The Stranger Stories #2: A Knight in Shining Sweatpants

The young squire raced as fast as his young legs would carry him. This quest was of the utmost importance. His lady was relying on him. Only he was able to fulfill this sacred task. If he was successful in this, surely she would make him her knight.

The relic grew heavy in his hands, almost as if some unseen force was attempting to prevent the object from reaching its destination. The lad leapt over rivers that smelled of sulfur, evaded giants as they lumbered stupidly by on some incomprehensible errand (he would have to return another day to vanquish them), and stopped only briefly when a fellow squire entreated him for news from their home village.

Panting from the effort, the boy reached his goal. As he held the relic out, his arms trembled slightly – more from the magnitude of the moment and recognition of his own bravery in accepting the quest. He had strength to utter only one sentence: “You forgot your water bottle back there.”

The blonde girl in the gray gym shorts and matching top looked blankly at the boy for a moment uncomprehendingly. He was easily a foot shorter than she. He had just said something to her, but she hadn’t heard what it was. She reached up, pulling out one of her pink Beats earbuds, but saw the proffered bottle at the same moment. “Oh,” she said. “Thanks.” She smiled slightly, accepting the bottle while returning to her workout playlist.

“Welcome,” the boy mumbled as he turned back toward the spot where his classmate still stood.

“Dude,” the second boy said. “Heloooooooo?! I said what was the math homework?”

The two of them walked back through the free weights section of the Y, being careful not to get in the way of the burly guys with weight belts on. As they returned to their fifteen pound dumbbells, the first boy looked across the room as a faint smile touched his face. He was certain the Lady had been pleased.

The Stranger Stories #1: The Man in a Hole

His feet were cold. His hands were colder. The rain that had been threatening to fall all day had just decided to follow through. The thin trickle that ran from the back of his yellow hard hat was defying the laws of physics as it ran straight down the back of his old flannel shirt.

“Why did I go to college?” he thought to himself as he jabbed his shovel into the wall of the hole he’d been widening. The foreman said the job had to be done by hand, because of some nearby trees. “God forbid we mess up the precious crape myrtles.” Another shovel-full of muddy clay went over the side. The man’s shoulders had given up being sore. The edge of the hole was up to his neck now. “I have $48,000 in student debt. Seriously. What.the.hell?”

The next strike of the shovel caused a small mud slide. The first time this had happened, the man had managed to step back in time to avoid the cold slime oozing over the tops of his work boots and into his socks. This time he was not so lucky. He tossed the shovel out of the hole and climbed out after it. Might as well have lunch now.

The grape jelly on his pb&j he’d brought had turned the sandwich bread into a purple time bomb. Whatever. At least the apple was still … where was it? Oh right. He already ate it. When his phone rang, the smiling face of his wife appeared next to his on the screen. The picture had been taken three years ago on a vacation they’d taken to the mountains. Everything had looked so sunny – so hopeful then. “How’d I get here?” he wondered.

“Hey, baby,” his wife greeted him when he answered. She sounded tired.

“Hi,” was all he felt he had the strength to muster. Somehow though, he added, “How’s your day going?”

“Oh you know … the kids are exhausting. Don’t tell my mom, but she was right. Raising three kids is way harder than two.”

He chuckled weakly, “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Are you working in this mess?”

He knew of course she meant the rain, and that she also knew the kind of time constraints the crew was under. “Yeah. Mike wants to get at least this side done today. I’m having lunch in the truck now though. Hopefully the rain will let up soon.”

“You’re eating lunch? It’s 10am.”

“Yup.” The tone in his verbal shrug was enough to convey all the frustrations of the morning.

“So did you see what else was in your lunch box?”

“It’s in the back of the truck. I’ll check in a sec.”

“Ok. I gotta go. Just wanted to check how your day was going.”

“Mmkay. Love you. Hopefully I won’t be too late tonight,” he said.

“Love you too. Be safe.”

