tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78705310202541859162024-03-14T04:03:34.998-04:00The Can-eh-dian KidThe life and times of 1 lone wolf. Struggling against Ninjas, Vampires, the Tax Man and an ornery turtle named Mo.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-69135260137300792192016-04-05T17:06:00.004-04:002016-04-05T17:06:46.442-04:00Lucifer Wept<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo0KkbrRQmIT-_H5tb0iv7G3axIZSAsDsiUyz6hX7GlZ7dn_quUT11hJT-RfF-5eYhu7zK_t-3u97_owvbuy9SgF6Bj8BALJJNg8rMnFECSMf0JEKDG0dJGj6qGW4v14fTb-o_N5MNno/s1600/angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHo0KkbrRQmIT-_H5tb0iv7G3axIZSAsDsiUyz6hX7GlZ7dn_quUT11hJT-RfF-5eYhu7zK_t-3u97_owvbuy9SgF6Bj8BALJJNg8rMnFECSMf0JEKDG0dJGj6qGW4v14fTb-o_N5MNno/s320/angel.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: #f2f2f2; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-size: large;">There is still much beauty</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">in twisted, wicked things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We must look past</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">what now lives in the pit</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: #f2f2f2; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 1.6875rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and remember at one time</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: #f2f2f2; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 1.6875rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
<span style="font-size: large;">this creature soared high</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: #f2f2f2; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lato, sans-serif; letter-spacing: 0.2px; line-height: 1.6875rem; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
<span style="font-size: large;">on magnificent wings.</span></div>
@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-13589606371707345212015-07-21T16:55:00.000-04:002015-07-21T16:55:43.926-04:00What do you want to be when you grow up?<div class="article-header" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #4d4f51; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 21.8181819915772px; margin: 0px 0px 30px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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What do you want to be when you grow up?</h1>
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I was recently interviewed for a newsletter of sorts and I was asked questions like '...<em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">what's the one word you would use to describe yourself</strong></em>?' and '...<em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">what did you want to be when you grew up?</strong></em>'</div>
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I'm not sure if I answered those questions as honestly as I thought I would but for what it's worth my answers were <span class="underline" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Passionate</em> </span>and <span class="underline" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Batman</em></span>. I mean, what kid doesn't want to be Batman when they grew up? I still want to be Batman and I'm a grown-up now.</div>
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<img alt="" class="center" data-loading-tracked="true" height="161" src="https://media.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/shrinknp_800_800/AAEAAQAAAAAAAAIhAAAAJDEzODUzNmZiLWZkMWEtNGRhNy1iMDhmLTdhYTkzYzQ1YjY4Mw.png" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: auto; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px auto 15px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;" width="588" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />And therein lies the problem. I just classified myself as a grown-up. I pay taxes. I have a mortgage. I carry around too much weight in my middle and I've got more grey hairs than I can count. Hooray for adulthood! See the problem here is that I still don't really know what I want to be when I grow up because I don't actually consider myself to be 'grown-up'. Yes I have a job. I'd go so far as to even say I have a career but trying to pigeon hole myself into one role; one defining characteristic....I don't think I can do that.</div>
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Granted, when asked I fired off my answer without a terrible amount of thought. I wasn't trying to be flippant. I just was caught slightly off guard by the question and provided the first answer that really jumped out at me. It <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">was</em> the answer I've been using since I was about 6 so there's some history there but regardless of that fact, I probably could've mapped out my response a little better.</div>
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Stewart Butterfield, the co-founder of Flickr and chief executive of Slack uses that very same question when he's interviewing candidates. According to an interview with the New York Times earlier this month Butterfield was quoted as saying</div>
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<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/12/business/stewart-butterfield-of-slack-experience-with-empathy-required.html?_r=0" rel="nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #96999c; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">"Good answers are usually about areas in which they want to grow, things they want to learn, things that they feel like they haven’t had a chance to accomplish yet but want to accomplish,” Butterfield said.</a></blockquote>
<blockquote style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: italic; font-variant: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 30px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 5px 0px 40px; quotes: none; vertical-align: baseline;">
<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/12/business/stewart-butterfield-of-slack-experience-with-empathy-required.html?_r=0" rel="nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #96999c; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">“A very short answer to that question would be automatically bad.” </a></blockquote>
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But I have to disagree with Mr. Butterfield. The question is <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">WHAT</strong></em> do you want to be when you grow up? That should naturally lead into <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">WHY? </strong></em>In my opinion a short answer means that your answer is definitive and clearly thought out. Let me show you.</div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You</strong>: What do you want to be when you grow up?</div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Me</strong>: Batman</div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">You</strong>: Why do you want to be Batman?</div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Me</strong>:</div>
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<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 5px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Fights Crime and Saves People</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 5px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Amazing Gadgets</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 5px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Cool Outfit</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 5px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Billionaire</li>
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Short, sweet and to the point. Next Question.</div>
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Telling people that having a short answer to a question like that is 'automatically bad' is essentially telling people their answer.....is wrong. And that in itself.....is wrong.</div>
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You see, the thing that irks me is that most of us truly don't ever get to be what we want to be. We make choices that eventually lead us down the path we're on today but it's rare to know more than a handful of people that are doing exactly what they set out to become.</div>
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I've always envied those people that knew as early as Public School what they wanted to be when they got older. They kept that idea alive all throughout High School, took courses in College or University geared to that profession and then when they graduated plunged head first into the job market and relentlessly sought out and acquired their job. Destiny fulfilled! Achievement Unlocked! Way to make the rest of us look bad.</div>
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<img alt="" class="center" data-loading-tracked="true" height="56" src="https://media.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/shrinknp_200_200/AAEAAQAAAAAAAAK7AAAAJDkwYzlmMDhiLTJkZjgtNGZmNS05MTM1LTQ3Njc3MGIwYjQzNg.jpg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: auto; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px auto 15px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;" width="198" />I shouldn't really complain though. I love what I do. I didn't set out to be a Training and Quality Manager in a B2B Marketing Company. In High School I earned scholarships to study Music and go to a Dramatic Arts School in New York. I passed on both. Instead, I went to University to study Egyptology. Yes....you read that correctly and yes I could tell you why I did that but that's neither here nor there at this stage of the game.</div>
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The point is I found what I'm passionate about; teaching, educating and motivating people. It took me 30+ years to find this passion, but I found it. It's what I see myself doing for the rest of my life. It doesn't mean I won't change directions at some point. I have a restless soul and as Robert Frost once said</div>
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The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.</blockquote>
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I realize that I may never be Batman. Not exactly, but I still get to be <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">like</strong> </em>Batman. I get to help people every day. I can be their protector, their mentor and their sparring partner when the time calls for it. I get to use my brains and my brawn to get end results. I solve problems and mysteries. I drive my Bat mobile a little too fast at times and I look <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">good</em> in black. I may never be the Superhero type, but I feel like one almost every time I leave the office.</div>
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So for any of you reading this that feel lost, confused or awash in a sea of ambiguity about where your career is going I'll leave you with this. Most of us start off wanting to be Cowboys, Astronauts, Princess and Superheroes and the majority of us will never be those things. Later in life we want to be Professional Athletes, Recording Artists and Movie Stars and only some of us will fulfill that wish. Eventually we will come to a point where the only thing we want to be when we grow up....is happy. Whether that's pushing paper, pushing a broom or pushing a stroller it doesn't matter because when that moment comes, you'll know you're right where you're supposed to be.</div>
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@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-75502875657181668782015-07-20T15:02:00.004-04:002015-07-20T15:02:52.456-04:00...and Trish? Please stir my coffee.<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #232629; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 30px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKH_-R0qW3cOEK-Twnq2ju1YF99iFSXgeQ6cv6bd1CErOO5BDBXuVJ74UWoTbPKAeRTt2ww1AkLvAdrylck90wZFEI_mTgSJ7pVuSfFYWx8BnuJdLF9piH3sEeiMBwb1VlHZTBOsVI2w/s1600/Coffee+spill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKH_-R0qW3cOEK-Twnq2ju1YF99iFSXgeQ6cv6bd1CErOO5BDBXuVJ74UWoTbPKAeRTt2ww1AkLvAdrylck90wZFEI_mTgSJ7pVuSfFYWx8BnuJdLF9piH3sEeiMBwb1VlHZTBOsVI2w/s320/Coffee+spill.jpg" width="320" /></a>Like many people these days I often opt for the drive-thru line rather than walking into the store. The 'convenience' factor plays a large part in the decision making process as does the illusion that the line actually moves faster outside than it does inside. For the record....it does not. But regardless of those things I wait diligently in my car to pull up to that microscopic screen and raspy speaker to ask for food or drinks or whatever.</div>
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My order accuracy track record with most drive-thru lines is not good. In fact I would say without a second thought that my order is often anywhere from 'not quite what I ordered' to flat out wrong. Yet I still come back. Time and time again and I set myself up for disappointment every time. Now, I could try and psychoanalyze why I do this (much like most of you reading this) but that's not what this is really about. This post is about the importance of mastering a skill before you take on new skills. Allow me to elaborate.</div>
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Yesterday I was in line at <a href="http://www.timhortons.com/ca/en/about/the-story-of-tim-hortons.php" rel="nofollow" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #96999c; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">Tim Horton's</a> for a coffee. <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">For those of you not familiar with what Tim Horton's is or who he was, click the link to read more. Needless to say, it's an addiction for most Canadians. </em>There was a car in front of me at the speaker placing their order. As most of us do, knowing I was up next I turned down my radio so the person in the store could hear me when I ordered. This also meant I could hear the car in front of me ordering. Most of the order was mundane as orders tend to be, but then the driver said something that made my ears perk up. After ordering his coffee (one cream, one sugar) he said</div>
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<strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">....and Trish? Please stir my coffee.</strong></blockquote>
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And then he drove ahead.</div>
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I sat there for a heartbeat or two pondering that statement. Please stir my coffee? I mean....that should be obvious right? You add stuff to a coffee, then you stir it. It's that simple. I do it when I make a coffee at home. I bet you do too. Who did this guys think he was? Asking Trish to stir his coffee! I mean c'mon! But once that split second audacity passed, I thought of how many times I needed to stir my coffee after ordering it from this very same place. I thought of how many times my coffee; a simple pleasure, was marred but somebody's inability to perform a core function of their job. That's when that sentence hit me.</div>
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A few months back I had been at a conference in Chicago and during one of the breakout sessions the Speaker said something that seemed so obvious; so simple that I don't think it really resonated with me until sitting waiting for my coffee that day. In essence he said (and I'm paraphrasing here) <em style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">'...we cannot teach people a new skill or ask them to perform a new task until we know that they have mastered the last skill or task.'</strong></em></div>
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How often do we assign new tasks to our staff or set stretch goals for them to achieve? How often do they struggle to complete those tasks or reach those goals? Is it because they are incapable? In a word....Yes. If we expect our team to do something new and different and it requires them to use a set of predefined skills to accomplish that task shouldn't we ensure that they have mastered those predefined skills first? For example, if I ask my staff to create a pivot table in Excel then I need to be certain that they are competent with Excel on a basic level before expecting them to do more. Taking that simple fact for granted can easily lead to disappointment further down the road.</div>
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This Customer ordering his coffee recognized a gap in that Company's basic skills training. Through his own experiences he had come to understand that while the coffee was being made, it wasn't being made properly. He needed to reinforce the basics of the job; to ensure the coffee was stirred in order to get the best possible result. The person receiving that instruction (Trish) had more than likely been trained on how to make a cup of coffee. She was probably shown how to add cream and sugar and I'll go so far as to say she probably was even taught how to stir it. The issue here is not Trish (she was doing a bang-up job).</div>
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The issue was that not enough people understood or practiced the basics of the job so no matter how complex the order was; no matter how many times they made a coffee or tea, somewhere along the line they were forgetting an essential step. They were doing it incorrectly and Customers were driving away unhappy. They hadn't mastered the basics and there was a negative consequence because of that.</div>
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So the next time you give your team an assignment or you get back a less than optimal result on a project you delegated to them ask yourself whether they had the basics skills down to do the job properly. Ask yourself.....did they stir the coffee? </div>
@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-447296833926720112015-07-08T17:03:00.001-04:002015-07-08T17:03:40.393-04:00Afraid to lose 'the Afraid'<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #4d4f51; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 30px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span></b>he house was at the end of my street. An old dilapidated structure with boarded up windows and a rusty fence around the perimeter; a thing of nightmares to a child with a vivid imagination. When the wind blew through the house it would moan and whistle as the air rushed through an incalculable number of cracks and crevices. The thing would breathe.</div>
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<a href="https://media.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/jc/AAEAAQAAAAAAAAIpAAAAJDZmNWFjZGIyLTZhMTQtNDBhNi04NWRhLWVmM2ZlN2MyZDM0MA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Afraid to lose "the Afraid"" border="0" src="https://media.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/jc/AAEAAQAAAAAAAAIpAAAAJDZmNWFjZGIyLTZhMTQtNDBhNi04NWRhLWVmM2ZlN2MyZDM0MA.jpg" /></a>To the left of the house stood an old watchtower that overlooked the Wabi River; a safe outlet from the rocky waters of Lake Temiskaming. The home and tower had been around since close to the turn of the century. Deep brush and trees grew around it keeping it relatively hidden from passers-by. But all the children in the neighborhood knew it was there; jutting out of the earth at a dangerous angle like a ragged tusk. The tower listed dangerously towards the edge of a steep embankment that dropped 40 or so feet into the river below. A disquieting eyesore to the adults on the block; an ominous challenge for every kid with something to prove. I was one of those kids.</div>
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Every day after school my friends and I would walk past the house and the conversation would dwindle as eyes would quickly move to scuffling feet, the cracks in the sidewalks and the birds in the trees. Anywhere…but the house with the tower. Then a thought would pass through the group.</div>
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<span style="border-image-outset: initial; border-image-repeat: initial; border-image-slice: initial; border-image-source: initial; border-image-width: initial; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">“Please don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me.”</span></i></span></div>
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But inevitably someone would throw out the dare.</div>
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<em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Come on! Just climb to the top and wave out the window to prove you did it. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”</em>….and then the mob mentality would begin. Suddenly the group would join in chanting <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Do it! Do it!”</em></div>
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That poor kid….the chosen one had to make a snap decision right then and there. Go into the gaping maw of that tower and risk your life or chicken out and make up an excuse that you heard your Mom calling you home for dinner.</div>
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Inevitably, it was my turn to be called out one day; to be dared to go into that tower and climb those rickety steps to the top---to make that life altering decision. Yes, it was life altering for a 6 year old. Being the hefty kid in the group I was an automatic target in the gladiatorial ring we knew as our street. I was tired of being teased and being called Chicken. I wanted the other kids to respect me for doing it. So I did it. I entered the tower and climbed to the top.<img alt="" class="left" data-loading-tracked="true" height="471" src="https://media.licdn.com/mpr/mpr/shrinknp_800_800/p/8/005/079/0a9/0dd1e19.jpg" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; float: left; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; height: auto; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px 30px 15px 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="337" /></div>
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The details of my trip inside the tower are largely inconsequential. It was dark, musty and certainly not safe for a child. Things clearly had been living and sleeping there. The stairs were rotten and the building felt like it could fall at any point in time. After a precarious climb I made it to the top, leaned out the window and waved to my friends on the sidewalk below. And that was it. No monster came to eat me. The Tower didn’t come crashing down into the river. The most I got was a high five from my buddies and then I went home. The next day I walked past that house again and looked it up and down like it was nothing more than an ant. So did my friends. That evening we all took turns climbing to the top of the tower because it was no longer something out of a bad horror movie. It was just a set of stairs.</div>
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After that night the challenge was gone as was the mystery and sheer adrenaline-fueled panic that came with the premise that you could very well lose your life to that monstrosity. Truth be told….I missed that feeling. I didn’t really know it then, but I certainly know it now. I’m a grown man now and the house with the tower is a distant memory that haunts my deep dreams only from time to time. But it doesn’t hold the same fear for me that it once did because I conquered it and moved on to the next set of challenges.</div>
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Moving away, starting somewhere new, making new friends, having a crush, having my heart crushed to powder, graduating, leaving home, being alone, being independent, finding myself, finding someone else, finding each other, making a union, making a family, making a home. All steps in the chapter of my life that have been joyous and terrifying and awe inspiring. Throughout them all I was faced with one constant notion-----I was afraid. Afraid of not knowing what would come next; afraid of not being able to adapt or thrive. Afraid I would fail. We are all afraid of something. I don’t care if it’s heights, or clowns or the loss of a job. We are all afraid of something. And that’s ok. It’s ok to be afraid provided the fear doesn’t control you.</div>
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A few weeks ago I was sitting in a meeting that quite frankly bored me. My mind began to drift and I began thinking about that old house with the tower. Before I knew it the meeting was done. When I cleared the cobwebs from my brain and the stardust from my eyes I looked down at my notes and saw this…</div>
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There was nothing else written on the page. I didn’t think too much of it and went about my daily business. But on the drive home that night those 5 words kept spinning around in my head. I couldn’t let the thought go that perhaps they meant something more than just some absent-minded scrawls on the paper. The more I thought about it, the more I found meaning in those words.</div>
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We are afraid when we do not know what will happen next. We are afraid when we don’t have control of the environment or a circumstance and that makes us cautious and compliant and stationary. We don’t take action to change that feeling because we do not know how attacking that fear will affect us. We are <strong style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">afraid to lose the afraid</em></strong>. It is our safety net and when we challenge the feeling of being afraid, we’re forced to cut that net away. But it’s not the act of jumping that scares us; it’s knowing that there may not be a net to catch us when we fall.</div>
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If we take the leap and make it to the other side the fear is gone. That <em style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">thing</em> we were scared of loses its power over us and we are forced to move on to the next challenge. This means a bigger leap and potentially a larger fall and the cycle repeats itself.</div>
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That house and tower were torn down years ago or maybe they finally slipped into the river below the cliff…drowning the ghosts that inhabited them. Regardless of that they will always serve as a reminder to me that there is nothing wrong with being afraid. But being afraid to lose the afraid? Well….that’s just scary.</div>
@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-10198023065238445452015-05-12T11:03:00.001-04:002015-05-12T11:03:43.535-04:00The Green Thumb Manager<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nTN9uhN1BejPKIbQ5WoSfReQY5baGOQFMFUuqRlvkNY894MEuDAL9W1E_QstS1EutXad00uG6tjv5Qd65BE9LklA6T7QVlaQuEPxeCK7Z5K2iQH5YhyphenhyphenPJp8h3lrLhQVzQh5NvH_R5WQ/s1600/sower1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nTN9uhN1BejPKIbQ5WoSfReQY5baGOQFMFUuqRlvkNY894MEuDAL9W1E_QstS1EutXad00uG6tjv5Qd65BE9LklA6T7QVlaQuEPxeCK7Z5K2iQH5YhyphenhyphenPJp8h3lrLhQVzQh5NvH_R5WQ/s320/sower1.jpg" width="320" /></a>I've spent time in my garden these past few weeks and it’s
given me time to think about a few different things; namely how much planting a
garden is like managing a team of professionals. It takes equal parts time and patience as the
process is something that doesn't happen overnight. A good Gardener is required
to map out their garden long before the first seed is sown. Using tried and
tested tools of the trade, they must painstakingly turn and sift the soil;
clearing out obstacles like large rocks, old roots and debris that can clog the
growth of healthy plants. They must get dirty with their hands and knees buried
deep in the earth as they meticulously tear out weeds and bugs that could do
harm to the plants.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
They must be willing
to experience the conditions that their plants will be subjected to each day.
