More on that later with, hopefully, a good news report.) Goodbye routine. Goodbye gym. Goodbye muscles and fitness.

But being gym rats, we didn’t throw in the towel so easily. Though we lack equipment here at home, we decided to get creative. That translated into lots of body weight exercises supplemented with the dumbbells my dad found in his barn, elastic bands we discovered in the furnace room, saw horses, broom handles, and Pace salsa containers filled with water. Yeah, it’s prison-style.

Though we lack equipment here at home, we decided to get creative.

One of our clever little innovations was to gather bricks and rocks from our sideyard and toss them into Lowe’s buckets. These are now being utilized to build the old trapezius muscles via shrugs and farmer’s carries. If you aren’t familiar with farmer’s carries, they are exactly what they sound like: carrying stuff around like a farmer does, except without the benefit of a farm.

I’ll admit it sounds a little silly. And if you saw me pacing back and forth in the basement with those buckets, you might think I had gone stir-crazy. Let’s just say that’s a given.

This morning, however, while farmering with my handy buckets, I noticed something. We have a bunch of art down there, hung on the walls, stacked in the corners, piled on a table. (When Fran is being kind, she refers to my storage style as “indiscriminate stuffing.”)

Anyway... this morning I saw one of my newest pieces. It’s a watercolor/acrylic on watercolor paper of the view from Green Mountain Falls, painted from a photo we took while hiking there last weekend. I was shooting for something James Hoyle-ish, missed completely (as usual), but came out the other side with something that I’m relatively happy with. I’m satisfied with the colors and shapes. And it has given me ideas for improvement on the next outing.

What struck me this morning about that painting, as I strained and staggered with my buckets, was that I never would have mixed watercolor and acrylic, and never would have done so on watercolor paper, if I hadn’t recently gotten laid off.

Enter serendipity.

Since I was working remote when things went sideways, my former employer shipped the contents of my cubicle to me. I had several books, a few decorative items, photos of Fran, our dogs, one of me and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson... Important stuff. But when the box arrived here, I discovered something else: a huge pad of watercolor paper. I remember it being in my cubicle when I was hired, wedged between the filing cabinet and the wall. It apparently belonged to the last schnook who occupied that workspace. The important thing is that it was gifted to me. (Insert smiley face here - it doesn’t take much to make me happy!)

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I never would have mixed watercolor and acrylic, and never would have done so on watercolor paper, if I hadn’t recently gotten laid off.

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So a couple of Saturdays ago, I borrowed Fran’s watercolors and started a painting, not really at all sure where it was going. After sketching it out and doing the basic shapes in watercolor - and getting that cool effect watercolor produces - I added acrylic highlights. It was a long process and as I said, not completely successful. But the end result is interesting and holds promise for future projects.

I still have several pages left in the pad of paper, so I’ll definitely be playing around with the watercolor/acrylic mix again.

Maybe that technique, medium and style won’t last. It might just be a fun transitory experiment. Or maybe not. Imagine if I really embrace that and it turns out to be my best work! Either way, it’s different and represents a detour I would not have considered or taken, without the layoff shove.

That’s my most recent serendipitous detour. But I’m about to be whooshed away on another. It will be more significant, more life-altering, involving a new job at a new organization with a new group of people. New to me, anyway. What that’s all about? Not sure yet. We’ll see.

What I’m learning through all the good and bad changes, all the unexpected events, and all of the associated uncertainty, is this: don’t be afraid to go with the detours. I’m also learning: Lowe’s makes some seriously strong buckets!

Serendipitous Detours

While observing stay-at-home orders, in addition to binge listening to The Lonely Palette (yes, that’s a plug), my wife and I have also binge watched a couple of TV shows. These were chosen very carefully through detailed research and a scientific method that went something like this:

Me: What do you want to watch?

Fran: I don’t know. What do you want to watch?

Me: How about Jurassic Park?

Fran: (with emotion) No!

Me: The Lost World: Jurassic Park?

Fran: Hell, no!

Me: Then... um...

Fran: We never watched all those New Amsterdam episodes we recorded.

Me: We only watched the premier.

Fran: Let’s watch the rest of season one and then season two.