With that, the call disconnected, the man put his phone back in the inside pocket of his weather-proof jacket, and opened the door of the Ford F-350. His blue lunch box was in the back of the dual cab. When he opened it, he saw a small folded piece of paper. Unfolding it revealed a picture colored for him in secret by his 3 year-old. It depicted the man in bright Crayola colors in an unsteady but passionate hand. He was wearing his yellow hard hat. Next to him was a drawing of his wife, and their three kids. All five of them were smiling broadly.

When the man carefully folded up the paper and set it back in the box to keep it from the rain, the smiles depicted in crayon had somehow been transferred to his face. As he slid back into the muddy pit, he no longer questioned why he stayed at this job.

Introduction: The Stranger Stories

I mentioned the other day that I’m beginning a couple new projects. The one you get to read is called, “The Stranger Stories.” It dawns on me that some explanation may be helpful by way of an introduction.

I have always been a people-watcher. When I was a kid, I would often find myself wondering what the world looks like to other people. What do they notice? What’s important to them? Do they perceive colors the same way I do? As I grew up, these questions came to include others such as, “How have other people’s past experiences influenced their thought processes in such a way to make them react differently to this situation than I would?” Maybe I should have been a psych major … nah. Armchair psychology has fewer regulations.

The Stranger Stories is more than a simple writing exercise for me. It is an exercise in empathy, compassion, observation, and circumspection designed to broaden my own gaze, while hopefully encouraging you lovely readers to do likewise. After all, if we are more aware that people around us aren’t all just like us, we will grow in our capacity to care for others – even complete strangers.

These are going to be short stories I write about real people. People I don’t know. I will what information I can glean from observing them (without being creepy), and fill in the gaps to create (mostly fictional) brief narratives. Sounds like fun, right? The first installment will be published on Saturday.

New projects

So here’s the deal: I’ve been AWOL (absent without leave) for … a while. This has not been without cause and purpose though! I have been brainstorming and getting input on the overall direction and tone of my writing. While some of you lovely readers liked it when I weighed in on heavy-hitting topics, others enjoyed the lighter tone of my general musings. The real question though, if I want to maintain a flow and continuity in my blog is: what do I like to write about?

The feedback that I’ve gotten has lead me to a conclusion: I’ll be re-categorizing the old posts … cleaning house a bit, I guess you could say. After that is completed, I’ll be beginning a new project: The Stories of Strangers.

Intrigued? I hope so. Stick around, and you’ll soon learn what it’s all about. Thanks for reading!

Etiquette is in the Eye of the Beholder

I’ve been thinking lately about manners. It occurs to me that there are situations where behaviors that would be fine (or even considered the epitome of etiquette) in some instances would be rude or even highly offensive in others. I’m not talking specifically about international manners, though that obviously applies – burping after a meal, using one’s left hand for … anything, or even the manner in which one crosses one’s legs are just a couple examples of that. The disparity in behavioral acceptability is something that can be seen by a topical comparisons of regions (domestically).

My brother-in-law’s in-laws (confusing? My wife’s brother’s wife’s family. Does that help or muddy the waters?) are from Arkansas. They’re wonderful people, and know how to mind their p’s and q’s. The style of manners in the deep south of America varies from that of say … Michigan. (My dad’s family is from the mitten part.) When we have the chance to see the AR gang up for holidays, we address my brother-in-law’s mother-in-law as “Miss Sarah.” You should know a couple things about this lady. She’s one of the nicest people you could ever have the chance to meet, and if you ever did have the opportunity, you’d be glad afterward. The reason I’ve chosen to use her as my example is her desire to be addressed in a fairly informal manner. If I called her, “Mrs. [last name],” she might think that I wasn’t comfortable around her. That, to some people is tantamount to saying, “you’ve failed at hospitality.” This is a statement that could never be made to Miss Sarah with any shred of honesty. Seriously, I hope for your sake you either already know her, or one day will get the chance.

The familiarity of using the host/ess’ first name (even with honorific) would be considered rather forward – to the point of rudeness – in other situations. I don’t speak with an “old Virginia” accent. If I did, or better yet, if I spoke in the lilting drawl of deep Georgia, it may be excusable to address others in this manner, excusing it as a “charming idiosyncrasy of a southern boy.” I don’t though. I was taught to speak by a couple of Yankees. (My mom’s from IL, and as I mentioned, my dad hails from the Mitten.) If I want to be formal, the default for me is the appropriate honorific (Mr., Ms., Mrs, Dr., etc.) followed by the person’s last name. I will lay my unfolded napkin across my lap, and set my fork down between bites. I will not belch or speak with food in my mouth, and a laundry list of other things I’ve learned as “proper.”

