To Be a Writer

The gentleman sitting across from me in the loud bar had the friendly, open look so foreign in Newport Beach. It was a combination of invitation and frank curiosity mingled with the reserved politeness that indicated Midwestern values. He was possibly 20 years my senior, yet his eyes were young and unblemished by the casual cynicism that so marks locals.

The long communal table at which we sat was loaded with men doing business in groups of two or three, women seeking a chance to meet men with money, couples on dates who chose this venue as a means of deferring intimacy while retaining some form of attractiveness. It was a semi-dark room that was private the way only loud public places can be- their very noise and controlled uproar providing a barrier against the kind of full attention that often strips away quiet thoughts and impressions.

The gentleman made a sweeping gesture and asked, "Crazy, isn't it?"

I nodded, trying not to appear supercilious, knowing my t-shirt and jeans made me appear to be above the people who had to dress up to go to work.

"Newport Beach," I replied, "This is pretty usual."

With that the conversation began in earnest. We discussed professions (he was an engineer, I was a public relations professional), goals, life stories, and interests in the way that men do when finding kindred spirits.

As the conversation swung back to professions, he asked about current clients after telling me about some of his ongoing work. I explained that I was in the bar to meet with one of my clients, and my jotting of notes was more for pleasure than work.

"Oh. You're a writer, then?" His tone was complimentary as he continued, "My son is in school studying to be a writer. " The pride in his voice was well-earned, I imagined.

It is always a source of fascination for me when I hear about people going to school to learn to be a writer. In some ways, it makes sense, as peer review and respectful critiques are excellent methods to sharpen one's writing. Journalism majors have a whole host of professional ethics questions to cover that can only be addressed in a classroom environment. And, technical writing is a field that deserves special attention, with all of its attendant risks and requirements. So, I asked what his son was looking to do as a writer.

"He's studying creative writing," beamed this proud Kansas papa.

I nodded, striving to keep my thoughts from escaping. My filter is a bit faulty sometimes, and I had no wish of offending this kind gent. Then, he went and blew that all to hell.

"So, do you have any suggestions for him?"

Oh boy.This will not end well, thought I.

After all, I am from the school of thought that says great (fiction) writers are people who have lived other lives. From Hemingway to Conrad, Dostoevsky to Martel, the strongest writers come from disparate backgrounds wherein classical (read: MFAs) education played little role. Wander the NY Times Bestseller lists and often enough, the books and stories selling in the hundreds of thousands are written by men and women who had entirely separate careers before submitting a single story.

There are too many possible reasons to conjecture upon. From the realism that only life experience can grant in developing plausible characters, to the deep background necessary to understanding potential plot elements (think Grisham and his legal thrillers), to even the lessons in love that only those who experience or witness workplace romances can achieve, living is the most important thing any aspiring writer can do.

I explained all of this to my older friend, and urged him to suggest to his son a separate calling in life. Or at least, an education that required educating, rather than an education that required refining. A great writer is necessarily like a great artist. While others may inspire, contribute, and offer encouragement or feedback, the true writer simply writes from a well of creativity and experience. When this is not so, the written word is flat, stale, or, that worst of all worlds for a creative writer, unbelievable.

As we parted, he shook my hand and asked about my own creative work. Would it someday be published?

I looked him squarely in the eye and said, "I've got a little more living to do."

Twittering and, If Not Loving It, Accepting It

It had been quite the battle. In fact, in some ways, some could claim that it was a struggle for the soul. The lone holdout against the overwhelming surge of 2.0 superiority was doing a bang-up job of intransigence. Newspapers held greater esteem than the electronic medium. Books were still made of paper and held with a cherished appreciation most reserve for children.

And then, somehow, someway, this writer returned to his Twitter feed. He had started the account in 2008 (was there even an Internet, then?) for some work with an ad agency with which he was partnering, and then promptly ignored it. After all, who wants to read the stream of consciousness thoughts of a generation of people who don't put much thought into where they eat, let alone what they write?

But, a casual remark in a Facebook posting gave impetus to try. And as addicts worldwide can attest, giving something a 'try' is the first step in being hooked, lined, and sinkered. And such it is. I Tweet. Then read something really clever from a celebrity, and in my meager sense of modesty, I reTweet it, rather than reply. After all, who wants to hear from an aspiring writer, thinks I? Once I've reached 1M+ followers, then I'll start hitting the Reply button when Simmons makes an idiotic statement.

Then, Sutter posted something comedic to which I inadvertently Replied. And he replied! Gods! Even people who create stuff I love are responding! Now, I am completely in. I'm sending in my money as Tammy Faye goes rolling off in a new Cadillac. I'm drinking the Kool-aid and going back for seconds.

Next up, I find a super project for aspiring writers. It's a vibrant new community, and I could be a beta member. Of course, sign me up! More credit. More writing. More, more, more. My capacity to consume and regurgitate is being taxed. But, there's never enough.