They must face the heat of the sun on the back of their necks and on their
face; the sweat stinging their eyes and wetting their brow. They must endure
bites and stings from creatures that are perplexed by the turmoil in their tiny
world; upset that this force has come into their domain and forced change. They
must experience performing tasks repetitively with no immediate reward for the
time they've put in. And when the day is done and it is time to leave the
garden, they must stretch their aching backs, scrape the dirt from under their
nails and put away their tools to ensure they can start fresh and clean again
in the morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
The Gardner knows though that the real work begins once the
garden has been tilled and turned. For they know that the very things that can
give a garden life can also take that life away if not properly managed. If they use the wrong soil the plants won’t
get the nutrients they need; essentially starving. If they over water the seeds they will drown.
If they don’t water them enough they’ll wilt. Too much sun and they will bake.
Not enough and they’ll be stunted and never reach their full growth potential.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
It doesn't take too much to draw parallels between the
Garden and the Office or between the Plants and your Personnel.</div>
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</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Have a
good idea as to what you’d like to grow in your garden</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">-Will you have time
to cultivate and nurture new seeds? Is it better to transfer mature plants from
another area?</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Every garden requires a
different mix of plants. Do you have the right balance in place to accomplish
your goals?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Understand
your landscape and weather patterns before you plant</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">- Will these plants
thrive or struggle to survive? Is the soil fertile enough for them to take
root? Will they be able to handle the weight of the World around them once
they’re exposed to the environment? Have you prepared them enough to come out
of the safety of the earth surrounding them? Will an unexpected storm wipe them
out before they've even have a chance to grow?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Be
prepared to fend off both natural predators and outside pressure</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">-There are
many things in this world that will work against your garden; whether it’s the
stubborn weed trying to strangle the young plant’s roots or the pesky animal
that likes to dig up the soil and steal the plants. As the Gardner, you must be
vigilant and be prepared to take action to protect your plants. Set up a fence
line to deter even the most tenacious pest away. Make your garden a safe place.
Control what comes in and what goes out. Then get out into the dirt as often as
possible to cull those weeds before they take back over your entire lawn.</span></li>
<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: normal;"> </span></b><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Be prepared for small wins and big losses
for the first few seasons-</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Unless you’re a natural green thumb; born to
cultivate and harvest, then you will have losses. Plants will struggle to grow.
Some will never break through the dirt to see the sunshine. Some will grow too
quickly and then burn out before their peak time. Some will need to be removed
so that the other plants get the attention and resources they need to flourish.
However, if the garden is tended properly, you will see results. Small at first
but growing over time. With the right mixture of raw resources, maintenance and
guidance your garden may soon become the envy of the block.</span></li>
</ul>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Obviously managing people is far more complicated than
growing a garden but there is something to be said about the person who invests
their time and passion into something that can’t give back on the same level. A
truly good Gardener; much like a truly good Manager understands that the work
you put in will not always be equal to the results you get out. That there will
be good seasons and bad seasons but no matter what there will always be
opportunities to replant. In life as in business, we work with what we have. So
whether we grow in clay, silt or peat we’ll reap what we sow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<b>‘What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.’ Ralph Waldo Emerson</b><br />
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@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-43103350022085001002015-04-03T18:00:00.000-04:002015-04-03T18:00:14.003-04:00The Daily Grind<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">There is a place within my mind that others cannot go.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">It's nestled deep amongst the trees protected from the snow.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">The sun shines bright and gently warms the corners deep in shade.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">A warm spring breeze floats music by; notes just above a fade.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">A chair sits waiting by a stream that babbles bright and clear.</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br />It holds a book; its pages saved from when I last was here.<br /></span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I rest my bones, breathe it in and forget about the time<br />And know I'll always have this place to escape the Daily Grind.</span>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-73083477542116494032014-10-07T16:58:00.005-04:002014-10-07T20:27:56.224-04:00Begin FitzsimmonsSoft humming overhead. Dull flickering lights around the peripherals of his watery vision. A steady drip, drip drip pattering from his nostril down his chin and onto the linoleum below; mottled grey/green tiles dulled and scuffed over the course of a thousand or so footprints. Fitzsimmons is starting to come to.<br />
<br />
A small time hustler, occasional drug dealer and generally all around scuzzy guy. Fitzsimmons has primarily skated his way through life; grifting, begging, borrowing and stealing what ever he wanted or needed. At times he used his charms and other times he used a double-sided blade. <i>Any means necessary</i> <i>to get any necessary means</i> he would say. Class act that Fitzsimmons.<br />
<br />
In recent months he was doing well for himself or as well as one can be on the underbelly of society. He had a steady job as a heavy in a local dive bar. He rented a room above the bar and had all the junk food and booze he could consume in lieu of excessive pay. It was enough to get him by. If he wanted anything more, he find an excuse to beat it out of his Customers. And so it came to pass that one night Fitzsimmons would cross paths with the last person he would ever take advantage of. A pretty young thing who wandered in to the wrong bar on the wrong side of town. A naive little doe; all fair haired and freckled looking to meet a bad boy that would really make her Daddy mad. Oooohhh and did she ever want to make Daddy mad!<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">A few drinks later and a stumbling climb up the back stairs and
they are in Fitzsimmons's apartment. It </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> take long before things go from
casual cuddling to a 5 year stint in the State Pen for rape. She fights well.
She cries and claws and squirms as much as she can but in the end he is just too
strong for her. It could be over quickly too if she </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> scratch his </span>cheek
open. Skin tears, blood runs and Fitzsimmons yells. There is a flash, a
guttural cry and then she goes limp. The knife buried to the hilt in her throat
is enough to silence her. <i><span style="line-height: 115%;"><b>Serves the bitch
right</b>! </span></i><span style="line-height: 115%;">He thinks as he tenderly touches his torn cheek. It was going to
leave a mark and she was going to leave a stain on his couch if he </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> do
something quickly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Fitzsimmons chose to settle in this neighbourhood not
because of its ambience but because a man could walk down a dark alley with a
large stuffed suitcase and nobody would take notice…..because nobody asked
questions in this part of the city. He takes advantage of this fact and drags
her down the back stairs and loads her into the trunk of his car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">Fitzsimmons makes it to the pier and back in nearly record time.
Not like it was a race but had it been he </span><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">would've</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> had time to smile at the
cameras as he crossed the finish line. Only…they don’t normally give out trophies for murder do they? He parks his car and goes up the back stair case
to his apartment. He closes and locks the door and sinks down onto the still
warm couch. The TV flicks on and he begins watching late night TV. Fitzsimmons
drifts off to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;">There is a sloshing noise somewhere in his apartment; a wet, gurgling
soft sound. It wakes him from a dreamless sleep. He tries to get off the couch
but finds that he’s pinned down. He looks around frantically for anything to
help him but it’s too dark for him to see. He opens his mouth to cry out and pungent,
earthy river water begins to flow into him. He starts to sputter and spit the
water out but it’s like he is being held under. The more he struggles,
the more the water flows. Fitzsimmons is drowning and as the room starts to
grow fuzzy and he feels himself slipping somewhere farther away, He hears a
faint giggle and sees a sliver of light fall across slick, wet, blonde hair. </span><span style="font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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His eye is swollen nearly shut and his face feels like it's been used as a practice bag for the Welter-Weight Champ. He can feel the coarse ropes cutting deftly into his wrists. His arm and one leg are asleep. No, not asleep---numb. He can't feel them which leads him to believe he's been tied to this knocked over chair for quite sometime. He gently cranes his neck as far as his current bindings will allow him and tries to take in as much as he can. From what he can tell, he's in a storage room of some sort. There's a set of double swinging doors to the left of him and not much else. The doors have a round window in each; reminiscent of something you might find in a diner or a dive bar. Truthfully, this seems inconsequential until he gets free from his current predicament.<br />
<br />
He takes in an inventory of what he must do to get back on track. It's starts with one small command; "Wiggle your fingers. Go on. Wiggle them. Get the blood flowing back into that dead arm of yours....or lay here and bleed." An easy enough task if you have blood flowing through your extremities to begin with. When you've been lying on top of them for God knows how long, well---you might just be shit outta luck. Lucky for Fitzsimmons he's a tenacious bastard; probably what got him here in the first place he thinks to himself. He feels the tiniest tingle followed by a prickling sensation. Which of course leads to the feeling of a million and one ants crawling over your skin. By now he's moving his fingers and rotating his wrist. The rope digs deeper into his flesh and he grimaces a little. But it's more of a half smile because the pain reminds him that he's regaining the use of his limbs. It reminds him he's not helpless. Sure he's lying on a filthy floor tied to a chair. He's bleeding, groggy and he's pretty sure he's pissed in his pants but by Jove he's moving now!<br />
<br />
He knows he won't be able to break the bindings without some form of sharp object. From what he can see, that's not going to happen. He tries another approach. If he can get enough momentum he might be able to roll himself to his stomach and then subsequently his other side. With enough force he might be able to smash the chair on the floor and break free. Granted, this is not an action movie and he's no Bruce Willis. The feat which seems simple in theory is damn near impossible in execution. Still, he's a tenacious bastard as we've already established. Anyone walking into the room right now would certainly get an eyeful. This busted up punk rolling back and forth on the floor like some beached whale; grunting and groaning as he puts all his weight behind each strike. It's at that moment that Fitzsimmons stops moving and lies very, very still. It dawns on him that all this movement; this noise might draw someone's attention. Maybe whoever put him in this chair and tenderized his face might be in the next room over...or watching him from a video feed. He looks around the room as casually as he can. Well, as casually as a beaten man tied to a chair can. He scans the corners for cameras and sees none. He looks at the door and listens carefully for any sign of movement. Breathing, feet shuffling, muffled conversation. Anything really. But nothing. His heart pounds in his chest and he can hear the sound of his blood pumping hard in his ears. He could set his watch the the rhythmic 'Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh."<br />
<br />
He tenses his muscles up and makes one more attempt to roll over and smash his wooden prison. He rocks back and forth to build momentum. He figures the weakest part of the chair will be where the seat and back meet so he focuses his attack there. He envisions the wood and screws bending and snapping under the weight of his frame. He whips his body from left to right rolling across his stomach. He's pretty sure he's got at least one cracked rib as the pain is excruciating every time he moves. By now he's made dents in the floor and heard the wood groan under him more than once. "So close....just a little more pressure and..."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2v5Ly7nZ9KlB0l4VQETbEicnvivru93m5XsObh-EKmmQXDwpASYwJg7eoSON9KOq2uWmUE3Fd2VYIKQ8JtyW59BFJuOKMeiBxXCIFPV5gqaj6HqJ3pWogWk2Bhkc8Vh8b-FRAOdD1eQ/s1600/diner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM2v5Ly7nZ9KlB0l4VQETbEicnvivru93m5XsObh-EKmmQXDwpASYwJg7eoSON9KOq2uWmUE3Fd2VYIKQ8JtyW59BFJuOKMeiBxXCIFPV5gqaj6HqJ3pWogWk2Bhkc8Vh8b-FRAOdD1eQ/s320/diner.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a>There is an audible 'CRACK' and the ropes immediately loosen around him. He makes another pass at it and this time the chair crumbles under the relentless onslaught. Fitzsimmons sits upright and fiddles with the ropes. He kicks away the chair which is nothing more than kindling now and slowly makes his way to his feet. His back screams at him and for a good minute he needs to stand bent at the waist to will his back to straighten itself. When it does, there is a pop somewhere near his tail bone and the pain is almost immediately remedied. Slip-disc he thinks? He takes a moment to survey the damage done. From what he can tell he was severely worked over with a blunt object like a pipe. His nose is broken. He can feel the cartilage crunch as he passes a finger over it. His eye is in pretty rough shape too but it's not a total write-off. He'll be sporting a beautiful shiner for a few weeks. His lower half seems ok. Ankles a little stiff from the ropes but he can walk and maybe even run if need be. His chest is another story. He hears a rattling noise every time he breathes. It might not just be a busted rib he thinks. There's a good chance his lung is punctured too.<br />
<br />
Fitzsimmons walks to the doors and looks quickly out of the greasy windows. Sure enough, there's a diner on the other side. The lights are off and the space looks empty. He cracks the door a little and slips quietly out behind the counter where he crouches until he's sure the coast is clear. He peers over the counter and surveys the dining area. The booths look empty but he can't be completely sure. It's dark and the ambient light from outside isn't helping; the vertical blinds are seeing to that. He looks around the counters and locates a large bladed knife. Used for cutting slices of mediocre pie, it can also puncture a few necks if the need arises. He feels a little more confident knowing he's now got a modicum of defense. He stands up and steps out from behind the counter; the knife poised at the ready. He looks for the door and plans to beat a hasty retreat when he sees something shuffle in the darkness at the other end of the diner.<br />
<br />
Your eyes have a funny way of playing tricks on you. People are not nocturnal by nature so we often struggles to see in the dark. We have trouble making out details and distances and this makes us vulnerable. But it also makes us cautious and in some cases.....it makes us dangerous. Fitzsimmons is an individual of the latter classification. He tightens his grip on the knife handle and takes up a stance that clearly announces his intention to defend himself should the need arise. The diner is quiet with the exception of the humming of the refrigerated display case and the rattling in his lungs. He watches the darkness and begins to count. If he makes it to 5 and nothing happens, he'll chalk it up to nerves and be on his way.<br />