All of this has got me thinking about the nature of etiquette. Why is it so varied? Why does it matter that I be aware of my hosts? Well, what is the purpose of manners? Who benefits from people using manners? It’s not the guest. If a person uses good manners, that person does so as a sign of respect for those around him/her. If I leave a little food on my plate at one person’s house, it’s to show that person they gave me enough food, and that “I couldn’t possibly eat one more bite.” At another person’s house, I will go out of my way to clean my plate as a sign that the food was so good, I was nearly tempted to lick the plate clean. (I know I’ve been using food manners a lot in this post, but let’s face it: food has a lot of rules.)

With so many possible ways to communicate respect, defference, and gratitude to those around us, it can be a bit overwhelming. Isn’t there a simple way to make sure everybody is happy all the time? It’s not fool-proof, but if you are observant, there are almost aways hints about what people value. After that, it’s up to you to respond how you see fit.

Humans Are Kinda Weird pt. 3 – Question Everything…Especially Font Choices.

How many of you have had this experience? You’ve just typed something up in either some word processor or PhotoShop, you’re comfortable with your copy, but now you want to find the right font. You know the one – the font that says, “I’m a professional graphic designer, but I’m totally down-to-Earth, and I have a laid-back sense of humor.” That font. No. It’s not Helvetica. And HELL no. It’s not Curlz, Papyrus, Comic Sans, or Ransom. The only problem is, you have a typeface library of 15,000. You select Arial and start taping the down arrow, allowing your eyes to glaze over just enough to catch the aura of the font when it flashes by. Somewhere around Chaucer New, you start to question the spleling spelling of your own name. By the time you approach the end of your library, Zapf makes as much sense as any other. (It’s kind of like Wingdings – all pictograms)

The realization here is that sometimes the more I look at something, regardless of how familiar I am with that thing/situation/problem/whatever, the less able I am (sometimes) to figure that thing out. If I leave it unchecked long enough, it’s going to devolve into the font search. I’m going to question the splleeelllig of mine own name. Dangit.

…Anyway…

If you’ve read the two preceding posts in this series, you may be asking, “Why bother thinking about this stuff? I mean everything we do is weird if you break it down into the most basic components,” and you’ve got a real point there. The real purpose for this exercise has been to demonstrate that very point. Every day we do things (such as drink coffee and drive in cars) that are rather bizarre if you think about them. Does their bizarre nature make them bad? I’ve already said that it doesn’t. Does it mean we can incorporate any behavior into our daily routine based on the premise that a little more weirdness won’t hurt? Not necessarily.

What I am saying is this: there are a great many things out there that seem outlandish at first, but can really be quite beneficial if only given a chance. The same goes for people. You may have picked up on the strain in my stream-of-consciousness writing that I’m not given to what some call “normalcy.” It has been my experience though that an ability to break a process (or problem) down to its most basic components and analyze it from different perspectives leads to improvement to the system (or a solution to the problem) in ways that traditional problem solvers might not get to right away. Think of it as solving a jigsaw puzzle by looking at it while standing on your head. When you’re upside-down, things just look a bit different.

What if our approach to finding the right font took a similar twist? When I worked as a graphic designer for a local sign shop, I would simply use the Wheel of Fortune letters (RSTLNE,rstlne) to find my font, then paste in the pre-written copy once I’d found it. I found it easiest to solve the problem by removing the conventions. In other words, the things that made sense to me (eg English phonetics and spelling) distracted me from finding the solution I needed. I needed to look at the pieces of the problem (In this example, the letter shapes themselves) without the complete problem getting in the way. What if we approached our problems like this? Start with the most basic components. Does this solution work? What if we add in a layer of complexity? It still works? Let’s add some more. By the time you arrive at the big picture again, your solution may be something elegant and simple, or something utterly bizarre. Or both?