Me: Ok.

And so it began. All was good - tears flowed, people died right and left, righteous indignation about the healthcare system surged, more tears flowed, cancer was contracted and survived, cancer was contracted and wound up being terminal, patients complained and croaked, doctors complained and croaked, still more tears flowed...

By the end of the second season, we were thoroughly depressed and also convinced that New Amsterdam was the ideal hospital with the ideal doctors, and also a complete and total fantasy land so far removed from reality, you can’t even see it from there.

It not only left us with a sense of anguish and ennui, but forced us to ask ourselves one critical question: What’s next?

As it turned out, a Jurassic Park marathon was NOT next. (I still have bruises from suggesting that.) This is Us was next.

If you are familiar with this popular show, you are probably laughing right now because you know that it is the only television drama sadder, more depressing, and laden with more tear-shedding opportunities than New Amsterdam. On the positive side, it’s told in an interesting, innovative, and entertaining way (sniff-sniff...).

But that’s not my point. What is my point, you’re asking? I’m thinking of a particular episode which illustrates in detail how Kevin (oldest son) misses out on a promising college and possibly pro football career by getting his knee destroyed in the final game of the high school schedule. (I think it was the final game. I might be wrong - I was busy looking for more Kleenex.)

So instead of playing for the Pittsburgh Steelers - his lifelong dream - he’s SOL. Right then, at that juncture, when his plans are obliterated by one violent tackle, he’s experiencing the onrush of a serendipitous detour.

Kevin winds up becoming an actor, lands a hit sitcom, and later degenerates into a drug addicted mess who can’t get over the premature death of his father or rebuild his relationship with his exwife or accept that his twin sister is getting married... yadda, yadda, yadda...

Yeah, it’s a prime time soap opera. And I’m sure all of that gets resolved eventually (we haven’t completed the binge). But this is the thing: Kevin has to shift gears in order to appreciate and take advantage of the serendipity factor.

Things happen. Bad things. All the time. (I’ll pause here while you rant about the terrible stuff that’s been going on in your life. It can be pandemic related or just run-of-the-mill crappola. Go ahead, let it out.)

Done? Okay. So none of us like the part where the bad stuff happens. But we do like the part where, seemingly by chance, the good stuff replaces the bad stuff and we wind up in a position that’s different, but often better than before.

I think God does that on purpose. You can think it’s karma or dharma or Jack Kerouac or fate or destiny or an alignment of the planets. (It’s a free country - most of the time.) Whatever and whoever you attribute that to, it’s one of the great things about life. But it’s also true that serendipity favors those who are prepared to bounce back from disappointment and accept the detour.

As the 1990s philosophers, Chumbawamba, once sang, “I get knocked down, but I get up again, you are never gonna keep me down!” I think good old Chumbawamba was on to something. Serendipity happens all the time. But we have to go with the flow. If we get knocked down and don’t get up again... If we give up... If we quit... Game over. It’s when we get hit in the face, do a freefall to the canvas, and then accept the challenge of rising, with the potential of taking another hit, that good things can happen.

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We have to have a “why” we can run through walls with.

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This is a good place to recount the story of Buster Douglas. I heard this on a motivational podcast. Douglas was a boxer who climbed into the ring with Mike Tyson. If you’ve ever seen a highlight reel of Tyson’s handiwork in the ring - i.e. knockout after knockout after vicious knockout - then you know that Douglas was either very brave or very stupid.

So guess what happened? Tyson knocked him down with 10 seconds left in the eighth round. Douglas only survived the round because the bell rang. He was literally saved by the bell. Coming out for the ninth, Tyson knew it was over. All he had to do was finish this guy like he had finished all of the other losers. Except there was something Tyson didn’t know. Douglas had promised his mother that he would win this bout. And his mother had died just days before the event. So he was very determined to keep his promise.

In the 10th round, Douglas did something no one had ever done before: he put Tyson down. He knocked out Mike Tyson! Douglas had a why. As a result, he got knocked down, but he got up again. And he not only survived the fight, he won.

As Billy Alsbrooks puts it (another motivational podcast): We have to have a “why” we can run through walls with.