Sure, Twitter is safe. So is cocaine.

Presidential Idiocy

During the 1870s and 1890s, multiple federal laws were passed outlawing polygamy. The LDS Church's practice of plural marriage had been a thorn in the relationship between the much-maligned fledgling faith and the US government for 40 years, engendering a military occupation, and the installation of a puppet government. The Federal government viewed polygamy as general immorality that could be legislated against. While the Constitution of the United States has always protected religious freedom and the practice of plural marriage was singularly a 'Mormon faith' phenomenon, the US government deemed then that no amount of religiosity could justify plural marriage (and continues to do so today). Which makes the current atmosphere of religion vs. culture vs. the law of the land in regards to Islam so frightening and ultimately disheartening for any serious student of human behavior.

The recent example of the New Jersey judge who interpreted the religious law of Sharia to be of greater value than that of the law of the land is stunning (http://www.jihadwatch.org/2010/07/sharia-in-new-jersey-muslim-husband-rapes-wife-judge-sees-no-sexual-assault-because-husbands-religio.html) and while the appellate court overturned this idiot's ruling, it opens the door to scary prospects. What about female mutilation? Honor killings? Stoning for Sharia-forbidden crimes? At what point is the line drawn between freedom from religious persecution, and respect for the most basic of human rights assured in the Constitution?

In point of fact, this question of human rights versus religious freedom has become a presidential affair, only with the president choosing a disconcertingly wrong side. (Note: I am using an absolute. This is beyond question or doubt.) The debate in which Mr Obama has so unwisely plunged is in regards to a proposed $100 million mosque to be built at Ground Zero. (http://english.aljazeera.net/news/americas/2010/08/201081422058404426.html)His defense was faulty, "I believe Muslims have the same right to practice their religion as anyone else in the country." There are more than 100 mosques in New York city at present. Muslims aren't hard-pressed to find a place to practice their religion.

What's more, Mr Obama went on to chatter about an unshakable commitment to religion because of our Americanism, or some such drivel. Unfortunately for his fatuous assertion that a mosque at Ground Zero will be a symbol of healing, this unshakable commitment runs headlong into one of the key assertions of the Declaration of Independence, one of the most important documents in human history, which predated the Constitution by some 11 years. "We find these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. (italics added)"

Wherein there is religious freedom, or more importantly, the right to do anything one wishes as long as one's religion countenances it, listed? In fact, as in the example of the Mormons and their plural marriage, the government has the right to place strictures on religious activity. Instead, the phrase "pursuit of happiness" catches the eye. This, then, is the keystone to understanding Mr Obama's failure to grasp the cause of anger for many Americans when he chose to endorse this mosque proposal. He ignored a greater precept for a lesser one. The one American whose sole responsibility is to "preserve, uphold, and protect" the Constitution of the United States chose to overlook a core principle in the drafting of the Constitution to make political hay.

Almost 3,000 people died in the 9/11 attacks. The entire city was in mourning, Jew, Hindu, Christian, Muslim alike. This event rippled across the country. If one simply assumed that every person that died had at least 100 people who knew them, either personally or professionally, this is an impact of 300,000. Add in a 'Six Degrees of Separation' dynamic, and this number can leap to 1.8M. And this number doesn't begin to truly capture the effect on the country and her citizens. While the 800,000 Muslims in New York would possibly benefit from the access to (yet another) mosque in the city, it is guaranteed that the 1.8 million who were directly affected by the events of 9/11 would have a thumb in their collective eye, a constant reminder of the most painful of national tragedies, and a symbol of Islam, the religion twisted to the point of martyrdom and mass murder.

This obelisk of pain would be a continual obstacle to this principle of the "pursuit of Happiness." How can one be expected to move on, heal, and begin to pursue happiness when there is a daily physical monument to the most emotionally traumatic event in one's life? Mr Obama had best bone up on his Constitution, his history, and his grasp on the American psyche, as this endorsement could prove to be the albatross to his reelection bid in 2 years. Of course, then again, he could just let the Mormons go back to multiple wives.

Back to the Grind

Dear. Good. Holy. God. I'm back working in restaurants. It could be worse, I realize. I could be back to trash collecting, sewage pump cleaning, or gay porn. But there is something terribly, terribly wrong with me serving people. It's not that the job is difficult. Certainly, it can be for some folks. I just did it for so long that there is no longer a whole lot of challenge. (In fact, the challenge I give myself now is to see how close to the line I can step. You know, the line that keeps you employed? Yeah, that line.) The more I consider the whole thing, the more it occurs to me that the reason it makes so little sense for me to be in the service industry is that, well, you see, I dislike people.