<br />
1..........2..........3..........4 (the darkness at the end of the diner seems to breathe). "I'm not sure who you are or what the fuck you think you're doing....but I'm not in the mood right now."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpV8WDkOPAnDLGZaijVsXJAtqnvmcfrbEcwpkAqpzqi_L90P6wRfjx1R5Ii3SSUiD68sV0Dktj9ncV4_unPFOBd0NVkO5YWBDDL_JzYyYGGv6UkL-6WFJj78G54f69mQZj4kF4eheaWk/s1600/He's_Watching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikpV8WDkOPAnDLGZaijVsXJAtqnvmcfrbEcwpkAqpzqi_L90P6wRfjx1R5Ii3SSUiD68sV0Dktj9ncV4_unPFOBd0NVkO5YWBDDL_JzYyYGGv6UkL-6WFJj78G54f69mQZj4kF4eheaWk/s1600/He's_Watching.jpg" height="235" width="320" /></a>The diner starts getting colder and the light (what little there is) seems to bleed into the cracks and corners rendering the space between Fitzsimmons and the exit almost opaque. A low growl emanates from the dark and the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. Fitzsimmon is legitimately afraid. He estimates the distance between him and the door is approximately 15 feet. He could be out on the street in mere seconds assuming the door isn't locked. Seems good in theory except that 15 feet is equally shared with whatever is lurking in the darkness. He might be able to run, but what then? He uses his peripheral vision to look for another way out. He wants to seem in control of the situation even though his knees shake and he's made water in his pants....again.....<br />
<br />
The thing in the dark is watching him with hungry unseen eyes. It measures his moves and smells his uncertainty and although it is as dark as pitch, Fitzsimmons is confident he can see this thing smiling at him out of the gloom. But then the darkness shifts and he realizes that there are two figures standing cloaked in shadow. One clearly smaller than the other.<br />
<br />
A voice drifts out from the dark.....<br />
<br />
"<b><i>Fiiiitttzzzssiiiimmmoooonnnnsssssss.......</i></b>" it whispers. "<b><i>I've waited so long to find someone like you. Someone who knows how to treat a girl just right and show her a good time. I'm so happy my Daughter has taken a liking to you.</i></b>"<br />
<br />
Another voice, this time from the smaller shape. "<i><b>Can I keep him Daddy? I promise I won't break him like the last one!"</b></i><br />
<br />
"<b><i>Oh yes darling......you are rough with your toys aren't you? But if this one breaks Daddy will just get his sweet girl another one.......</i></b>."<br />
<br />
And in that small, still moment, he knows this thing is here to do him harm. Not the physical harm he endured while tied to a chair and beaten. Not even the harm he suffered at the hands of a drunken Step Father or the harm of the elements as he slept on the street. No....he knows this thing is here to hurt him in ways he cannot fathom. To do irreparable harm to him that will mark him like a stain.<br />
<br />
In this shut down diner on some isolated street deep in the belly of the city Fitzsimmons knows that his sins have come to visit him; to share a cup of coffee and a slice of warm apple pie.<br />
<br />
He wonders if he'll be able to have a scoop of icecream with his slice.........<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Iu2uoYOukUhqVW-neVfyKgQbAoy4Bkn8ImFq8C5OPxjil67D6Qhz73ogQU99IURpdfXi-09dtqs7Vn616lYEucBAqEY9kZRVH7sRUgW_d-YvN6iIBmoYY0vIOYDOPVfOz9hwcSZ4ZEI/s1600/abandoned-diner-new-jersey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Iu2uoYOukUhqVW-neVfyKgQbAoy4Bkn8ImFq8C5OPxjil67D6Qhz73ogQU99IURpdfXi-09dtqs7Vn616lYEucBAqEY9kZRVH7sRUgW_d-YvN6iIBmoYY0vIOYDOPVfOz9hwcSZ4ZEI/s1600/abandoned-diner-new-jersey.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-38823359720806519052014-02-07T15:39:00.000-05:002014-02-07T15:51:12.378-05:00Superman dies in the end....<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPgsNKO7efT7TpoCsvx19KyUK3A1W6AB2WU9EVCWBkcxIh6XBWRq1mUGqRnVLKNKo0uOzJZ-2Bnm76k3Pk74nBuVOey28lfGY9xtJphBdCES4lfz1mwTuPK5vKRRcgqq_wwOfCyZmYq0/s1600/Superman1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPgsNKO7efT7TpoCsvx19KyUK3A1W6AB2WU9EVCWBkcxIh6XBWRq1mUGqRnVLKNKo0uOzJZ-2Bnm76k3Pk74nBuVOey28lfGY9xtJphBdCES4lfz1mwTuPK5vKRRcgqq_wwOfCyZmYq0/s1600/Superman1.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">W</span>hen you’re at the top of your game, sometimes it’s
hard to see the potential for failure. Superman once fought a beast in the
Comics known as Doomsday and when all was said and done the most powerful character
in Superhero lore was beaten to death. And quite frankly, he deserved it. Much
like the Man of Steel, we often consider ourselves more powerful than a
locomotive; impervious to the dangers that rise up to defeat us because we feel
that we’re indestructible. But even the mightiest of giants can be felled if
the stars align just the right way. Superman
made <b>5 fundamental mistakes</b> that
cost him his life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<h2 style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-weight: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->He was too full of himself<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why wouldn't he be? He’s Superman. Historically there didn't
seem to be anything that could stop him; Kryptonite aside of course but
realistically he conquered every obstacle thrown at him. The fact was though,
Superman failed to see that one day someone (or thing) might come along that
was just simply better than him. It was that complacency that prevented him
from seeing impending danger and asking “What if I can’t do it? What if I fail?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What’s the lesson
here? Don’t get cocky with your abilities. They may fail you in the end so
learn to adapt.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<h2 style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-weight: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->He was everybody else’s “Go To” guy<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the world was in trouble or the rest of the Heroes
couldn't handle the situation they called in the big guns! Superman would swoop
in to save the day whether it was something as simple as saving a Kitten in a
tree or stopping an interstellar armada hell-bent on destroying the Planet. He
could be counted on for just about anything.
Then one day he was gone; buried under 6 feet of earth and those people
that had come to rely on him were left to fend for themselves. While they
eventually got things under control there were struggles and hardships. Had
Superman <b><i>helped more people to help themselves</i></b><i> </i>they wouldn't have been in such a predicament and would have been
able to carry on without him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What’s the lesson
here? Share your knowledge. Create everyday Heroes that can stand up to
challenges if/when the Major Leaguers are nowhere to be found. Take a step back
and let others shoulder the weight for a time.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<h2 style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-weight: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->He didn't know when to say “Enough!”<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although he was put on this Planet to do great deeds and
help people there had to be a point in time where he just got sick of it all.
When he was tempted to just hang up his cape, put his feet up on the couch and
watch re-runs of the Brady Bunch. The man worked relentlessly. He was always on
the move and never took a day off. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion
and when the time came for him to dig deep and draw on those extra energy
reserves….he couldn't. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What’s the lesson
here? Take a break every now and then. The job will still be there when you get
back. A break will help you refocus your energy on tasks and your output will
improve exponentially. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<h2 style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-weight: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->He couldn't think ‘on the fly’ (Sorry for the
pun)<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Superman was a man of action but that didn't always work to his
advantage. While he was more than capable of solving Lex Luthor’s puzzles, he
failed to use this same brain power to conquer the monster Doomsday. Instead,
he resorted to duking it out like a kid on the playground. Had Superman taken
the time to strategize rather than rely on a skill like his brute strength it
may have saved his life. When cornered, he opted to be physically defensive
instead of tactically offensive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5-vSgDroNuYWjVsfUDSMavNKl_a6Ry6OCynnG0Vws-dyyrXr3qHH3X7POyR4lD4ck_oKDMrPp2l_XtvuD0AvoxsVNaZJK8fFunIIRWY_B0dOu1fnxu11eEVvmPKoT-GOVB0fIMe3_Vk/s1600/Sup2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe5-vSgDroNuYWjVsfUDSMavNKl_a6Ry6OCynnG0Vws-dyyrXr3qHH3X7POyR4lD4ck_oKDMrPp2l_XtvuD0AvoxsVNaZJK8fFunIIRWY_B0dOu1fnxu11eEVvmPKoT-GOVB0fIMe3_Vk/s1600/Sup2.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a><b>What’s the lesson
here? While we all have certain skills that are stronger than others, sometimes
using a skill that people don’t know about can lead to a tactical advantage.
Always keep them guessing.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<h2 style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-weight: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Nobody ever <u>really</u> dies in the Comics<o:p></o:p></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Superman can never really die. Death in the comics is
nothing more than a marketing ploy. Kill off a Hero and people simply scramble
to buy the next book to see what happens next. They rush online to read blogs
and leave comments on message boards and fan sites. Online traffic spikes, SEO
and SEM specialists rub their hands together in anticipation. Store shelves run
out merchandise before the ink has even dried on the page. Death reinvigorates
a stalled product. The industry thrives on the death and rebirth of these icons
because the Customers demand it! It
works for that Market, but the same approach may not work for yours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If your product or service doesn't have the rabid fan-base like
the comic industry has then avoid killing off your ‘Hero Product’. If there’s
one thing that fans hate more than an obvious marketing cash grab it’s when a
company takes away something Customers have come to know and love just to make
it ‘New and Improved’. Superman will
always be Superman. Can you say the same about your Product or Service? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What’s the lesson
here? Don’t change your Hero Product just to make a quick buck. Build brand
value and a loyal Consumer base by offering consistency and a solid return on
their investment. Customers will tell you when they want a change. Your Customers are your biggest fans. Don’t
ever treat them like just another source of income.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When all is said and done Superman made bad decisions by failing
to see his shortcomings and pushing himself too hard. In many ways, he is us
and we are him. We constantly push ourselves to show our worth. We fall into
patterns that can lead us into danger because we become complacent with our
abilities. If Superman is fallible, what chance do we have? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t have to wear a cape to be a Superhero. You just need a sense of humility and enough common sense to understand when to help
others step up to the task; when to cultivate other people’s powers while not
overshadowing them with your own. This is a lesson that will take your entire
life to master but with practice the legacy you leave behind will be larger
than the person who left it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sh8kiGsvn1aQrUko9XkDUykw0VeodLJ8mUhfqfWdx7sdprpXZcTnsIP2opdqnOWxK-K0QS6rvDkhpdWcaz6NQSTn4Fk7e16O_RGUu5hOsZtwlean-b8Z_3K80X9r87KfMXhV-tGHveM/s1600/being-a-hero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_sh8kiGsvn1aQrUko9XkDUykw0VeodLJ8mUhfqfWdx7sdprpXZcTnsIP2opdqnOWxK-K0QS6rvDkhpdWcaz6NQSTn4Fk7e16O_RGUu5hOsZtwlean-b8Z_3K80X9r87KfMXhV-tGHveM/s1600/being-a-hero.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-39679496283714384212014-01-24T16:05:00.000-05:002014-01-24T16:08:30.257-05:00What a Sales Person promises is what a Company delivers and what a Customer is billed for is what the Customer agreed to pay for.My Customer Survey Feedback from a recent interaction with my Cable Provider:<br />
<br />
To whom it may concern,<br />
<br />
I've been charged a carry over fee of $68.00+ on my current bill. I called last month to have the issue resolved and was credited for the matter(Transaction number: XXXXXXX/Rep ID: 123456). Then this month a similar charge appeared on my bill driving the total owed to $201.11; almost $50 more than what I normally pay. Julio (the Rep) applied a one time credit to my account to remove the charge but I fully expect that I will have to call back next month to rectify the issue again.<br />
<br />
It's unfortunate seeing as I left XYZ Cable Company because I was constantly receiving inconsistent bills and my contract seemed to always be changing. I'm starting to see the same pattern with you and truthfully I'm not sure if I want to go through the same hassle. There are multiple choices out in the market that offer more for less. Yes it's inconvenient to make the switch but it's also inconvenient to spend time out of my life to wait on hold and in queue to rectify issues that shouldn't be issues in the first place.<br />
<br />
Your billing model always feels off and while I understand that charges will incrementally increase when promotions end, I always have that gut feeling that I'm being screwed out of more money than necessary. I have yet to have an experience with a large Telco that doesn't make me feel that I'm constantly paying more month after month. Unless I go over my internet or long distance usage, my rate should never change.<br />
<br />
In general I have had a good experience with the services you provides me. I have not had significant cable, internet or phone outages and in general, everyone I've spoken with at your company (or it's 3rd party affiliates) has been professional and pleasant; including Julio.<br />
<br />
Where my concern lies is the fact that your systems don't speak to one another, documentation is rarely accurate or visible to all relevant parties and I feel like I'm constantly having to re-explain my issue anytime I call in.<br />
<br />
What I look for in a vendor is quality of service overall; not just aspects or elements of it. From sales to hook-up, through support and cancellation, the experience needs to be seamless. I am not just the Customer, I am your Client. One of hundreds of thousands, but a Client none the less. I pay for service and ask only for a decent return on my investment. Your company doesn't <u><i>need </i></u>my money; you're doing quite well without my $150+ a month. But I'm still revenue generation nonetheless. Any loss or implication of loss should be considered a risk regardless of what fraction of a percentage it may make up towards your bottom line.<br />
<br />