Thus far in This is Us, Kevin doesn’t have a why. He’s just lucky. And talented. He needs a reason to kick the drugs, make amends with his family, pursue his career as an actor, put the past behind him and embrace all that serendipity that’s raining down on him.

(Editor’s note: I doubt he will. He’ll probably OD or get into a car accident - something sad and tragic. It’s not a happy show! Now Jurassic Park on the other hand... Sure, people die, but there are dinosaurs!)

What I’m getting at his this: life is hard. Notice the period on the end of that sentence. It’s true. But something else is true: there are always serendipitous detours awaiting us if we refuse to give up.

As Winston Churchill once famously put it: Never give in. Never give in. Never. Never. Never. Never.

I think he was on to something.

Better Late Than Never - An Introduction

I probably should have started this blog with an introduction. I should have clearly stated its purpose, topic, and explained precisely what you can expect to gain from reading it. The problem is, I’m not sure about any of that.  

The best practices gurus are adamant that in order to blog successfully, you must focus on a niche, offer clear value to the reader, and let them know where you plan to go with them. Otherwise, you risk not gaining a bazillion followers and, in turn, not generating a bazillion dollars. Apparently that’s considered the goal of a blog: numbers, most importantly those following a $.

Thankfully, that isn’t my goal. I’m just an out-of-work (for the moment) Joe-Shmoe who likes to write and make art, and who has been sitting in the spare bedroom by himself, social distancing out the wazoo, for far too long. Maybe this blog is a means of venting. Or a cry for help. Or an attempt to draw attention. Or a way to avoid finishing the jigsaw puzzle that has occupied our dining room table since early March. It could be all of that. Or none of the above.

Here’s the thing: too much predictability is no fun. We like routine, but not strict regimens. We need variety and surprises in our lives or we get bored and surly - like nearly everyone in America following too many weeks of stay-at-home.

If you’re reading a book and you can guess whodunit in the first chapter or you’re watching a TV show and already know the season finale way back in episode 2, it’s not fun. Think of an artist who gets stuck in a certain style and churns out a bunch of stuff that all looks the same. Bleh. Or a musician in a rut, releasing the same basic songs over and over. Meh.

Where are we going?

Not sure.

How will we know when we get there?

Oh, we’ll know.

What I have in mind for this blog is more along the lines of four-wheeling. Like when my wife and I jump in our Jeep and we’re toodling around on some seldom traveled backroad, bounding through the brush, and we see a trail leading up the side of the mountain. It looks steep. It looks rocky. It looks like a challenge even for our beast (lifted, roll bars, grab handles, working winch). What’s up there? Not sure. Can we make? Maybe? Wanna try? Let’s go!

So at this point, if you’re still up for the ride, I would suggest taking Dr. Ian Malcolm’s wise advice: “Hold on to something!”

I’m also leaning heavily on one of my creative muses: Miles Davis. In what I consider his prime - my favorite part of his long and varied body of work - he was very experimental and spontaneous. As the story goes, when he went into the studio in 1959 with John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers, and Jimmy Cobb, he didn’t take any music. All he brought with him was his trumpet and some musical ideas. He chose some key signatures and chord changes, then told his bandmates: Let’s see where this goes. And they took off. The result was one of the greatest jazz albums of all time: Kind of Blue.

Miles called that “sketching.” (He was also a gifted visual artist - but I’ll save that for another time.) He used his instrument like a pencil or a brush, to musically draw, paint, create, and express himself in new and inventive ways. When his sextet started sketching, they had no idea how it would go, where it would go, or even if it would go. They just went.

That’s what this blog is: a sketch in progress from a life in progress that has no certainties or guarantees, only mysteries and a willingness to explore.

Where are we going? Not sure. How will we know when we get there? Oh, we’ll know. In the meantime, hold onto something.

Involuntary Decluttering

Marie Kondo is broadening her quest to declutter your life and help you find joy. If you’re not familiar with the name, google her. You’ll find a host of articles about her host of books (a list that seems to grow daily) describing a simple technique for getting rid of extraneous, unessential possessions, activities, etc., in order to appreciate and enjoy the things that really matter.