Oh sure, as individuals, people are great. One by one, people are fascinating, intricate, and funny creatures. Even the perceptibly boring ones can provide moments of distraction, if nothing else. No, it definitely is not a situation where I am a misanthropist. I just don't like people. People who need to impress their friends with their knowledge (which most often comes close to what most industry employees learn by their 2nd year), people who love to laugh too loudly at jokes that aren't funny, and people who like to belittle service workers because they make so much more than the service workers all have a special ring in hell devoted to them.

People who think 15% is above and beyond the call of duty, who think tips is an acronym for To Insure Prompt Service, who think incorrectly prepared food is the server's fault, and people who think Sunday afternoon is the right time to dine are all beginners who make the job so much worse than it need be. And wine buyers who sniff the cork, who don't bother smelling their wine before tasting it, and who attempt to return a wine because they don't like it are all guilty of an idiocy that goes far beyond the trite "the customer is always right".

No, I say, the customer is not always right. It is perfectly reasonable to return a wine that is cooked or corked. It is not reasonable to return a wine that a guest does not care for, because, frankly, it's the customer's responsibility to know what he or she likes. Tantamount to returning a rainbow trout to the kitchen because it is too fishy, this type of action incenses industry workers and shows a lack of respect for the process, the traditions, and the sense of fair play.

Immensely pleasurable are those guests who know the role of guest. Those who imbibe in the atmosphere of low lighting, the murmur of pleasurable company, and the feel of heavy silverware are the best kinds of guests. These are they who swirl their wine aggressively and inhale with half their face in the bowl of the wine glass. When these people lift their heads, eyes half-closed, and faces blank in ecstasy, there is never a question. These professional guests most often will make eye contact, nod at the server, and gesture to their table mates. These are the people that I love, respect, and appreciate serving.

These guests dine on Tuesday nights or, at most, Thursday nights because they know these are nights where service is at its best and restaurants are at their operational peaks. These guests are meticulous in their orders, and never ask, "Are you sure you can remember all this?" These guests understand that sometimes the people next to them who arrived later might be served first, especially if that table is eating pasta, and their own table is enjoying a Chateaubriand.

Gratuity to these guests is a word whose etymology hearkens a likeness to 'gratitude'. These guests don't look at a bill to determine the service quality. These guests will tip 30% or higher and think nothing of it. Not because of any great personal worth, but more because a server's performance has genuinely earned it. Guests like these recognize effort, professionalism, and quality. Unsurprisingly, these are those people who drive expensive vehicles that may be a few years old. They know how to spend their money with their whole being, heart, mind, and soul.

These guests are modest in their conversation, intelligent in their intercourse, and quiet in their comport. Their humor is understated and tactful, rarely offensive or demeaning. Their opinions are interesting, and they are the folks who offer a glass to their server. Education to these guests is a lifelong process; the server is yet another source of information. Disagreements with their service staff are always light-hearted and playful. The line of respect is never crossed with this guest. These are guests who fascinate me and make my job worth the paltry sum I earn.

For me these are guests for whom I can only challenge myself to be the best possible service worker I can. These guests are people I hope to impress and for whom I hope to provide an unforgettable dining experience. Every time I serve these people, I set the line that I must leap a little bit higher, to see just how far my experience and instinct can take me. These moments make this job tough, because I make it so. It's at these times I am glad I don't collect trash or clean pumps, and I'm always glad I don't do gay porn. I realize it could always be worse. By dear good holy God.

Inspired by Three Clicks

Inspiration comes from so many varied sources. It can be found in the words of a coworker or client, the whispers of a lover, or the visuals in a mirror. The writing of heroes, enemies, madmen, and saints all can ignite a spark to change. From the decision to try a new hobby to determining a significant life change is in order, inspiration is never minuscule. True inspiration arrives with a force of enthusiasm that is both exciting and intimidating. It's serious stuff, this thing inspiration, and with that gravitas comes the responsibility to act.

The motivation to change and initiate a new way of thinking and being often hits as a result of outside factors. For Banks Lee, the inability to lock a roller coaster shoulder restraint due to his weight was the catalyst to reshape his life. Having peaked at over 300 pounds, he realized that the the thrill of riding an amusement park attraction paled in comparison to the ability to do so, and the freedom inherent in a healthier weight. He set a goal for his weight, has started blogging about his efforts, is more health conscious about his diet and is now walking and swimming daily.

Banks' approach has the hallmarks of what will be a successful life change. It is focused, well-defined, and (importantly) noteworthy. Inspired change can almost be expressed as an algebraic formula:

I + (E x G)(W x S)/C = Degree of permanence of the affected change.

Where I = inspiration, E = enthusiasm, G = goals, W = effort involved, S = support, and C = conditions that serve to resist change and embrace the status quo.