I'm providing this feedback in the hopes that you have a department that reviews Customer Sat or Voice of the Customer surveys and evaluates next steps on how to manage the results. I'm not asking for a callback or email. I'm simply asking that you read over the comments and nod your head in agreement at the fact that big companies still need to be accountable for mistakes (little or not) and take proactive; not reactive measures to fix them. Nod your head and agree that big companies need to work on ways to strengthen communication between sales, billing and Customer support departments. Nod your head and agree that what a Sales Person promises is what a Company delivers and what a Customer is billed for is what the Customer agreed to pay for. Simple concept in theory but much more difficult to execute.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading. Give Julio a high five for me.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-58752332845532314862013-10-15T23:58:00.001-04:002013-10-16T00:08:01.350-04:00One Bitterness Smoothie coming right up!Look chicky...I get it. Your little bum looks good in yoga pants. You're young and trendy and by working at Booster Juice you're attempting to prove that you're health conscientious too. But none of it....I repeat none of it means a lick of spit if you refuse to even acknowledge me at your register and then seem annoyed when I order something from you. Trust me girly, your bitchy resting face needs practice 'cause I can out stink eye you from a mile away. Oh....and one last thing....licking your hands after getting juice on them and then handling the fruit and cups is a violation of health and safety regulations. But you probably already knew that seeing as how you wear yoga pants and work at Booster Juice.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-45448414265225049012013-06-17T13:58:00.003-04:002013-06-17T14:01:36.550-04:00Relish in a Squeeze Bottle is Ree-donk-u-lous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2sMe1jGv-HdHseOXkVtZuZwESy-O7gb6mXAsw4oBpP4-6uwg6RdfULB9hKmbB4iwCBX3_uDw2JBV4rSPuIJ6pQezqhDDvAqs6Z-CyaodKfbBeOWbUKsHIMBACBB7EPXkBBJW5XN7Cv8/s1600/relish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2sMe1jGv-HdHseOXkVtZuZwESy-O7gb6mXAsw4oBpP4-6uwg6RdfULB9hKmbB4iwCBX3_uDw2JBV4rSPuIJ6pQezqhDDvAqs6Z-CyaodKfbBeOWbUKsHIMBACBB7EPXkBBJW5XN7Cv8/s320/relish.jpg" width="127" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some things were never meant to be squeezed through tiny holes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Recently, I wrote a letter of complaint to Heinz regarding their Relish in a Squeeze Bottle Fiasco. Unfortunately, their online feedback form only allows for 258 characters....hardly enough to plead my case, so I opted to put it on my blog instead. Enjoy!<br /><br /><br /> "Good day.<br /><br /><br />It's pretty rare that I take time out of my day to write about something that; in hindsight, is pretty trivial. But truthfully, it's bothered me for some time now and I thought I should let you know.<br /><br /><br />Relish in a squeeze bottle is one of the worst marketing ideas your company has had since coloured Ketchup (remember that? It was terrible too). You see, there's a fundamental flaw in the design. Taking something like an oobleck (that's a solid with liquid qualities much like quicksand) and expecting it to flow out of a spout like a liquid...has disastrous results. The solids of the relish clogs the spout but the liquid gushes out....all over your food.<br /><br /><br /><br />Imagine if you will, a hot sunny day in June. Hot dogs have just come off the grill and they are cooked to perfection. You sit at the dinner table with the family and the meal begins. You begin to masterfully craft the art that will soon become your hot dog. You use architectural cunning and prowess to scaffold onions, cheese and tomatoes while forming complex lattices of Heinz Ketchup and Mustard. As the coup de grace, you reach for the Heinz Sweet Relish in the squeeze bottle....and watch as horror unfolds in front of your very eyes. The relish holds firm in the bottle, and your hot dog, your Mona Lisa of Grill Work....is saturated in vinegar, sugar and pickle juice. The hot dog is soaking wet....the bun is ruined and you are left staring at the travesty that was dinner.<br /><br /><br />Please tell your Relish Engineers to go back to the drawing board. If we can put a man on the Moon, we can certainly design a better delivery system for our Relish.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftshapsi9jE66GAdXQxEQ9ejSjzppqbSLhyphenhyphen4nu1p3aqB4KmzSSt8nVl407CAAKujbSZElREkBNpQVzifmzNJm-b3ORVJJWUbAZFW_K0GpyE5619Va34sIxUM8SlY_0RWZaju0XiRSzus/s1600/Sad+Man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftshapsi9jE66GAdXQxEQ9ejSjzppqbSLhyphenhyphen4nu1p3aqB4KmzSSt8nVl407CAAKujbSZElREkBNpQVzifmzNJm-b3ORVJJWUbAZFW_K0GpyE5619Va34sIxUM8SlY_0RWZaju0XiRSzus/s320/Sad+Man.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How I felt after Hot-Dog-calypse</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br /><br /> With Regards,<br /><br /><br /> The Can-eh-dian Kid@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-68213816451936344812013-04-21T21:07:00.000-04:002013-04-21T21:07:24.640-04:00Planet Fall<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTcb2GZ7Tdt3GyTkbRb0RmQZ4Km-UqO2xVPXHmMVOXL1k6EpJgy1Ghf3aFDtAZSsaTfRl7TjLq-q42JZPuBei_roASeGfrjtP9eewSWLbXFmQBkDlptaX38MCjS4tihCcZ5M4yMLpvYDA/s1600/barn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTcb2GZ7Tdt3GyTkbRb0RmQZ4Km-UqO2xVPXHmMVOXL1k6EpJgy1Ghf3aFDtAZSsaTfRl7TjLq-q42JZPuBei_roASeGfrjtP9eewSWLbXFmQBkDlptaX38MCjS4tihCcZ5M4yMLpvYDA/s400/barn.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She sat with her legs hanging over the edge of the weathered red barn.
Below her, the wheat listed lazily from side to side in the breeze of the
late summer. She knew this would be one of the last things she would ever see
in this lifetime; on this planet. As the stalks swayed back and forth she
wondered if it was going to hurt. She wondered if she would feel it? She
wondered if she would feel anything ever again. It was at that moment; as
the dusk has just settled in, when all was quiet and the world seemed to slowly
exhale all at once, that she saw him coming through the fields. Even from this
distance, she could see the glint of the deepening sun off his glasses. The
field seemed to melt around him as he moved through it. She knew it was just a
trick of the light and the heat, but to a young girls mind that was already
racing with fear and hope...in that moment, he looked like a young god among
mortals.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She quickly rose to her feet and dusted off the straw. The small bits
clung around the hem and stitching but she truly paid it no mind. If anything
it added to the country simplicity of the dress. Her hair hung in a loose braid
to the side; a simple white ribbon wound throughout and on her feet she wore
nothing but a small ring on her toe. She had run barefoot most of her life much
to the disdain of her Mother. She figured why start wearing them now all things
considered. She opted for no make-up with the exception for a small amount of
rouge on her cheeks which she had borrowed from her Mother's vanity table. She
wouldn't miss it and even if she did it wouldn't really matter after tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She took the stairs down from the loft 3 at a time as her heart raced
inside of her chest. The rouge on her cheeks was quickly being overshadowed by
the natural hue of blood pumping just under the skin. The smell of the barn was
all around her now; old hay and sawdust dominated the air but subtle tones
seeped through. Rain and pine. Smoke and ash. She knew that the barn had
burned partially when she was barely old enough to walk and while she was too
young to remember the fire itself she would never truly forget the panicked
noises the animals made while trying to flee or the smell of charred wood that
hung around the house and yard for days afterwards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She pushed the memory out of head. Thomas was her focus now.
It would be him and only him. They shared a connection that only
two young people in love can truly achieve. They had never known the
pleasures of the flesh, but just before Thomas had left early that summer, they
shared a kiss that would solidify his place in her heart for the rest of her
life. A moment so perfect and innocent that it seemed to freeze time.
A moment that stopped the June Bugs from clicking and brought every
firefly in the valley out to light their way home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77Az_LSwrmSvN26N3yp0EM504w0IRmSA212Sm6h77PwkBK2-D4baEz4PEB35YYPJRgAM12fh1d_7rqewblY15X55bMZ8nPHz8jJDvdblRtb-yumGJkVj2rqPlGO7Qvq1Aj5nav6auoOw/s1600/Thomas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77Az_LSwrmSvN26N3yp0EM504w0IRmSA212Sm6h77PwkBK2-D4baEz4PEB35YYPJRgAM12fh1d_7rqewblY15X55bMZ8nPHz8jJDvdblRtb-yumGJkVj2rqPlGO7Qvq1Aj5nav6auoOw/s400/Thomas.jpg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thomas pushed through the last row of wheat and paused to wipe the chaff
from his face. He pulled a small handkerchief from his pack pocket and
absentmindedly wiped at his brow. The humidity this time of year clung to
everything. It made the air heavy and thick and any form of physical activity;
even something as simple as walking, became a chore in itself. But if Thomas
was upset about the heat, all resemblance of annoyance melted from his face
when he saw Suzanne waiting by the old barn door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sunlight was at a level where it started to cast shadows across the
land. Soft light drifted through the slats of the barn and trickled across the
beams of the roof and down onto the floor making every corner of the old place
seem to breath for just a brief time. At one point, the light caught the edge
of an old stained glass sun catcher tucked off to the side of the
door. A million colours suddenly lashed out in all directions. Reds and blues
shone in her hair as orange and purple trickled across her brow and cheeks. It
gave her an ethereal quality; a glow like one would find streaming
off of the Fae Folks had they really existed. The Fae were known to grant
wishes in stories and if there were ever a story that needed a wish...it was
this one. But Thomas knew that no amount of wishing would change the course of
the evening. He took an extra moment to drink the scene in before he closed the
last few steps between the two of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As is the case with many young lovers, the first few moments were
awkward. Eye contact seemed difficult and blush-filled grins were all but
impossible. There was an unspoken electricity in the air around them. They could
feel the hair on their necks and arms raise ever so slightly. But whether it
was their impending connection generating this pulse or the planet sending out
early warning signs that something wasn't quite right, it truly didn't matter.
Thomas's gaze left his feet and he breathed deeply before looking at her
directly. She met his gaze equally and the smile faded from her lips. Thomas
looked deeply saddened and it broke her heart to see him like this if even for
only a moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Thomas, what's wrong? Why are you so upset?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tears had begun to well up round his eyes. He fought to keep them in. He
refused to cry in front of her. How was he supposed to tell this
beautiful creature standing in front of him that he was terrified? How was he
supposed tell her that he didn't want to die tonight? He was supposed to be the
strong one. He was supposed to be able to protect her. He was raised to believe
that if you truly love someone, you fight with everything thing you have to
keep them safe...no matter what the cost. But what if what you were trying to
accomplish wasn't humanly possible? Thomas didn't have a hope in Hell of
keeping her safe. There was nowhere to run. Hiding wouldn't buy them
any time either. All they could do was wait it out. Wait for the inevitable
to happen. So Thomas did the only thing that was still within his control.
Thomas lied. He lied with every ounce of his being in the hopes that
she would believe him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I'm not upset Suzanne. I'm just so happy to see you again. It's
just been so crazy these last few weeks....I was afraid I may not get back to
you in time. I'm just really glad I did."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He hugged her quickly and tight so that she couldn't see the tears
streaming down his face. Thomas thought to himself that this was when his
childhood officially ended. In this exact moment when he lied to this girl in
an act of pure love. 'Protect the girl' he thought. 'Even if you have to die a
liar. I'll be judged for my entire story on the day of reckoning. Not just for
this single chapter.'<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They let each other go and stood quietly just holding each other's hands
for a few extra moments. The sun was just kissing the horizon goodnight and the
land was a deep amber hue with the first batch of stars poking through the
black canvass. Tonight though, the stars looked different....off almost. Their
colors seemed to bleed across the sky and if one were to look long and hard
enough, one might swear that they were pulsing in unison. Painfully slow at
first, but picking up speed at a rate that the naked eye would probably not be
able to detect unaided. The universe was unwell and the poor dust mites known
as the Human Race would soon come to know just how ill it truly was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I like your dress Suzanne. It's beautiful! But...how did you ever
find the money to pay for it?" Thomas asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It's Mama's" she said. "I had a chance to hem it a
little before tonight. I knew she wouldn't miss it 'cause it 's been tucked in
the back of her closet since she and Daddy got married."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I couldn't get a suit. Not...not on such short notice that is. But
I wore my Sunday shirt and pants. I hope that's ok?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Course it is." she said. "Doesn't matter what
you're wearing as long as you're here. C'mon. It'll be time soon. We
should get started."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It hadn't seemed that long ago that Suzanne had made up her mind to
leave. She was 18 after all and no amount of praying would ever change
the fact that her days on Earth were numbered. Double digits if they had
counted right....single if they hadn't. She had been preparing for this
night for the last several weeks now. Ever since the men and women on TV;
the ones who used fancy terms like catastrophic and planet killer, began
theorizing about what would happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the most part, she largely ignored it. She didn't watch much TV and was kept busy most of the time with chores around the farm and errands
around town. But after a week or so she began noticing things around town
that seemed out of the ordinary. People that she had known her entire life
were packing up and moving away without as much as a goodbye. The town itself
seemed smaller each time she went into it. Not just because of the lack of
people, but the entire feeling in the town had changed. People hurried past one
another without making eye contact unless for the briefest of moments. Children
no longer played in the park near the Post Office. Even the other teens
had stopped hanging out around McGillicutty's creek after school. The town was
becoming smaller and Suzanne was beginning to get worried. She wanted to
call Thomas. To talk about life in general but mainly to ask him how things
were where he was. But he was out of town for the summer working on his
Uncle's farm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One evening, while she was finishing up the dishes; as it was
her night to do so, her Father quietly called her into the family room.
From the tone in his voice, she knew something wasn't quite right. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her Father was sitting in his favourite chair as expected. Her
Mother and little brother sat closely on the couch. Her Mom was squeezing
her brother tightly and she could tell that she had been crying. The television
was glowing softly in the background and although the sound was off, she could
read the headlines and tickers flowing across the bottom of the screen. They
all essentially said the same thing; Planet Fall. This was not a term she was
familiar with but as she gazed at the images flickering across at breakneck
speeds she could tell it wasn't good. Rioting in the streets, fires burning
uncontrollably in major metropolitan cities and swarms of the faithful praying
en mass to their respective deity. Some people were openly weeping while some
walked across the camera's path with dazed grins permanently etched across
their mouths.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Suzanne!" her Father's voice snapped her back to reality.
"Pay attention please!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sorry Papa. I was just watching what was going on on the news.
What's happening?!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Sit down darlin'. We need to talk."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suzanne quietly moved to the couch beside her Mother and folded her
hands in her lap. She looked up at her Father while her Mother gently stroked
her hair. Her Father paced for a moment before opting to sit on the edge of his
favourite chair across from them. He searched for the right
words....failed.....and then took up the quest once again. He slowly began,
weighing each word carefully.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Something's happened. Well, more like is <u>going</u> to happen. It's hard to
explain....truth is, I'm not sure if I could even if I was smart enough
to."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He paused for a few more moments. Just when Suzanne thought he may not
go on he cleared his throat and continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Somewhere deep in space, a planet that none of us have heard of
before died long before any of us even breathed our first breath on this rock.
This planet died and because of where it was, or how close it was to other
planets or whatever the case, it cause more 'explosions' and more planets died.
Now, all these planets exploding released massive amounts of energy. Wave after
wave of energy."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What does that have to do with us Papa? Why is Momma crying?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hush child. I'm getting there. Now, the people you see on T.V.;
the scientists and whatnot have been watching this energy for quite some time.
Over the last few years, they began to realize that this energy.....this wave
was moving in the direction of our planet....gobbling up smaller planets and
moons in its way. Well, not so much gobbling as dissolving them. Making them
just disappear out of existence. These scientists tried to come up with
different ways to stop this wave, or redirect it so that Earth would be safe.
But even the smartest people on the planet don't always have all the answers.
Man wasn't made to understand everything in the Universe. Sometimes the
Universe just decides to set things right....in its opinion. So here we are.
The day will be soon upon us when things just stop being. Can't outrun it.
Can't hide from it. Just have to wait until it happens."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And with that, Suzanne's Father stood up and walked out of the room, through
the kitchen and out into the yard. He sat silently crying on the porch.