That might be an inaccurate, even unfair summary of Kondo’s work, but it’s what I’ve gotten out of it: jettison the junk, keep the valuable, live lightly and happily.

What we’ve experienced in March and April of 2020 is seemingly a forced march into that territory. Few of us would have given up many (any?) of our prized, tried and true habits, routines, rituals, and comfortable ways of working and living - if they hadn’t been ripped out from under us. (Think tablecloth pulled from a tabletop set with precious china, except without the clever, magical result.)

In the aftermath, which we will be experiencing until we accept it as the new normal, the involuntary decluttering might wind up having some benefits. Yes, I’m actually proposing we make lemonade out of all these freaking lemons. Hear me out, though. Some of the effects of the coronavirus might not be all bad.

“Color Rona”

Personally, March and April were a tsunami of unwanted and unrequested changes. I went from a deadline-intensive job working on the third floor of a downtown office building, to a less-deadline intensive job (projects quickly fell off as the pandemic and the accompanying fear rose), social distancing in the spare bedroom of our home, communicating solely by Skype, Zoom, MS Teams, et al. Three weeks into this strange, new stay-at-home experience, I was informed that the layoffs we had all been dreading and hoping to avoid had arrived. Suddenly, there I was in the spare bedroom, doing my part to flatten the curve, but minus the job, and the paycheck, as well as the sense of purpose that a job provides.

Hmm... What now?

What now, indeed. I did, of course, jump with frantic, banshee-like energy into a job search (which continues at this writing). I strategized. I planned. I worried. I talked to God. I talked to my wife. I talked to my parents. I talked to our dogs. I talked to friends, colleagues and, in some cases, complete strangers on LinkedIn and other social media channels, trying to figure out what to do.

Part of this frenzy was textbook grieving, something we are all experiencing and laboring through, clicking off the various stages and hoping our willingness to progress will keep us from moving backwards and having to repeat any of those horrible phases. But another part has been decidedly Kondo-ish.

The list of things I don’t miss about life BP (before pandemic) continues to grow. The commute, for instance, and the accompanying traffic jams. Same with spending 9 hours each day in a gray cubicle with no window. And now that I’ve been downsized, I will not miss the endless array of pointless meetings, putting together busy-work reports that have no lasting impact, the endless string of “must-win” projects, arbitrary, yet life-and-death deadlines with no clear reasoning behind them...

Though work is necessary in order to pay the bills, it can sometimes drain the life out of you, sap your passion, and cause you to forget what’s important.

Each day, after scanning Indeed and other job boards, writing cover letters for jobs that I’d really rather not land or am not that qualified for, and tweaking my resume and LinkedIn profile for the thousandth time, I spend time writing. Not posts for the corporate intranet. Not case studies. Not press releases or marketing materials. Real writing: fiction, poetry, freelance articles about subjects I’m actually interested in. I love that kind of writing.

I’ve also been doing a lot of art - pastels and acrylics. It not only passes the time and keeps me from despairing about our world, country, economy, and finances, it makes me happy. I love colors and shapes. Expressing myself visually on canvas and paper is uniquely satisfying.  

Notice I used “love” a couple of times. I can’t manage to apply that word to work. I don’t and never have loved working in a corporate environment. You probably don’t either. We do it because we have to.

Imagine if we didn’t have to. In this AP (after pandemic) landscape, I’m finding myself doing that: imagining, thinking, wondering, dreaming... I’d almost forgotten how to do any of that.

If I get a call today regarding one of the multitude of positions I’ve applied for, I’ll respond enthusiastically, glad to be done with this short but intense period of jobless anxiety. Even if it isn’t the best position at the best company, I’ll leap at the chance to earn an income and stay current on our bills.

On the other hand, I’ll be a little sad that what I love to do and have been engaged in so heavily and happily in the past couple of weeks, will once again take a back seat to the almighty dollar. If and when I take up residence again in an oversized box covered in gray fabric, it will be with determination and yet a sense of loss. The transition won’t be easy. 

No one knows how this will all shake out. But during this unique period in history, we have a great opportunity to follow Kondo’s advice: examine our lives, determine what gives us joy, toss out everything else. 

Why not give it a shot? It’s better than binge watching Tiger King... again.