I would love to hear stories from you about unconventional solutions you’ve found to situations or problems by looking at the pieces of the problem instead of the whole thing. Feel free to contact me or simply comment below.

Humans Are Kinda Weird pt. 2 – Cars

For the second installment of this series exploring the oddities of our everyday life, I submit: cars. Seriously. What the heck?

There was a time … actually it was MOST of time … when human transportation required the traveller to walk. (Ground breaking revelation, right?) If that was not fast enough, we ran. For milenia, that was it. Walk or run. We’re not exactly the fastest species on the planet despite what drunk 21 year-old me thought (Note to self: a post containing stupid things I’ve done thanks to alcohol might be entertaining). In order to overcome our limited bipedal speed, we decided to domesticate animals that were either faster than we could run or had greater stamina and could therefore better maintain a respectable pace. Horses then, for centuries were the locomotive force of choice for speed. Let’s make it more comfortable … for the human. Let’s hitch some kind of compartment to the poor beast and compel it to pull us along to our destination.

Then came the engine. Steam was the first attempt. The way a steam engine works (roughly) is a furnace is stoked to produce enough heat for a boiler full of water to produce a good amount of steam. This steam is then forced into a chamber where it pushes a piston. This piston is connected to a shaft which then turns a wheel, creating circular motion. Since Ugga and Grok were kind enough to innovate the wheel for us, we can use this circular motion to get us moving in a straight line. YAY! (BTW, if you’re just itching for more details about the mechanics of steam engines, check this out.) The steam engine was put to great use in the 18th Century in machines such as locomotives. They were not however, great for smaller-scale applications. I kinda don’t think Fiat would be putting out such dainty cars if they had to include a water tank, furnace, and boiler. Maybe I’m wrong…

So what’s the solution to THIS dilema? Well, we could harness the power of explosives. Sure! Why not? Let’s do that. (Here is a link to a 4-stroke internal combustion engine explanation.) Instead of steam, a boiler, and a raging furnace, we now use an exploding petroleum/air mix to drive the piston down. Here’s where we’re at:

In an attempt to get from point A to point B, we climb inside a rather large metal box. To be safe, we tie ourselves IN to said box. With the turn of a key, we initiate a series of explosions mere feet from where we are strapped in. These explosions are fueled by a line that runs under us from a reservoir of highly explosive liquid sloshing around behind us. With a wheel connected to a hydraulic system (an excellent innovation), we are able to turn the front wheels of our metal box and redirect the course of our progress. With our feet, we control the rate at which the explosions happen and therefore just how fast our box careens forward. Oh, and there’s another function we control with our feet: the pressing of pads (in the case of disc brakes) against metal disks attached to our wheels. The idea here is that if we can stop these metal disks from spinning, our wheels will also stop, allowing us to … well … you know … stop. Now that we’ve managed to get out metal box of explosions to get moving faster than ANY human can run, we decide the little guy needs some socialization. It wants to run with other metal boxes. Turning our seemingly magic wheel at strategic times, we guide our fiery chariot out onto the main road, where we can see many other metal boxes hurtling by.

The GOVERNMENT had to make a rather extensive series of rules regarding the operation of these contraptions, including how fast we’re allowed to move on certain roads, when it’s ok to turn at a given intersection, and even coding lanes of traffic with white or yellow solid, broken, or striped lines. Heck, sometimes, they even have DOUBLE lines, which means, “Oh buster, you’d better not even THINK of changing lanes HERE!!!”

It all sounds pretty bizarre, right? I’m not done yet. With all the tension that could (and to some extent should) accompany the operation of such a capable means of destroying not only your life, but also those of everyone around you, so many people have become flippant about driving. We talk on the phone, eat, some people do their makeup, adjust the radio, text, or even (and I’ve seen this) read a book – holding it at the top of the steering wheel, so periphery vision can inform the driver about the need to stop. I’m not going to get on a soap box, but I will make one simple request: please take your responsibility seriously. Don’t be a distracted driver. Don’t ever drive if you’ve been drinking. And the next time you get into your car to run up to the corner market, think about how weird that action really is.