Although it was out of his control, he felt like he had failed as a Husband, as
a Father and as a Man. But how does an ant protect the colony from the shoe of
a child? Something's are outside of our control. This was one of those things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The days crept along slowly after that night. Chores seemed pointless
and life around the farm became somewhat of a still-life painting with images
and people and animals all blending in to the background. Suzanne's parents
became withdrawn and spent most of their time flipping through old photo
albums. Her brother locked himself away in his room blasting angry music on his
stereo. In a house full of people, she had never felt more alone. At night, she
could hear her parents making love through the thin walls that separated their
rooms and while it disturbed her to know her parents did such things, it was
her Mother's soft weeping after the act that kept her awake most nights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The news was keeping a countdown clock up on the screen day in and day
out. At last estimate, there was just over a week left before the wave would
overtake the planet and snuff out all </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">matter. The big
blue marble would simply cease to exist. All of our history, our innovation and
our future opportunities would be vaporized without prejudice or a
second glance. Suzanne still had trouble fathoming what was coming. How could a
18 year old possibly hope to understand these things when she barely knew what the
next town outside of this one looked like. She</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><u style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">had</u><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">to get a hold of Thomas. If she was
only going have a week left on this planet, she would spend it with him. A few
desperate phone calls and a lot of whispered prayers later...and he was on his
way home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Did you bring the book?" Suzanne asked. "Were you able
to find the right words?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"I got it. It took some time to find the page, but I think this
should work well." Thomas replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sun was all but gone below the hills and darkness had come to the
farm. Suzanne worked quickly to light a few of the candles around the barn
before it was too dark to see. The flames danced lazily and cast long, twisted
shadows across the walls. Under normal circumstances, the barn might seem eerie
and off putting but tonight, it was filled with a sense of anticipation.
Both occupants knew that life would be fundamentally different tonight
regardless of the outcome of the next few minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thomas brushed off the little table and set one of the candles down so
he could see the text. The Bible was old and weathered. The cover had been bent
and folded and bruised a countless number of times by a countless number of his
relatives. This had been the family's book. It was special and was only to be
used in special situations. Thomas couldn't think of anything more special than
this. The book mark that held his place had once been a deep, vibrant red. The
kind only seen in rare books or expensive linens. Time and use had reduced it
to little more than a fine series of blush threads. Thomas couldn't help but
turn his thoughts to the impending wave. He wondered if his body would be
stripped away thread by thread; much like the way this book mark had been. In
reality, it really wouldn't matter because unlike the book mark and the book it
was attached to, there would be nothing left to compare and no one left to do
the comparing. Thomas pushed ahead and began to read.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>"1 Corinthians
13:4-13 </b><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: inherit, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span>Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or
boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not
irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but...." Thomas
trailed off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What is it? Go on Thomas....I like that
passage." Suzanne said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It just doesn't seem right. I mean...that's
not right. I mean that THIS; right here and right now is so very right! But
this passage doesn't do it justice. Not with everything about to change."
Thomas furled his brow in frustration. Suzanne moved closer to him and gently
took the book from his fingers. She quickly flipped through the worn pages; her
eyes darting across the words, straining in the candlelight. Suddenly her face
lightened and her eyes slowed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"This one. This is the one I want you to
read."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She handed the book back to Thomas who accepted it
with a tiny smile on his face. As always, she amazed him. Even at the end of
the world, she could still find time to make him smile. Thomas cleared his
throat and began again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Ruth 1:16-17 "Entreat me not to leave you, <br /> Or to turn back from following after you; <br /> For wherever you go, I will go; <br /> And wherever you lodge, I will lodge; <br /> Your people shall be my people, <br /> And your God, my God. <br /> Where you die, I will die, <br /> And there will I be buried. <br /> The Lord do so to me, and more also, <br />If anything but death parts you and me."</b><br /><br /><br />He looked up from the pages and met her eyes. For a moment, neither one of them said anything. Thomas reached into his pocket and gently pulled out the ring. It was a thing of great beauty for it was hand crafted and etched with the precision of skilled hands much older than the maker they belonged to. A simple wooden ring that had started as a branch from an ancient oak down by the creek. It had taken Thomas weeks to whittle, shape, smooth and carve out the perfect shape. The carvings snaked in and out of the band with immaculate accuracy and running deeper around the outer edge of the band was a fine ring of silver which Thomas had melted down and painstakingly poured into the ridges. The ring would be overlooked by the wealthy but coveted by the paupers had the opportunity arose, as it truly was a labour of love. He took her hand and dropped to one knee. The ring slid effortlessly over her finger and held true. She pulled him gently to his feet and then whispered into his ear<br /><br /> "I do."</span><br />_________________________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An unnatural quiet had fallen over the farm. The animals were no longer rustling in their stalls, the insects had ceased their incessant chirping and the wind had all but died away. The night was silent save the heartbeat of two young lovers tucked away in the loft of an old red-sided barn. Their breathing in unison, their bodies entangled in a flurry of sheets and hay and careless abandon. The candles burned low now and the wax had wept all across the table and floor. They whispered soft, hollow promises to one another. They talked about children, and travelling and growing old together. They made plans for a big pancake breakfast the next morning with fresh orange juice and strawberries from the fields out back. They lay with one another late into the darkness and kept watch of the night sky through a hole in the barn's roof. As the conversation slid deeper into broken words and sleep laden fragments, the stars around them begin to blink out. Suzanne was none the wiser, sleep claiming her long before Thomas.</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first pulse washed over the farm in a flash of cold blue light. The
trees rustled but no more so than if a strong breeze had made its presence
known. Thomas prayed quietly that she would not wake up, that
she wouldn't see the end. Whatever divine presence was still left on
the Godforsaken world, it must have taken notice. The second and third pulse
hit in tandem and so close to one another that Thomas almost thought they were
the same one. With each pulse, there came a soft hum as it passed over. As the
pulses came more frequently and faster, the hum grew louder
and didn't fade away. The hum seemed to be everywhere and Thomas
noticed that he could feel it in his toes. It was a mild tingling sensation
that could be likened to pins and needles, but not the kind that one would find
unpleasant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The waves were now indiscernible and all bled into one
another. Thomas lay beside Suzanne as the numbness slowly climbed across his
naked frame. He imagined that if he were to pull the blankets back that he
would no longer see his toes, feet and much of his legs. It was better to keep
the blanket in place lest he panic, and that would serve no purpose in the long
run. He stared at Suzanne breathing gently in the darkness beside him. He
looked over the curve of her face and the way her hair fell softly across her
neck. The girl, who became his love and then became his wife would never truly
know how much he loved her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The tingling intensified and moved more rapidly across his body. Thomas
noticed the sheet losing form as the body that it kept covered lost its
corporeal form. He began to breath quicker as he fought to maintain his
composure. He had begun to cry now; silently as he refused to allow her
to wake to this nightmare. What was waiting for him on the other side of the
veil? Solace? Peace or emptiness. Whatever the universe held in store for the
poor inhabitants of this world, Thomas knew that he would not go gentle into
that dark night....and he would not go alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Suzanne stirred beside him and in one panicked moment he feared she
would snap awake and scream until there was no longer a mouth for her to scream
with. He lifted his hand and hovered just over her mouth. He would make it
quick if it came to that, to spare her the horror of the alternative. But
instead, she nestled closer into his neck and quietly whispered<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"It's cold Thomas." The buzz filled his ears and rattled his
teeth. Thomas took a deep final breath and then the world went dark. And with
that, the species known as the human race; a species so young in its infancy,
so full of promise and opportunity and misgivings blinked out of existence. As
quickly as they had passed over the planet, the waves now floated silently into
the vast expanses of space leaving only emptiness in its wake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the Universe has a funny way of acting as a great equalizer. Planets
and Solar Systems and Civilizations are created and destroyed in a blink of an
eye with neither regard or bias or worry and the Earth is no exception to the
rules that govern the Universe. As Stephen Hawking once said <b> "We are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star. But we can understand the Universe. That makes us something very special."</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While love may not always conquer all, it does have
a way of being down-right stubborn until it gets what it wants. And the story
of Thomas and Suzanne is if nothing else an exercise in love. Who are we to
truly say that we understand all that the Universe is and all that it has to
offer? For in the end, it is not our Science or our Religion that will right
the wrongs. It is the simple love between two people that will defy the cosmos
and will make the Universe realize the error of its ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">......And the Voice whispered <b>"To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders." </b>And in the quiet void that followed,
Suzanne and Thomas opened their new eyes.......and smiled.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-51073606766549819752012-10-09T11:18:00.001-04:002012-10-09T11:18:07.859-04:00Asperger's Syndrome, All Grown Up<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uOCw9InXPKM?fs=1" width="480"></iframe>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-56556597373326073402012-09-08T17:27:00.001-04:002013-10-30T16:15:17.283-04:00Southern Fried AngerIt's almost deafening; the sound of a million cicadas buzzing in the trees overhead. Their sole purpose to eat/breed/die drives the mind-numbing drone that cuts through radio channels and rattles your fillings. The mercury outside the window begins to bubble by 7 in the morning. When it's hotter outside than inside your cup of coffee, you know it's going to be one of <i><u>those </u></i>days. The kind of day when it feels like you stepped into a sauna when you walk outside and stepped out of a shower with your clothes on when you come back inside. It's the kind of day that make people lose their cool very quickly. When people stop being civil and choose to offer up heaping portions of <b>Southern Fried Anger</b>.<br />
<br />
The weather man in his flashy suit shimmies and shakes on the screen. Trying to make his message of suffocating heat and humidity more tolerable to bear. Showing us grade-school like graphics of a smiling Mr. Sun and the Lazy South Wind fanning themselves to get through the day. Mr. Reynolds pays no real mind to the din in the background; the t.v. and Cicadas droning on in synchronicity. Instead he is focused on the spoon in his coffee. While the spoon itself is nothing more than a standard, run of the mill spoon it is the action of the spoon that has him enthralled. For while he stopped stirring his coffee several seconds ago; after being drawn into a newspaper editorial about lawn watering restrictions in Shelby County, the spoon seemed to have other ideas. In this case....to continue spinning of its own volition.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99Iv-IkQ5RpxFpoecs_cFYWGnzemsXUP_AhjlxvfRu4skjMZd3AVSY6EfmN59b_KEo1zX1Cr_V9J5sVhV3DaKhzCknAEU_w0fDFD36fRYsRPYJ8JyJD2nSgWFmBP-_F-GzfHQCFR-s2w/s1600/Coffee+Spoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg99Iv-IkQ5RpxFpoecs_cFYWGnzemsXUP_AhjlxvfRu4skjMZd3AVSY6EfmN59b_KEo1zX1Cr_V9J5sVhV3DaKhzCknAEU_w0fDFD36fRYsRPYJ8JyJD2nSgWFmBP-_F-GzfHQCFR-s2w/s1600/Coffee+Spoon.jpg" /></a>Mr. Reynolds is well aware of the laws of physics surrounding a body in motion tending to stay in motion but he has yet to find the law that allows a spoon to stand perfectly straight up in a cup of coffee while continuing to stir as if steered by a hand. To his knowledge, he is witnessing something against the laws of physics. Something.....unnatural. He reaches out to stop the spoon from continuing it's whirling dervish around the cup but before he gets the chance, the motion stops and the spoon comes to rest.<br />
<br />
A tiny object flits across his face and darts madly in every direction possible. He swats sluggishly at the fly in a vain effort to show the tiny creature that it's presence is not appreciated. But much like man ignores an ant that scurries at his feet, so too does the fly pay no heed to Mr. Reynolds. It continues its Kamikaze like behaviour diving aggressively towards his breakfast, his coffee and his face. Mr. Reynolds can't help but take notice this time. He swings his arms ineffectively at this tiny nuisance to no avail. He quickly grabs the newspaper in front of him and rolls it into a blunt weapon. But this fly is wise to the ways of man and quickly retreats to the far end of the kitchen table; knowing the man will more than likely give up the chase if it requires leaving the comfort of his chair. The fly's gamble pays off as Mr. Reynolds drops the paper back to the table.<br />
<br />
"You got lucky this time." he says. The fly rubs his legs together; unimpressed by the threat.<br />
Mr. Reynolds points his finger at the fly and cocks his thumb like a gun. He drops the hammer and the fly suddenly bursts into flames at the other end of the table. Instant ash. A small wisp of smoke curls up from the end of his glowing fingertip. Mr. Reynolds is losing his mind.<br />
<br />
He doesn't blink for what seems like an eternity. The smoke dissipates and the finger throbs back to its normal peachy tone as if nothing so strange as firing imaginary incendiary rounds has just happened at the breakfast table. The fly is nothing more than a smudge at this point; simply ceasing to be. His heart is hammering the walls of his chest and he can hear the blood rushing through his veins. It makes a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound in his ears.<br />
<br />
A repetitive beeping noise calls out in the distance and Mr. Reynolds starts to bend back into reality. The smoke alarm is going off; set in motion but the fly's spontaneous combustion. He jumps up and uses the paper to swat at it until it stops squawking. It is only then that he realizes that the noise may have been a blessing in disguise; functioning as both smoke alarm and alarm clock. He's going to be late for work. Already catching hell twice this week, he can nary afford another incident lest he wish to receive the stink eye and disapproving grimace of <i>Jonathon, </i>his new fresh-out-of business-school-dating-the-owner's-daughter-district-manager. <br />
<br />
The two had butted heads since day one when Jonathon first came in to perform a productivity audit at the Owner's request. Mr. Reynolds it seems, had been found lacking in a few key areas and was flagged immediately as 'dead weight'. He received a tap on the shoulder while sitting at his little 4x4 cubicle and asked to follow a man in an impeccably expensive suit. The man held the door open to the small meeting room and ushered Mr. Reynolds inside with a wolfish grin.<br />
<br />
"Mr......Reynold's is it?" Jonathon said glancing over some papers on a clipboard.<br />
"Last time I checked." Mr. Reynolds replied. That got him a cocked eyebrow glance. At least it was something he supposed.<br />
"Mr. Reynolds, my name is Jonathon Beauchamp and I've been contracted to identify areas within the business that are not working up to snuff so to speak. I've been asked to identify these gaps and then fix them. Mr. Reynolds....you are a gap."<br />
Mr. Reynolds sat motionless across the small conference table. He stared at the man in the suit but made no effort to respond or even truly acknowledge that he was being called out as unproductive. This earned him a tie shift and throat clear.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Reynolds the company has concerns that the input of money, training and time it has sunk into you has not yielded a sufficient enough return on investment. They are concerned that they're losing revenue because you're not productive enough. You've been seen on several occasions staring blankly at your desk or 'doodling' in your workbook. One of your coworkers said they saw you staring into your briefcase for 20 full minutes! This is now my concern and I'm not fond of having concerns. So....what are we going to do to fix this concern? What are we going to do to make you more productive?"<br />
<br />
"Well for starters" Mr. Reynolds said "taking me away from my desk and my work to ask me rhetorical questions is probably not a good start. Wouldn't you agree Mr....Beauchamp was it?"<br />
