Blog

We had the opportunity to take in Rocket Day with our youngest at the High Prairie Arts and Science Complex this afternoon. We joined the scores of families who attended to build three different homemade rockets. It’s amazing what you can do with Alka-Seltzer tablets, empty film canisters, manila folders and empty water bottles.

Each station had volunteers who kindly demonstrated how to create each rocket. After a little cutting, folding and a lot of scotch tape he was ready to launch. The only step he skipped was decorating. I was surprised that he didn’t take the time to customize the look of his rockets with the markers and crayons made available at each station. He’s usually pretty artistic. Then again, what boy wouldn’t choose high speed projectiles that crash to the ground over coloring?

After two weeks of swimming lessons, our youngest passed his level test. He can float, glide and crawl (a little). I’m just proud of the fact that he no longer is afraid to put his face in the water. Turns out the solution was nothing more than a pair of goggles. Now that he is able to see just how far away the bottom of the pool is he’s not nearly as frightened. Everybody knows that a kid with swim goggles will never drown.

If you’re not familiar with Isaiah Mustafa, you’ve been living under a rock. You probably know him better as Old Spice’s latest pitchman. With his superior build and condescending tone he’s saved the brand from the cobwebs of grandpa’s cologne cabinet by starring in a number of creative ‘one-shot’ spots since the Super Bowl last February. I’m sure the body wash-loving romeo has to be negotiating some bigger contracts these days, adding to his workload with a string of impromptu YouTube video responses.

Hopefully greedy agents don’t run this poor guy into the ground because right now Mustafa is a hot commodity. I can see where over-saturating the media with this series could have a minimal or even negative effect on Old Spice sales. After all, the American viewing public’s attention span isn’t that long. If history is to be repeated we can expect Mustafa to star in his own movie as a similar type-cast character or be anchoring his own sitcom in the next fall line-up and be canceled after six episodes (a la GEICO’s ‘Caveman’ fiasco). That would stink.

I’ve always believed that success is more probable for those individuals that set goals and then work hard to achieve them. I know it sounds logical, but it’s a well known fact that there are individuals out there who believe they are entitled to something only because they want what someone else has. Unfortunately most of them are unwilling to exert any effort of their own to attain these coveted somethings. I realize there remains a great number of inequities in most aspects of life (a product of our diversity and individuality), but in those cases where everyone has an equal opportunity there still are those who refuse to earn anything by their own efforts.

At what point in our development is this risk-reward behavior learned? When and how do we adopt a personal work ethic? What responsibility, if any, do each of us have to ensure that the next generation understands the importance of working hard to achieve goals – or success – as I define it? Do people need to be guaranteed a minimum standard of living? How about a maximum standard of living? If I could answer these questions I could probably fix a lot of the problems in this world. Obviously I can’t.

What I do know, in my experience of working with young college students, is everyone is different. What works for one individual isn’t guaranteed to work for another. The formulas for success are not the same. Despite how society might label them, I’ve learned never, ever to write anyone off. We may give these students an equal opportunity with their education, but it’s up to them to utilize what they’ve learned to achieve the career and success they desire. Nobody can guarantee it. It’s their responsibility.

Do you know of someone who suffers from chronic foot-in-mouth disease? They say loud and proud whatever pops into their head without thinking about how someone else might feel. In their fatally warped universe this is completely acceptable behavior and if anyone takes offense to what they have to say then they’re quick to remind others to reacquaint themselves with the basic freedom of speech. Even if their views and opinions are contrary to what others hold, they simply can’t be respectful of another point-of-view. The result is often an arrogant, blow-hard who will never apologize for the things they say, let alone admit any wrongdoing. Thankfully chronic cases are rare.

I’m not about to give myself complete amnesty in this area, because I’m guilty of saying things I’ve later regretted. As much as I think I do right, I still do plenty wrong. I am as flawed as the next person. I’m certainly not above apologizing and asking for forgiveness if, and when I do hurt someone else as a result of such behavior. And, as difficult as it is sometimes, I have to forgive those that hurt me. Why? Because it’s the right and proper thing to do.

Every time I sit down to unlace my shoes I can’t help but think of Mr. Rogers and his OCD-laden opening routine. Granted, “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” wasn’t my favorite show growing up, but because it preceded Sesame Street, I tolerated it. Yes, the freaky puppet show (Lady Elaine Fairchilde and King Friday XIII) and that RC trolley (yeah, I see you working the switch, Fred!) were interesting enough, but the whole shoe changing bit during that melodic rendition of ‘Won’t You Be My Neighbor’ was strangely mesmerizing.