In Banks Lee's example, it can be shown that his failure to be able to ride the coaster (I) provided him the motivation (E) to lose enough weight (G) in order to lock the restraints down and take the ride. As such, he is exercising and eating more properly (W), has started a blog where he receives a constant stream of well-wishes and advice on weight loss (S). Where he faces his biggest challenge is that his current place of employment (C) is through Disney at the M&M's park, named after the chocolate candies. Which is an incredibly big condition, seeing as diet is a crucial part of weight loss.

Inspiration is a rarity in the human experience in that it is both mechanical and organic. It is mechanical in that it results from a process, whether that be a process of events or thoughts, and it is organic because that process is impossible to presage. Inspiration can be maddening because the process leading to it is only visible in retrospect. One cannot walk out the front door and decide to be inspired. And chasing inspiration is akin to falling asleep with fingers crossed and hoping for a certain dream. It's herding cats, writ large.

What's more, inspiration is never a continuance, rather the ignition of the new. The phrase, "I was inspired to keep doing what I was doing," is either ridiculous or the utterance of a feeble mind. Inspiration begins unforeseen ways of being and thinking. These new ways of thought and act can be uncomfortable, stretch us as people, and give us increased opportunities to fail spectacularly. But when we succeed?

Ahh, when we succeed, the success is doubly sweet. The nectar of achievement is tooth-achingly saccharine when it is through personal inspiration. The young adult who graduates college because it has been parentally-driven can in no way grasp the glory for a retiree who walks a college campus for exercise, only to uncover a lifelong dream and to return for a degree. What is more is that those who are inspired, have followed the formula above and succeeded actually find themselves more open to future inspiration. After all, self-affirming results are behavior cementers.

The student who decides to stop sleeping in late in the morning in order to study more, immediately sees an increase in mental acuity and better grades. What better affirmation of positive change? When Banks finally snaps the shoulder bars down and takes his ride, will he exit the coaster and head directly for the churro stand? Doubtful. When coupled with hard work and the right elements, inspiration can make any change possible. The important part is keeping ourselves open to it.

P90X and The Change

The infomercials made me want to pick up the phone. Their production values were stellar. The graphics and visuals were effective. And they did not come across as cheese. But, like so many people, I decided against listening to the little voice in my head.

12 days ago, my roommate asked if I would like to join her and one of our neighbors to work out. Since we have a very stocked weight room in our complex that I use regularly, I gracefully turned her down. She persisted (thank goodness), and I discovered that the program they were using was P90X.

It has been a life-changing 10 days already. I drink far less alcohol (the bottle of vodka in the freezer is going to be lonely for a long time), have stopped smoking entirely (and don't miss it at all), sleep more soundly (and apparently without snoring), and am ready to drop and give 50 push-ups at a moment's notice. We are using the 'Lean' program and I am already seeing physical changes.

In the last 10 days, I haven't lost a pound. In fact, if anything, I may have gained a pound. However, my waist is already slimmer. My shoulders are already broader. My chest is already deeper. And my back is already wider. Everything a man is looking for in his body is happening, and happening rapidly. (My legs have always been good. Now, my calves look like diamonds and my thighs look like well-defined watermelons.)

Most importantly, I WANT to eat properly now. I do not miss the fast food. I do not miss the beer. It would kill me to miss a workout because I am walking around as high as a kite from the endorphins being constantly released. In fact, I am already starting to think "2-a-days" with running and/or lifting to cross train. And I am passionate again.

The fire is lit. Big thanks to Tony H. and the BeachBody folks.

Dear John (Meyer),

You, sir, are an idiot. No, not for the whole 'N' word thing, because let us all be honest for a moment, most men under the age of 40 have at one time or another called a buddy by that, regardless of race.

Sorry, rap music, you commercialized it, and in so doing, desensitized most of us of the age to have listened to you back when you were, you know, relevant. So, white, black, Asian, Aleutian, you name it, guys of a certain age and social standing (ie, not running for an office, nor working for a police/fire department) have used the 'N' word.

Strangely enough (now, apologies to the Black Caucus, the inestimable Revs. Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, etc), now it's a term of collegial respect. Most white guys I know have as much if not more respect for black guys who are as hard working and successful as they. And here's where I'm going to be classist, not racist. The main reason they have that respect? Because, well, you see, how do I put this? Brothers are cooler.

Not because successful brothers have overcome more to get to where they are. (Thanks Cosby Show! You totally screwed my opinion of the "Black Plight.") Really, it's because black guys are cooler. They get away with more in fashion, are most often better natural athletes, and dance better than white guys. Granted, these are sweeping stereotypes, but when I get labeled an obvious Italian because I'm a good cook, passionate individual, and like nice shoes, I take the stereotype in a complimentary fashion.

So, black guys, take note: The white folk think you all are damn cool.

No, my John Meyer note is this:

John, you were dating Jennifer Aniston and ended it. You, sir, are obviously an idiot.