<br />
Silence crept across the table as the two occupants of the room locked eyes. Neither one was willing to back down on this matter; the young up-and-coming business man with everything to prove and the middle-aged tenured desk-jockey with nothing to his name but his job. Mr. Reynolds understood the drill. He knew the company had been struggling financially for the last few months. Most businesses had. But as hard times fell, so too did the job chopping axe. Jonathon was a hired gun. Mercilessly sent in to find the employees with the most tenure, the most pay or with the jobs that could be easily automated or forgotten. Mr. Reynolds fit two of those three categories.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Reynolds, truth be told...I don't appreciate your tone. I know what you must think of me...."<br />
<br />
"Actually, you have no idea." He calmly remarked.<br />
<br />
"Well, regardless of hurt feelings you and I both have a job to do. In this case, the ownership for improvement lands squarely on both our shoulders. So here's what's going to happen. You're going home for the rest of the day. For the rest of the afternoon I want to you to write out an action plan as to the steps you are going to take to start being more productive while here at work. We're going to meet tomorrow morning and go through your action plan to see how applicable your points are. And believe me Mr. Reynolds, I have no qualms about scrapping all of your ideas for my own. I'm simply entertaining this idea because the nice lady in Human Resources told me that I'm required to by law. However, she also mentioned that the next steps we take after today's little meeting....are at my discretion. So! Let's be productive this afternoon and start fresh tomorrow shall we?"<br />
<br />
Back in his kitchen, Mr. Reynolds stares at the blank page on his table. There is no header or footer; no footnotes or end notes. He hasn't even written his name or the date. This pristine virgin page will not be sullied by ink meant to sign his death certificate. He knows full well that Jonathon has no intention of even considering his recommendations. Furthermore, he sees no need to write an action plan for things he doesn't even recall happening in the first place. He squints at the paper and it crumbles into a tiny ball. A slight smile crosses his face. He grabs his keys and heads to the car.<br />
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He makes the drive to the office in the usual time. The ride is uneventful except for the radio not coming in clearly. Mr. Reynolds makes a mental note to get that looked into. He pulls into his spot and walks across the lot to the front doors. In his haste out of the house this morning, he realizes that he's forgotten his access card. As he's typically one of the last employees into the office each morning, he knows that he might be stuck outside waiting for someone to let him in. Imagine the joy it would bring to Jonathon if he showed up late to their meeting. He glances at the doors and his vision trembles slightly. The doors grind open against the hydraulic arm and the lights in the entrance way flicker violently. Mr. Reynolds may be losing his mind....but he's enjoying the process.<br />
<br />
Jonathon is waiting at his desk when he gets upstairs. He looks at his watch and mutters something under his breath. He impatiently twirls his fingers in the 'let's get a move on hoss' movement at Mr. Reynolds and then walks to the small conference room. Reynolds takes off his coat and sets his briefcase down at his desk. He notices his keyboard is slightly askew; most likely from the Cleaner. He moves his hand as if to straighten it and it glides back into place. He looks at his coworker across from him; sitting bug-eyed and disbelieving that he's just seen what he's seen.<br />
<br />
Mr. Reynold's smiles. "Magic." he whispers as he walks past the desk and towards the conference room.<br />
<br />
Jonathon is waiting in his usual spot; across the table in the windowless room. He has all his necessary papers fanned out and his 2 pens are clicked and ready for deployment. What a good little soldier he is.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Reynolds, I truly hope you used yesterday to think about your actions. The business world can be a strange mistress some times. One day you're sharing her bed, the next day you're out on the curb looking for a new place to sleep because she's found a new partner. That being said, I believe you have something for me? An action plan if I'm not mistaken? Let's take a look please." <br />
<br />
Mr. Reynolds looks down at the empty table in front of him. "Well Jonathon. There's a slight problem with your request."<br />
<br />
"And that is?" Jonathon asks.<br />
<br />
"I wasn't sure how to write something using bullshit. So I just didn't do it."<br />
<br />
"I see." Jonathon remarks. He slides a manila folder across the table. "You'll find all the pertinent information regarding your dismissal in the folder in front of you."<br />
<br />
Mr. Reynolds opens the folder and begins perusing the contents. Standard letter, final pay stub, business cards for Councillors. Run of the mill. Amazing at how your life can be summed up in half an inch worth of paper he thinks to himself. The word 'legacy' seems offensive if applied to this sad display.<br />
<br />
"On a more personal note Mr. Reynolds" Jonathon begins "if you want to survive in the new business world, you'll need to be ruthless. Focused. Nobody's going to want to hire a tired old man with no drive or ambition. Take my advice....if you want to ever work in this field again, you better be willing to destroy your competition. Because people want to be amazed....and you sir, certainly aren't blowing anybody's mind."<br />
<br />
"Are you saying I need to 'wow' you? That I need to blow your mind Jonathon?" Mr. Reynolds whispers.<br />
<br />
"I think we're passed that point now Mr. Reynolds. I just don't see that happening quite frankly."<br />
<br />
"Well then..." Mr. Reynolds chuckles ".....allow me to entertain you."<br />
<br />
The lights in the conference room begin to dim and sputter out. A hollow hum begins to the fill the room around the two of them. The table begins to vibrate ever so slightly and the papers start to singe and smoke at their corners. Jonathon shifts uncomfortably in his chair as Mr. Reynolds stares him down. The hum is deafening now but no one outside the room take notice. That is because the humming is emanating from Jonathon's skull. He tries to stand up. He knows something is horribly wrong. The man across from him makes no effort to help him even as he gurgles out a desperate plea. There is a small pop behind his right eye and then the room goes dark.<br />
<br />
Mr. Reynolds is losing his mind. But at least he still has his. Unfortunately.....the same can't be said for Jonathon.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-29164764864968138232012-07-31T22:57:00.000-04:002012-07-31T22:57:02.045-04:00Herd<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz8-jC-XESGAeroY0oU0dtkpt8MNtSUGGKe7F8s3m4WasdEXkkkKAYWsxY8ePJHaxCZbAMp-9BPwpW1uHCsbMiNDjtPVJ7zSyTSJe2liXlvNIWQzjePmyUdp9jAxJx43KqUT_PhOGxHPo/s1600/Coal-Trucks-Traffic-Jam-China.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz8-jC-XESGAeroY0oU0dtkpt8MNtSUGGKe7F8s3m4WasdEXkkkKAYWsxY8ePJHaxCZbAMp-9BPwpW1uHCsbMiNDjtPVJ7zSyTSJe2liXlvNIWQzjePmyUdp9jAxJx43KqUT_PhOGxHPo/s320/Coal-Trucks-Traffic-Jam-China.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The storm that came rolling in last night was easily one of the worst the city had seen that summer. Downed power lines, backed up sewers and trash cluttered the streets and alleys. Filth from every conceivable corner clung to the sides of buildings, side walk curbs and news paper boxes. The air was oppressive; much like it is after a storm whispers false promises of cool relief, only to cruelly withdraw this bliss at the last possible moment. Suffer the children one might say. And the children of the city do. Man, woman and infant bake in the summer steam. The night is still and angry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He looks over at his alarm clock and focuses on the blurry numbers. It's the deepest part of the night when all should be still, but through his window and past his fire escape, he hears the beasts of the unsettled jungle below. He knows that sleep will never come to him...not at this late hour. Instead he rolls out of bed, slips on his second skin and decides to take the fire escape to the streets below. He's not normally nocturnal, but tonight he makes the exception.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He follows the well worn trail to his local watering hole. He could find it by scent alone if the need arose but tonight he calmly plods towards his destination. With any luck, he'll be able to have a drink in a quiet corner without being run off by some angry drunk; looking to strike up a fight with anyone who happens to stray too far into his territory. He wets his lips in anticipation and checks his blind spots before crossing the street.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He senses something off before he sees it. A strong smell of copper fills his nostrils and instantly the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He stops dead in his tracks and listens. There's the hum of an engine around the corner and the chirp and squawk of a radio. He begins to walk again, more cautiously this time and rounds the side of the building. Bright yellow tape assaults his eyes as he takes in as much of the scene as possible. Bright lights pulse red and blue in a rhythmic motion. Once a hub of activity, the scene has now calmed to dull chaos as only a handful of necessary personnel remain behind. Scavengers hang back on the edge of shadow and light hoping to snag one scrap; one meaty morsel that they can brag about to their friends. "Did you see the blood?" "...saw the gunman...." "....guy died right their on the pavement...." Watering hole is closed. Time to head back to the den.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz8-jC-XESGAeroY0oU0dtkpt8MNtSUGGKe7F8s3m4WasdEXkkkKAYWsxY8ePJHaxCZbAMp-9BPwpW1uHCsbMiNDjtPVJ7zSyTSJe2liXlvNIWQzjePmyUdp9jAxJx43KqUT_PhOGxHPo/s1600/Coal-Trucks-Traffic-Jam-China.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dawn breaks over the city as he washes the dirt and sweat off from the night before. Today he starts the long journey again. To move away from this place of comfort and back into the grinding slow burn of office life. He's done this dance so many times before today. He has the routine down to an art form. Wake, shower, shave, eat, preen, leave. Today should be no different but after last night's waking sleepwalk, he needs caffeine to get on track. Leaving his apartment he drifts down the stairs and out onto the street. The Diner at the end of the street is percolating pure Colombian gold right now and he plans to take it. And he will....even if he has to tear someone's throat out to get it. This is his street. His Diner. His coffee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bell over the door signals his entrance as he saunters in to this familiar haunt. Eyes turn to meet his from a half a dozen different directions. Indifference, interest, annoyance, anger. Emotions run high in the room as the city's weary citizens jockey for position to get a table or grab take out. He waits his turn as he understands that that there is a pecking order to respect right now lest he want his hide tanned. The line moves along without incident and he eventually finds himself at the counter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Coffee please. 2 Sugar."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The counter attendant grunts something relatively indifferent and shuffles off to fill the order. His focus drifts as he waits for his morning jolt and he glosses over the the inhabitants of the Diner. People in power suits speaking lou dly into phones; loudly enough to announce how important this conversation<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><u>must</u><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>be. Blue Collar Workers either coming off shift or on shift. Rugged hands and tired eyes move together under leathery skin laughing and gesturing with a sense of ease that the Power Suits could never truly appreciate. They speak of quitting time and the hot day ahead. Of cold beer and mediocre sex. They move through this place with their hopes and dreams in their back-pockets and their loose change left on the table. A family quarrels in a booth near the door; wiping spilled milk off of a city map. The child has tears welling up in his eyes....lower lip blubbering slightly. Both parents are annoyed but whether it's at the kid or one another---that remains to be seen. But it's not his fight.<br /><br />The counter attendant returns with a steaming Styrofoam cup and rings up the total without ever really making eye contact. Just another customer. Just another order. Just another 6 hours before the shift is done. He pays the bill with exact change and turns for the door. The bell jingles again and She walks in. 'DREAM' ---from across the alley. The stolen moment between them still fresh in his mind. The heat from that look she offered him.....the heat from his Fire Escape. He begins to raise his hand to say hello when he notices the swelling around her eye. The bruising high on her cheek. The look of a broken woman. This time, she doesn't meet his gaze. This time she sweeps her hair over her eye and looks through him on her way to the counter. She drifts within inches of him and he can smell her hair; jasmine and lavender. Crushing. The hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up and he realizes for one split second.....he has stopped breathing. He knows nothing about her save where she lives. But on this humid morning....in the belly of this city, he silently promises her that she will never feel the sting of another blow.<br /><br />There's a city bench across from the Diner. He decides there's time before work and so he sits. Taking the lid off the coffee to let it cool he's not 100% sure what he's going to do. But he knows he needs to do something. This woman; this mystery deserves 5 minutes of his time. He owes her nothing yet feels a pull of something deeper and more primal than just pure chivalry. He feels a wanting to be there for her. To offer her shelter, a shoulder and perhaps a bed. So he waits silently on the bench as the world crashes around him. The trees are still this morning as nary a breeze ruffles their branches. They stand like silent sentinels; watching over the city. In some way, he takes comfort in this thought. His own personal armada. Vigilantly backing his decision.<br /><br />She leaves the Diner a few minutes later and steps into a waiting car on the corner. The windows offer little insight as to who is behind the wheel, but with little effort one could imagine that this person is the same person who drew her back into the shadows of her apartment the other day to.....to what? Beat her? Terrorize her? He realizes that his speculations could be completely off base. He has no grounds, no reason to be doing any of this. The heat must be getting to him he tells himself. He looks at his watch and curses under his breath. He's not late....yet. But he knows that if he doesn't get out of the city now, he'll be stuck. Cornered in with the rest of the Herd.<br /><br />He heads for his car and prepares himself for the migration. He knows the city like the back of his hand. Which streets to take and when. Which on-ramps to avoid. Which exits to steer clear of. He navigates the road with the expertise of a Formula 1 Racer. Today is the exception. Traffic is moving at a crawl when he enters the hi-way. He knows he missed his window by only about 5 minutes, but normally that's all it takes to either be leading the pack or sniffing the tailpipes of the vehicles in front of you. He snarls out a string of words that would make his Mother blush and hunkers down in his seat for a low slow march. From the look on the faces of the drivers around him, they've resigned themselves to this fact too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Gods of the Commute must have been slighted by some unfortunate traveller that day as they let loose their full wrath on the hapless commuters traversing this stretch of asphalt. 2 miles into the drive he notices the sky clouding over rapidly. It's a fast moving cell; more than likely left over from the night before. The sky roils and begins to bleed into a sickly greenish hue. A good sign for bad weather if ever there was one. The air begins to smell of ozone and the thermometer on the building beside the hi-way starts showing the steady drop in temperature as the storm begins to swell. Maybe the motorists around him sense the change too. The flow of the traffic becomes more aggressive; erratic. Engines rev a little harder while idling and feet become ever-so-slightly-more lined with lead when braking. The first drops start to fall. It comes down in sheets lashing the cars around him. At times it comes down so strong it hits the pavement and bounces back up towards the sky. Drains begin to clog and soon the road is an adult slip and slide. Only the kids playing on this one are wrapped up in 3 tonnes of steel and glass.<br /><br />The hole forms a few cars up. It's like a giant hand reached down and scooped up a line of cars to part the way for the rest of these humble people wading through this mess. The advantage is taken by as many as possible. Cars peel out of a dead stop as if chased by some unseen predator. Their tires squeal as they bite into the wet road trying to gain traction; kicking up water and debris. Brake lights flash and just as soon as it opened, the hole has closed once again. The thunder explodes overhead.....and the herd rumbles in discontent.<br /><br />As the people of the city fall back into complacence, waiting for the next continental shift to move the mass a foot or two further, one lone soul reaches his breaking point. A car breaks loose from the pack and lurches onto the shoulder. Horns blare in anger or appreciation as he dashes away to freedom. This will not end well he thinks out loud. And he is right. The police cruiser sitting three rows back tends to agree as well as it fires up its lights and hits the shoulder running. Like a cheetah hitting stride before it catches it's prey, the cruiser quickly starts to close the distance. The runaway vehicle knowing full well it's about to be laid low, panics and flees. It sprints faster; losing traction and swerving wildly out of control. Up ahead, a large truck is stalled on the shoulder----engine failure, out of gas----doesn't matter. For all intents and purposes, this truck is a granite wall whose only purpose is to remain an immovable object in the face of an unstoppable force.<br /><br />He hears the impact from half a mile back.</span></div>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-41257570607139679962012-07-08T17:06:00.000-04:002012-07-09T16:03:53.252-04:00Fire Escape<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYP-eLQjf6LAxQZ43DA75IClEHtVh1HoazZr6TcKiePNn6HtSpSuD_awe2xczQlQN1BpSEKZleRlq3niBQZsFowLBMTBlnw_JZh699KBSWLCjvVP7B_nrzpMnfLmbt2gVzzPjV7Oyu4r8/s1600/fire+escape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYP-eLQjf6LAxQZ43DA75IClEHtVh1HoazZr6TcKiePNn6HtSpSuD_awe2xczQlQN1BpSEKZleRlq3niBQZsFowLBMTBlnw_JZh699KBSWLCjvVP7B_nrzpMnfLmbt2gVzzPjV7Oyu4r8/s320/fire+escape.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>he beat of a thousand shoes rumble up through the pavement and reverberate off my fire escape. I watch the mad throng of people shuffle up and down the avenue like the red blood cells moving through my veins. They stream past one another; heads down, eyes focused on the next several feet of pavement. It is 5:25 p.m. on a Thursday, and the world is waking up.</div>