More About Feminism

This: http://ift.tt/1C6DGqv

Emma Watson recently spoke at the UN Women conference. She put into words the sentiments I fumbled over in a previous post that opened lines of communication that have been closed for too long. Ms. Watson spoke through her nerves to deliver a message imploring men and women to genuinely partner together to work toward real gender equality without “man-hating.”

Please take a moment to watch the video, and then ACT however you can to promote this cause.

Humans are Kinda Weird pt. 1 – Coffee

I’m a coffee addict. I will occasionally give it up, but without any intention of kicking the habit. When coffee and I spend some time apart, it is for the sole intent of heightening the experience when we get back together. I worked in coffee shops – both Starbucks and independent – for years. I’ve learned a ton about coffee. Heck – I was in charge of training new employees about the ins and outs of the wonderful world of coffee. In short, I have loved the stuff for a long time, I have no intention of giving it up forever, and yes. I drink it black, no sugar.

Have you ever thought about coffee in an objective way though? It’s pretty freaking weird. Consider:

An Ethiopian goat herder is out and about one afternoon when he notices some of his goats acting … strangely. The goatherd (named Kaldi, according to legend) watches these hyper goats more carefully to try and ascertain the cause for this behavior. Soon, Kaldi discovers the only thing the jittery goats are doing differently from the others is eating the berries from this one large bush. “Well that’s odd,” thought Kaldi aloud. “I should probably tell someone about this. It seems important.”

Kaldi collected some of the berries and went to the local monastery, where he explained his suspicions to the monk. “…and they just kind of ran around like they had all the strength and energy in the world,” he exlpained.

“I see,” said the monk, clearly intrigued. “Leave these berries with me, and I will see what may be learned.”

Kaldi left the berries with the monk, glad that his story had been listened to so openmindedly. Meanwhile, the monk held one berry up to the light in his chamber. “What are you?” he posited. Rolling the berry around his palm, he considered the possibilities. Was this small red berry a gift from Above? Was it a magical fruit that would give superhuman powers to those who consumed it? Was it a test for human kind? If so, what was the lesson? He was a monk, so he decided to do one of the things monks do best: pray about it. This time though, he would pray with the aid of this gift.

The berry tasted pretty bad though, so eating it straight was less of an option for the monk than for the goats. A drink should be made from the berry. The monk steeped the berry in some hot water, making it a bit less intense. That night, he prayed. And prayed. And prayed. It seemed like he would never need to sleep again, so he continued to pray. In the morning, the monk was sure: this berry was good stuff. It was just too bad it tasted so … gross. The method of ingesting this heavenly gift would need refinement.

In the years that followed, many people experimented with cultivation, harvesting, and preparation methods. What they came up with was rather strange if you think about it. The berries are picked from the plant, the fruit allowed to rot off the seed and then cleaned away – sometimes via power washing, sometimes by mechanical methods – to leave only the green “bean” which is then roasted in an oven to varying levels of darkness (Starbucks’ French Roast is roasted to nearly the combustion point of the bean, which gives it a smoky flavor that so many people enjoy). The nearly burnt seed is then ground to (again) varying levels. The finer the grind, the longer it takes for the next step, and therefore the more extraction takes place. We java junkies then use one method or another to either force water or allow water to flow through the stuff that looks like dirt. The result is sludge (the ground up, burnt seed from a rotted berry mixed with hot water) and some really dark water. We throw the sludge away (or mix it into the compost) and cup the concoction in our hands, feeling a sense of hope and safety, and drink it. Some people add milk (which is weird in and of itself) and sugar (again … weird stuff) before enforcing our addictions.

Coffee isn’t the only weird thing we do though, as I’m sure you are well aware. Pretty much everything we do is really strange if you take the time and think about what it is we’re actually doing. Shoes for instance…. That doesn’t mean these things are necessarily bad. I believe I’ve made it explicitly clear that coffee is an integral and essential part of my very existence. I just thought this would be a way to start a miniseries of posts I’ve been mulling over during my hiatus (apparently, if I post something particularly serious or controversial, I get a bit worked up, which leads to writer’s block … who knew?).