Anyone that could turn their homecoming into a symbolic ritual of casual pageantry deserved some attention and respect. The whole idea of taking off the days work coat and shoes, putting them away, and throwing on a comfortable cardigan and a pair of deck shoes may seem a little eccentric now, but the idea of everything having its time and place was not lost on me as a kid. In fact, I was very particular about neatness and would often go into ‘Butler Mode’ to pick up around the house. These fits of perfectionism have subsided for the most part. In fact, I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I’ve shed almost any similarities to Mr. Rogers’ tidy wardrobe change.

Every generation has its influences with regard to hairstyles. The boys in my generation migrated from mop tops to spikes and ended up graduating with some sort of hair band-inspired mullet variation. Right now my son’s generation is highly influenced by the comb forward shag of teen crooner Justin Bieber. I don’t know much about this kid but it’s clear to me that no boy wants to be compared to him. I find this strange because they all seem to admire his hairstyle so much. Maybe it’s his falsetto voice and the mushy love songs that they want nothing to do with. Oh well, it’s better than a mullet.

Over the years I’ve developed a deep level of respect for those that can really golf well. It is undoubtedly, for me, the most humiliating and frustrating sport there is. Just when I think I should give up the game all together, I’ll hit the most picture perfect shot. Those ‘moments of glory’, I guess, have always kept me coming back.

My oldest son bought a set of clubs a while ago and for quite some time has asked me to take him golfing. Unfairly I let my own frustrations with the game affect my taking him. I relented finally and took him to the driving range to see how his patience would hold up. Last summer we drove, chipped and putted for a good hour or so before heading home. Like myself, he would get frustrated with how he was hitting the ball and I, with what little I know of the game, passed on pointers to help him out. He still really wanted to play a ‘real’ round, which I put off with the response ‘some day’.

Well, ‘some day’ turned out to be Friday last week. I took him out for his first real round of golf and, for the first time, I actually felt like a pretty accomplished golfer. My game hasn’t improved any but compared to his level of play, I was Tiger Woods. Time and again I’d watch him try to ‘kill’ the ball only to miss completely. With his frustration mounting and my advice increasing, I feared that we wouldn’t make it past two holes. I showered him with lots of encouragement to keep the game moving and he managed a few ‘moments of glory’. Surprisingly he persevered and after two hours we accomplished all nine holes. As angry as he was at how he played, not once did he threaten to quit. I’m really proud of him for that. His attitude actually made my game ‘better’.

We both learned a lot that morning. He learned that his Three Wood is his best club and I learned that I play much better when I don’t keep score. The fact that he thanked me for taking him (repeatedly) and him stating that he had a lot of fun (despite how he golfed) proved to me that it was more about spending time together than it was about golfing. That turned out to be the biggest lesson. Looks like I may have another reason to golf.

When it comes to auto repair I wish I was more mechanically gifted. I’m not completely worthless though. I mean, I understand the basics about how a car runs and the major parts that make the wheels go ’round. Heck, I even change my own oil, but for some reason when I take a vehicle in for servicing I’m completely at their mercy. Their goal obviously is to baffle me by bringing up terminology that I’m not familiar with. It’s like they go to the parts index of my car’s parts manual and find something wrong with the piece that the lay person would never be able to get at without pulling their engine completely out. Even when I feign some knowledge about the cost of items needing replacement they can always trump me with the infamous ‘labor’ line item. Seems like they always blame it on labor: “yeah, it’s not like the parts are real expensive, but it’s the labor.” I swear, either these mechanics are made of gold or my vehicle is so mechanically complex that accessing areas of the engine quickly is out of the question. I guess it’s dolts like me whose car problems guarantee that the owner of the garage can afford to drive a nicer vehicle than I do.

I suppose with something as ubiquitous as cell phone service, the goal for advertisers would be to create a commercial that the consumer will remember. Or is it ‘never forget’? Joining the ranks of such annoying, unforgettable classics as the Energizer Bunny and all those 1-800-Collect spots with Carrot Top are the Alltel boys! Like the redundant chorus from the Real McCoy’s “Come And Get Your Love” this series of commercials tortures me. In one recent spot, I actually laughed out loud (rather maniacally) when I saw all the polo-shirted geeks in the bucket of a garbage truck, facing impending doom as the vertically-coiffed Chad smiled on. I thought it was the end. False! Apparently the ratings of Alltel’s Chadvertising campaign are much too high to snuff out. In other words… it’s effective. Gah! The agony.