Smells waft up amongst the buildings peppering my senses in a cacophony of sweat, gasoline, street meat and flowers. They say you have to get above the haze to truly appreciate the air in the city. My fire escape doesn't climb that high. I inhale the breath of the denizens below and exhale slowly. The air is hot. My breath is hot. I look at the pack of half empty cigarettes on my window sill and give it the finger.<br />
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I rest my forehead against the railing of my fire escape but it offers little relief from the humidity. Even the metal seems to be sweating. Looking across the alley something in a window catches my eye. Curtains waft in the ripple of an incessantly turning fan; the blades beating out a constant rhythm. On the window ledge above I make out the word DREAM in large block letters and this makes me smile. The smile is cold though. It might just be the only cold thing around on this steamy evening. Perhaps this word offers hope to the occupant of this lone apartment. I wonder what thing must have caused this person that much despair that they needed to purchase a reminder of how to simply live life?<br />
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Something moves across my field of vision. I refocus my gaze and meet a pair of eyes staring back at me. The owner of the DREAM I suppose. She looks across the alley at me and sees me without seeing me. Her focus is distant; foggy almost as if a thought has latched onto her and won't let her go until she plays it through. Perhaps DREAM has taken hold. Perhaps she's allowed it to take hold and perhaps-----she hopes it refuses to let her go. Lost in a lucid state. Lost in a dream scape ripe with equal parts wonder and terror.<br />
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I study her face from the safety of my fire escape. The round cheeks, the smooth lines on her forehead and around her eyes. She has laughed a great deal in her time---or cried. To this point I can't attest. The freckles across the bridge of her nose gives her a look of pure summer and it breaks my god damn heart to look at her for too long. Her skin, bronzed now from this deep summer bake, glistens as she stands at the window. The tiny fan pounding out hot air in a vain attempt to cool this heavy beast that has fallen over the city is not enough to cool her skin. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of her neck and she paws at it absent-mindedly. Her focus shifts ever so slightly and I realize she is looking directly at me-----and I am terrified.<br />
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There are moments in life when you know you have been caught. Whether it is stealing something out of a cash register or stealing a look from across an alleyway. Either way, when you're caught you're caught. 'Fight or flight' I think. Meet the gaze head on or break for cover and always ask yourself what if? She gives me no choice. The look is met with equal curiosity and perhaps longing. I raise my hand to wave; a friendly neighbour just saying 'Hello'. Yet I feel the pull of something much greater----more primal. She remains still; the curtains the only object moving in her tiny room across the alley. Then her lips part and she breathes out the world 'Hello'.<br />
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The belch of the street below is enough to drown out most noise even this high up. But on this day, I hear her words resound like Gabriel's Trumpet across this chasm that separates us. An old Arab proverb springs to my mind:<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">"The whisper of a pretty girl can be heard further than the roar of a lion."</span></i></b></blockquote>
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We share an innocent smile but far too quickly her's fades. Her eyes become dark pools once again and she listlessly drifts back into some world other than this. I've lost her before I've even met her.<br />
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I see a figure slide behind her and an arm wraps it's way across her chest. A face blanketed in shadow whispers something in her ear and she allows herself to be lead away from the window----from me. In an instant, my world bleeds grey and blue as the colour washes out of the day. Every sound now becomes an inconvenience; a violation of the quiet solace we shared for that brief moment. An air conditioner buzzes incessantly below me and sirens wail in the distance.<br />
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Overhead angry clouds begin their slow march towards an ancient battlefield; where skyscrapers stand tall in defiance of the Gods above. The city watches with a cautious eye and wonders what will break first? The heat, or the people below. Another siren begins it's cry, but from much closer than the last. I look at my pack of smokes beside me on the window sill. The crumpled Camel stares back at me and wants to remind me "More Doctors Smoke Camels than any other Cigarette". I bet.<br />
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The first growl of thunder rolls over my head tenuously announcing its arrival. Below me a woman screams and shots ring out. I open my copy of Tropic of Cancer and put my feet up against the railing. I still have time, on my fire escape-----at the edge of the world.</div>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-72837409265490508252012-06-29T21:09:00.000-04:002012-07-04T14:21:41.858-04:00The Shade of my Ancient Branches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Come sit with me under the darkness of my ancient branches. These long limbs that bend and sway to no master but the Wind. That which commands me; pushes me absent-mindedly, violently shakes me and twists my limbs in anger. That which caresses me like a tender lover; my master the wind. <br />
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These ancient branches that have warmed to the rays of a hundred year of suns. That have drank from unending torrents of rain and that have been stripped bare by the cruel hands of a merciless killer called Winter. My branches are unyielding and will offer you solace. Come sit with me under the shade of my ancient branches.<br />
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Take your shoes off as you walk towards your resting place. Leave behind these trappings of modern man against the curb; against the threshold where man and nature are divided. Where business and commerce and industry fade to a boorish roar and where the blades of grass bend and bow in your wake. Where ants tremble at your approaching footsteps and your soles sink ever so softly into the warm earth. Take off your shoes and feel what your forefathers felt in ageless times before you. When beast and man collided in a dance of fear and desperation and fire.<br />
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Lay your weight against my scarred and sacred pillar; this lifeline that connects earth and sky. Feel my coarse skin dig unapologetically into your back. Know that I do this without malice. Rather, it serves as a reminder that while the world around you changes, I remain steadfast in my beautiful simplicity. For while I move and sway when currents blow, I will not move for you.....for man. I am shelter; I am resolute.<br />
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Listen as I whisper to you in the shade of my ancient branches. Do you hear what I share with you? Do you understand a language that was spoken millennia before you and will be sung still when the next epoch comes? It is wisdom I share with you in these whispers. Whispers of days gone by; of secrets and sins, of a changing landscape that continues to pitch and roll around you as you sit in the shade of my ancient branches; unmoved.<br />
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Will you allow yourself to travel farther away from the world you come from? Will your fingers find their way into the rich earth beneath you? Where death is imminent yet life springs eternal? Do you feel it? The pulse of something much older than you. The movement of things largely unseen; the sliding of bodies, the frantic push of tissue through dirt? I am a part of all that moves below. Your fingers straddle the threshold of this world underneath yet I plunge into it's ether; into obsidian pitch. Perhaps reaching for a returned touch that I will never truly find.<br />
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Our time draws to a close. Perhaps you will carry some of my world back into yours. As you wish movement back into your limbs, I whisper sage advice down to you from my highest reaches. I leave you with dirt under your fingernails as a reminder of days gone by when your ancestors worked the lands. I leave you with furrows in your clothing as a reminder that these lines have been earned not from a hard days work, but from allowing your inhibitions to run rampant for a time. I leave you.<br />
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As you walk back to the sidewalk; to the threshold where man and nature are divided, look back upon this Titan. Look back upon these ancient branches and know that you may return to the shade when the weight of the world becomes to much to bear. As time drags on and the call of the world outside your window beckons, come sit with me under the darkness of my ancient branches.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-27104857068481552762012-06-09T11:48:00.002-04:002012-06-09T12:12:35.242-04:00Hello. My name is "I have no social skills." Wanna be friends?So it's been far too long since my last post. I've been lazy. I've been unmotivated and quite frankly, I've been a little deflated. Work has been tough and my mood has been shaky. But that all started to change last week. I saw something that snapped me out of my funk and decided to write about it. So here goes.<br />
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My boy has a diagnosed case of Aspergers. In short, he has little comprehension of the required social skills necessary to make it through most situations that many of us take for granted. He doesn't pick up on social cues. He barges into conversations. He gets really upset when his routine is thrown out of whack. He is a challenge. But he's also my boy and he's a great kid!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep...that's my boy!</td></tr>
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His challenges can; at times, filter across into the playground and classroom. He has struggled for years to find friends and have them put up with his 'nuances'. Teachers either love him (as he really is quite endearing) or; as it is in this case, barely tolerate him and treat him as a burden rather than a brilliant mind that should be moulded and crafted. Unlike many other 'normal' kids, he has the capacity to do amazing intellectual things. He picks up on small details that many of us would take for granted. At times, on a microscopic level. He can be brilliant. Think,"evil-genius-level" brilliant minus the sharks with laser beams on their heads. And he doesn't really have a fortress of doom.....yet.<br />
<br />
Any ways, as I was mentioning, his challenges often cause conflict out on the playground as he is a constant source of teasing and ridicule. His ticks making him visibly vulnerable and his mannerisms make him odd. It's a constant uphill battle.<br />
<br />
About 10 Weeks ago we were contacted by a local organization here in town called Children at Risk; they work with kids that fall within the Autism Spectrum helping them adapt to situations and learn how to "be" more effectively in the world. They wanted to meet with us (including my son) to see if he would be a fit for one of their programs. 8 Weeks ago he started in to a weekly program with 6 other boys that all had some form or mild Autism, Aspergers or ADHD. The goal was to get them to work together in social situations and learn how to manage their challenges more effectively.<br />
<br />
While this was all well and good, we'd read the books before and tried different approaches and met with mixed results. As this was costing us, I was a little sceptical about the outcome. <b><i> "One more cash grab"</i></b> was the message floating around in the back of my head. I needed to see some serious results to feel that these classes were working.<br />
<br />
Each Wednesday night became routine. The wife and kids would pick me up after work, we'd go for dinner, drop my son off at class, shop for an hour and a half, go back and get him, get the dog from Doggy Day Jail (Petsmart Day Camp) and then wrestle the kids into bed after an exhausting 15 hour day. The first few Wednesdays came and went without so much as a whisper about how the sessions were going. We'd ask my son how the class went and generally were met with one or two words. <b>"Good. Ok." </b>Yep, these courses were really paying for themselves......FML.<br />
<br />
Then about 4 weeks in I started watching the other parents as they brought their kids to the class and subsequently picked them up later that evening. I watched how they interacted with their boys. I watched the look of frustration or apathy melt away from their faces when the door to the classroom closed and they realized they were free for even a minimal amount of time.<br />
<br />
Before you judge though and think that we're all terrible parents that hate their kids, hear me out. As much as I saw these parents go through the motions each Wednesday and systematically cut and run on their kids, I watched their faces when they picked their kids up after each session. It wasn't exhaustion that showed back up, but joy. Seeing their boy come bounding out of the class full of energy and smiles brought smiles to their faces; if even for only a few minutes before the weight of life came floating back down.<br />
<br />
As the sessions progressed, I had more people mention to me that they had noticed improvement in my son's disposition. He was calmer, more focussed....happier. The sessions seemed to be working. At times it seemed difficult to see the progress. Sometimes you're too far into the situation to appreciate the changes that are happening.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until the second last session that the full weight of it actually hit me. I was in the classroom getting my son or at least, <i>trying to get him!. </i>He was fully focused on a game of to-the-death air hockey with the other boys. It was do or die overtime and the play was fast and frantic. Tongues hanging out of mouths in concentration, eyes focused on the puck and smiles as wide as the Grand Canyon on all of their faces. They were having FUN.<br />
<br />
As a Dad, you hope that your kids will grow up healthy, happy and yes.....even popular. For any Parent that has a child that is afflicted by a physical, mental or emotional disorder, you never truly lose site of those hopes, but you learn to adjust your outlook slightly. You learn to be more realistic. You learn to accept certain truths even if those truths smudge your ability to live vicariously through your child. You learn to be a more realistic parent.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-TuGg_2O8JiSonhFtEhh2W2LKxKJAAbhOc_VJo9rAvUQvHZaCAdlmbcKf2TliCAnAxaoRPUNbB710Fls2e2QLuoY7qJn3y4aXnlLnVeUt9YTEneOlzL0KmQ1HzDOoZbUzZKJnJoUSuWU/s1600/Lost+Boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-TuGg_2O8JiSonhFtEhh2W2LKxKJAAbhOc_VJo9rAvUQvHZaCAdlmbcKf2TliCAnAxaoRPUNbB710Fls2e2QLuoY7qJn3y4aXnlLnVeUt9YTEneOlzL0KmQ1HzDOoZbUzZKJnJoUSuWU/s1600/Lost+Boys.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mines the one on the left.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Seeing the boys playing together quickly changed my outlook on things. Yes my son was not part of that percentage of "normal kids". He was an anomaly; an outcast; a misfit. But he wasn't alone. Here before me stood 7 lost boys. The children that couldn't be children because they didn't always understand how to BE a kid. But over these 8 weeks together, they had come to find out that they weren't alone. They had brothers-in-arms that would stand beside them in their oddity because to them....it wasn't odd at all. What we considered anti-social, they considered the norm. They weren't 7 boys with Autism spectrum.....they were just 7 boys.<br />
<br />
Although the group has broken for the Summer the bond formed between these 7 ruffians has not even been bent. Phone numbers have been exchanged, tips and tricks have been shared and plans have been laid that will carry them through until Fall. My boy walks with his head a little higher now as does his Dad who now knows that when he meets a new potential friend, it's OK if he says<br />
<b>"Hello. My name is 'I have no social skills.' Wanna be friends?"</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBAoMjqsUU7AZSrPvNfJtpp8hIyUHO6nsnYZ7fw91BMxMxyn19Pcf5uDsljJtx8DXgs6F6IADdOjf2mKgvu8aRhSfNSZUdxGbELCm3ovkKn6qJsIieNqdGgEcc5koD-mOyvDwG6hKhKI/s1600/Hello.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBAoMjqsUU7AZSrPvNfJtpp8hIyUHO6nsnYZ7fw91BMxMxyn19Pcf5uDsljJtx8DXgs6F6IADdOjf2mKgvu8aRhSfNSZUdxGbELCm3ovkKn6qJsIieNqdGgEcc5koD-mOyvDwG6hKhKI/s1600/Hello.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
It's OK, because somewhere in this city, there are 6 other boys doing the exact same thing. And their triumphs and tragedies will fuel their stories for the next time they meet.....and play another killer game of air hockey.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-56609588356343982192012-03-18T19:20:00.000-04:002012-03-18T19:20:01.370-04:00This is how the weekend sighs to a close.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPZ9YgUOgsFQ4FiLB-UB8WhqgMfwjLp1nngsoN8TdD9tuUusLRtfDhBKvn_VyM56JTP0W-bCBGquMv-ZrSoF6ozz253Em9ZeQYWb_PsQEXWMACik12908AREI88u75jd975HvYFl0DCI/s1600/Dusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJPZ9YgUOgsFQ4FiLB-UB8WhqgMfwjLp1nngsoN8TdD9tuUusLRtfDhBKvn_VyM56JTP0W-bCBGquMv-ZrSoF6ozz253Em9ZeQYWb_PsQEXWMACik12908AREI88u75jd975HvYFl0DCI/s320/Dusk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I sit at the dining room table; the bright pastels of the table cloth beginning to soften as the sun lowers in the sky. I stare distantly across to the kitchen and watch the shadows dance across the pictures on the fridge in the failing light. My coffee has grown cold on the counter. Forgotten in mid-sip as something more pressing made it's presence known. The Gin Blossoms are on the radio. I have a pure moment of nostalgia and it makes me smile.<br />
<br />
This is how the weekend sighs to a close.<br />