What is the value in examining our every day practices? For one thing, I’ve found it helpful in making sure our perspective on things stays pliable. So here we go.

…

and by the way, I’ve had two cups of coffee since I started writing this post. I’m gonna go build something.

Chivalry is not Chauvinism

Preface: I am a feminist. I’m also a guy. This is possible because of my understanding of genuine feminism. Women are incredible humans: they can (generally) multitask much better than men, they are capable of incubating and sustaining new humans, and the way women process information gives them an understanding of any given situation that often flabbergasts us men … just to name a few specifics. I got my butt kicked by a girl when I took karate as a 14 year old, so I’ve never labored under the delusion of “the weaker sex.” To put it in a nut shell, women kick ass, and they/you deserve fair and equal treatment to men in the workplace life. Period.

That being said (and every word meant), I have a request: please don’t geld well-meaning men in the name of equality. What am I talking about? I grew up having certain conventions of decency and manners taught to me. Some people call it chivalry, but that’s reminiscent of the Middle Ages, when women were certainly not (for the most part) treated as equals, so for the sake of this post, we’ll refer to this code of etiquette by other terms. The practices that became a part of me are not so prosaic as draping my coat over a mud puddle (go around that junk! That’s what I’m going to do!) or even standing when a woman stands to leave the table/room or when she enters the room. There are certain things that were considered polite at one point in time, but would just get a little creepy now. That, and if you suddenly jumped up when some women came in the room, you may get a face full of pepper spray. Just saying.

The code instilled in me was more practical.

1. Offer your seat if there aren’t enough for everyone. This is just common decency, and not even exclusive to women. If there’s an elderly man or woman, a pregnant woman, or someone on crutches etc, it just shows a deference, awareness, and desire to aid those who are genuinely not as able-bodied as you. When I offer my chair to an able-bodied woman though, I’m just being nice. Can we accept it for what it is?

2. Hold doors. If I’m going through the door anyway, I was planning on opening it. I usually do when entering or exiting a building … I’m not the Kool Aid guy. If I have to open the door anyway, holding it open for someone else – be they male or female – I’m letting you know I saw you and that I’m not so big a jerk as to slam it in your face. If I hold a door I wasn’t going to go through (think car door), I am not insinuating that you are somehow too weak and frail a creature to open the door yourself. I’m just trying to make your life a little easier. It’s not an insult, ok?

3. When walking up some stairs behind a female human, pay careful attention to your own feet. Even if she doesn’t recognize the fact you were deliberately not ogling her buttox, it at least provides one moment in the day where she’s not being treated like an object. This point can be expanded like this: don’t be a pervert.

There are more, but hopefully you get the general feel. Basically, try to be nice to people – young women, older women, and men too. Most of the time, these simple kindnesses are greeted with a smile and a thank you. Not always however, and that is why I’m writing right now.

When I was in school, I was leaving Harris Hall after a class, and held the door for a female student heading into the building. (Quickly: I don’t need to be thanked. I’m ok being totally ignored honestly, in most of these situations.) She looked at me like I’d just called her some horrifically sexist name and said, “Thanks, asshole. Like I can’t get the door myself?” Gobsmacked. I hadn’t come up against this level of opposition before – certainly not based on which variety of genitalia I was born with.

I am completely aware that many of my sex have given us a terrible reputation as letches, scumbags, and swaggering idiots who think of little other than “gettin some.” I want to slap every guy who enforces this perception. THAT is not manliness. Thinking men are better than women is NOT manliness. Getting paid more for the exact.same.job is not fair. Hollering demeaning and sexist things at a woman from your car as you drive by does NOT make you a bro. It makes you an idiot, and demonstrates that you possess an understanding of cooperation between the sexes somewhere between that of a dust bunny and a used Q-tip. Women don’t need men to open doors and offer seats, but it can be used to demonstrate respect for them as fellow humans and sojourners through this weird-as-all-get-out life.

So my request to the female readers of this post is this: there are some of us men out there that genuinely don’t have an ulterior motive for holding open doors. We are not communicating perceived superiority; please don’t punish us for the morons out there. Thanks