<br />
I hear a bird sing high up in the tree; triumphantly challenging Mother Nature to throw one more fierce wintery blast its way. It is resolved in believing Spring is finally here. The sounds I hear out my back window would truly lead one to believe it is back. A dog barks a block away, announcing to all that this is his square of sidewalk and all passers-by must pay heed.<br />
<br />
The house is quiet. The normal stomping of little feet and mad rush of animals; tails, fur and toys-----all are silent. The day has quieted them all away to various corners of the house where they lay curled up on beds and couches, lazily dreaming out the rest of the day.<br />
<br />
I hear children playing games in the distance. They will undoubtly fight the inevitable dusk with every last ounce of wonder they can muster. But the time will come. The lights will yawn awake and the shadows will lurk back into our world. Sounds will dim as the smell of any number of wonderful meals draws these young adventerers back to familiar doorsteps and into the welcome warmth of a home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLdVP7juHNA_F9LehHN1zFa5U7w7t_2idUeU308AOJc0fYNDae5kduKuM9D6GUn8f3kPi8GYvonzuD5NzhWuOZD7gI869Dq83M7OPg0pGf-jGM3LkqwV8RE9SHruFbqMbp1Gc5KiRhXw/s1600/Dusk+Pt2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqLdVP7juHNA_F9LehHN1zFa5U7w7t_2idUeU308AOJc0fYNDae5kduKuM9D6GUn8f3kPi8GYvonzuD5NzhWuOZD7gI869Dq83M7OPg0pGf-jGM3LkqwV8RE9SHruFbqMbp1Gc5KiRhXw/s320/Dusk+Pt2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The sun has burned its eternal ark across the sky; chasing its long lost love in the futile hope that their paths will cross if for only a few fleeting minutes. The constant chase that measures out our time on this blue marble.<br />
<br />
A harmonica plays on the radio and I'm brought back to The Beatles. I can think of worse ways to end this perfect day.<br />
<br />
This is how the weekend sighs to a close.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-63649022428701927512012-02-20T18:34:00.000-05:002012-02-20T18:34:32.129-05:00Why are the hot ones always crazy?It usually starts sometime in the mid afternoon. She's in the kitchen keeping herself busy. She never really stops actually; doing dishes, making cookies, milling around. The music is playing on the stereo. Sometimes it's a familiar song, sometime it's not. But it doesn't really matter. She's dancing anyways. Well, not dancing in the pirouette, scissor-kicking across the floor type of way, but she still moves.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-LfPKjUc_9WyWLio-yAOiDi-CQpJa34t7kEwUA6fPt78s-Qrs0cVJOm_TXOq6KQf3RyC95ff7pmPzHMBdMC8AA9byh8TNYEIRVEChT1YORMXvI_CWRmJSNaFOM0VE2dZhD-mtYMGVl4/s1600/hearts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk-LfPKjUc_9WyWLio-yAOiDi-CQpJa34t7kEwUA6fPt78s-Qrs0cVJOm_TXOq6KQf3RyC95ff7pmPzHMBdMC8AA9byh8TNYEIRVEChT1YORMXvI_CWRmJSNaFOM0VE2dZhD-mtYMGVl4/s320/hearts.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suck it Crayola!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's generally the same rhythm; left, right, left-left. Right, left, right, right go her hips in time to the music. When she's really into it, the mixing spoon sometimes becomes her microphone. She sings regardless of whether or not she knows the lyrics. She sings regardless of whether it's totally out of her range or not. She sings because it's who she is. Unabashedly unashamed. She is my wife and I love her for all of her subtle intricacies and full out bat-shit crazy moments.<br />
<br />
I will never look at crayons the same way again thanks to her. Crayons; those simple little colourful sticks that kids use to scribble pictures. The ones that restaurants give out to shut your kids up for the 30 minutes of time it takes for your food to come and How-the-hell-can-kids-be-expected-to-colour-a-decent-picture-when-you-only-give-them-3-colours-crayons? Seriously. I will never look at crayons the same way again thanks to her.<br />
<br />
Thanks to her flights of fancy and her 'crafty-eye' she decided that these crayons; the ones that are already moulded, formed and wrapped in a paper casing, should be unwrapped, broken into bits, melted down and remoulded in the shape of hearts. 50+ of them. Why? Why because it's Valentine's Day of course. Why else? To hell with you Walmart and your dime a dozen made in China cardboard Valentine's Day cards. She is Uber-Mom....hear her ROAR! Seriously....she will occasionally roar if it helps to emphasize her point.<br />
<br />
She often talks to herself. I don't know if this is because she thinks that I don't listen to her or if it's because she legitimately hears voices. At least she laughs at her own jokes....or the ones the voices in her head tell her. Put it this way....she's never the only one in the room. On that note, she has conversations with our animals. Full out, "Can I offer you some tea and cookies while we chat" kind of conversations. Maybe the animals talk back. I'm not 100% sure but rest assured....the conversation never gets stale.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYocq_gHWEkmhGr1bbqP4qY8fvDKw-Rhz_mLRvjvxgO5PgE4Jt2z2EnyKnMvdZyBWbSF5T66dciQHgrPiR4NNYliMyEvxwcAQryBBiTs-UmdaoVC2LubShAbKYPYxAIdh-s41g2ZnT34/s1600/gun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYocq_gHWEkmhGr1bbqP4qY8fvDKw-Rhz_mLRvjvxgO5PgE4Jt2z2EnyKnMvdZyBWbSF5T66dciQHgrPiR4NNYliMyEvxwcAQryBBiTs-UmdaoVC2LubShAbKYPYxAIdh-s41g2ZnT34/s320/gun.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's fear in my eyes as she points the musket at my head. Notice the smile.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I'm partially convinced that she is part cyborg. Not only because she had one child ripped out of her stomach and the other pushed out naturally without any drugs but because she often comes close to lopping off her fingers when cooking and she seems able to just shrug off knife wounds while arterial spray hits the roof. I'm not sure if she can take small arms fire. I'm not going to try and find out. She hasn't asked me where she can find John Connor so I guess I'm safe.....for now. <br />
<br />
I will never meet another woman that can turn my head and then turn my stomach seconds apart from one another. On our wedding day I toasted her and exclaimed that I have never met a woman that can out drink, out burp and out fart me. She has still not let me down in any of these 3 categories. And yet I find myself staring at her during quiet moments of the day and marveling at how graciously and beautifully she is aging.<br />
<br />
She doesn't often wear make-up, nor go out of her way to tease and tussle her hair and yet I'm drawn to her natural simplicity. <em>Why are the hot ones always crazy? </em>I know she's not a supermodel by society's standard and I wouldn't want her to be. I'm totally cool with girl-next-door sweetness. I'm taken by the freckles on her shoulders and her strawberry blond hair. You can't manufacture that stuff. It's just pure.<br />
<br />
This is a woman that has driven to and from California to be with me in my quest for work. She has trusted me to travel from continent to continent even when the risks seemed high and the rewards were low. She puts up with my family-----that's says a lot for those who know me. She puts up with me.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So....is she a dancer? An artistic genius? An animal psychic? Perhaps a Terminator or a Super-model? I say put a check mark in "All of the above". She is my wife and I love her for all of her subtle intricacies and full out bat-shit crazy moments.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vMYS4NYTHy0wUL4BbaZa-aQLAQpXjqFUMVM3wfv1FhHXGEkufVgXPRO4XrGdG8L4l8GTNHdsk1JwquPxMh92nxRS8q8GTXkyltHL3akc4vyFyFFPUfA3nQT1pDB04FirAcIxU9JmF9I/s1600/Jen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-vMYS4NYTHy0wUL4BbaZa-aQLAQpXjqFUMVM3wfv1FhHXGEkufVgXPRO4XrGdG8L4l8GTNHdsk1JwquPxMh92nxRS8q8GTXkyltHL3akc4vyFyFFPUfA3nQT1pDB04FirAcIxU9JmF9I/s400/Jen.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love this shot.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-89801770883295876672012-02-15T09:35:00.000-05:002012-02-15T09:35:34.441-05:00Things I forgot about.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4D90-odvGhri5cquL8DtQNYIW5Ijtb3NNCiQm5w4RlUDgBc1Lo9rPn3I4JEfkzPuikcKHbjVJclHIaqt-dwlehfkVaHkbkQtm5SvVeW_llyoez0YyYUOBstQlXeK6HJg5EE5KiixQiE/s1600/Things+I+Forgot+About.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY4D90-odvGhri5cquL8DtQNYIW5Ijtb3NNCiQm5w4RlUDgBc1Lo9rPn3I4JEfkzPuikcKHbjVJclHIaqt-dwlehfkVaHkbkQtm5SvVeW_llyoez0YyYUOBstQlXeK6HJg5EE5KiixQiE/s640/Things+I+Forgot+About.jpg" width="640" yda="true" /></a></div>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-19389938789407515402012-02-09T11:34:00.000-05:002012-02-10T09:19:21.667-05:00“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.”-Mike Tyson<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvOzaby5sg5wslPjaLWN7Ihzt90zVmqT1ukBGs2rueNNAOdgaVPrGhPdTrZuUAFRw8R2ezTPBQssBvDN8XTSUhj_zv4PTdVJvSLoPVfsi1MQRUmee0bbZEriA22CHAjlv9XCMmpG_mn4/s1600/facepunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitvOzaby5sg5wslPjaLWN7Ihzt90zVmqT1ukBGs2rueNNAOdgaVPrGhPdTrZuUAFRw8R2ezTPBQssBvDN8XTSUhj_zv4PTdVJvSLoPVfsi1MQRUmee0bbZEriA22CHAjlv9XCMmpG_mn4/s320/facepunch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">“Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.”</b>-Mike Tyson. I think Iron Mike clearly nailed it when he said those eleven words. They speak volumes in life as they do in business. Even the best strategists have to be prepared for the unexpected. When tasked with a project or challenge, you spend time prepping, researching and scouring facts and figures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You analyze, speculate and coordinate your plan of attack; your masterpiece---your Magnum Opus. You step into that ring to show off your skills……</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Then that left-hook comes out of nowhere and lands squarely on your jaw; leaving you punch-drunk and reeling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘Where did it come from?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who threw it?’</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You stagger around the <s>ring </s>boardroom looking to regain your footing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You start swinging wildly at your foe while frantically looking doe-eyed back to your team in the corner hoping desperately that someone will throw in the towel and call the fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then you’re hit in the solar plexus with a flurry of jabs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The wind rushes out of your body and stars start forming in the corner of your vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room is quickly growing dim and your knees take on the consistency of cooked noodles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You list dangerously to one side; hitting the ropes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the canvass rushes up to slap your cheek as the ref gives you the 10 count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’re done.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Your Manager stands over you shaking their head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Next time you bring me a report on A,B,C you better bring you’re ‘A-Game’.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Once the crowd has cleared, the blood has been washed from your face and the tape removed from your hands you start to really question what happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘How did I not see that coming? I’ve fought in this very same ring a countless number of times and I’ve always won.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did my boss know about that gap in my report?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did they know that I didn’t have the most up to date numbers from Marketing?’</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">In business, much like in boxing, practice and preparation will only take you so far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will learn to duck and weave, hook and jab with scary precision but once you step into that ring, anything could happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your preparation only gets you so far before instinct and timing become your guides.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So how do you prepare for future fights so you don’t end up getting ‘rope-a-doped’?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Get in the ring and start learning.</b> If you’re not willing to look back over older presentations you’ve done or notes you taken to see where improvements could’ve/should’ve been made, then you might as well hang up your gloves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll get knocked around every time you get back in the ring and your opponent won’t need to make much of an effort to get you back on the ropes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make it a habit to review previous comments and edits to ensure you’re not simply rehashing old content or mistakes. Learn from your mistakes.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Change up your sparring partners</b>. Sometimes you need to break from routine in order to see what you’re capable of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you’re ready to get back into the ring pick a more difficult partner to spar with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take a few shots to your ego to see what your limit is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Run your work past tougher critics within your organization.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ask them to be ruthless and scrutinize every phrase, word and syllable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In doing so, you’ll widen your view of what might happen when in the midst of a real bout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll quickly identify which punches will be thrown to simply ‘test your mettle’ versus those punches that are meant to knock you flat on your backside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch and learn.</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Expect to get hit</b>. If you go into that ring thinking that you’re untouchable, the shock of getting nailed in the face may be much more than you were initially prepared for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be ready to take a few shots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Use this as a learning technique to gauge the strength and strategy of your opponent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Use objection handling techniques such as rebuttals and redirection to keep your opponent on the defensive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Use well mapped out facts and data points as your left hook and right cross to keep them on the ropes.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7E563N8CxMxVkljY8tCM3XmOoJy2iaomcIB22nKDOWJwubkPKvT1S_UjCWG-VNCxtXs2d__XyvWyF-0isG-9HY1l_e95ZhmCPAE630Q_SgCC3tNGsATBTI8804Shl0t8otaz5uAZeJMc/s1600/mike_tyson090310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7E563N8CxMxVkljY8tCM3XmOoJy2iaomcIB22nKDOWJwubkPKvT1S_UjCWG-VNCxtXs2d__XyvWyF-0isG-9HY1l_e95ZhmCPAE630Q_SgCC3tNGsATBTI8804Shl0t8otaz5uAZeJMc/s320/mike_tyson090310.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Use your head as much as your fists</b>. Learn how your opponent fights. Talk to colleagues or better yet to the fighter themselves and ask them what they expect to get out of your match. While it might seem odd to bring the fight to your opponent outside of the ring, good strategists will take every opportunity they can to learn from the best. When you get to fight night, watch your opponent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch their body language as it’s one of the best indicators as to when they’re going to throw a punch. Listen to their tone, their phrasing and their intonation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Subtle changes in the dialogue can be a warning sign. Remember their approach and their demeanor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chances are they won’t change their approach drastically during the fight. If you can anticipate their ‘swing’ then you can duck, dodge and deck ‘em with information before they even know what hit them.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">For those of us in the business world I’m certain you’ve nursed more than a few black eyes and split lips in your time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But chances are you were back in the gym the next day prepping for the next match. We take our lumps from time to time with a wry smile and the knowledge that these hits will eventually make us better fighters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If not…..we can always take up Golf.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></div>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-16555193859043388862012-02-03T19:38:00.000-05:002012-02-03T19:48:46.600-05:00Veni, Vidi, Vici. Or more aptly: Bang-o-rang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DhwK_bId5UmIMoxV8J1GPBPnT4bnvWlnAU2nt4eUFTB6car6EbXlGYPg4Pg4N_l0keTav8poLYElgPQUgraK8BCUvzvUQgOnCFLJKLnZ2g9eesXeGF3YuSlJJpHrTJAvec8nRYR48Pc/s1600/Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DhwK_bId5UmIMoxV8J1GPBPnT4bnvWlnAU2nt4eUFTB6car6EbXlGYPg4Pg4N_l0keTav8poLYElgPQUgraK8BCUvzvUQgOnCFLJKLnZ2g9eesXeGF3YuSlJJpHrTJAvec8nRYR48Pc/s320/Beach.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><em>I</em></span> sat staring at myself in the bathroom mirror today. More specifically, I was looking at all the grey hairs that have been springing up all over my head with as much gusto as you'd find emanating out of a High School Cheerleader. "Yep....they're multiplying." I thought.<br />
<br />
Soon enough, my George Clooney-esque salt and pepper look would make way for a full Ted Danson-like coif. Don't get me wrong...the look works for him. He is a powerful and attractive man and I have much respect for his follicles.<br />
<br />
You see, I was beginning to feel my age. At that particular moment, my mind chose that opportunity to wander away from work, responsibility and reality. At that particular moment; standing amongst the soft whooshing noises echoing from the Urinals; I drifted. My thoughts turned towards that gnawing question that never really goes answered: <span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><strong><u> Have I done enough?</u></strong></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>At the end of the day, when I'm ready to shuffle off this mortal coil, have I done enough?<br />
<br />
<br />
I know...I know. You're saying 'Buddy, you're in the can. Not the best spot to have a crisis moment.' But I wholeheartedly disagree. The bathroom offers solace.<br />
<br />
As my eyes wandered over the outline of my face, I took notice of the wrinkles that had slowly begun forming around the corners of my mouth, my eyes, my forehead. I saw my skin; sickly sallow (could've been the halogen lights above me) and I sighed.<br />
<br />
<br />
'You're getting old.' my reflection said.<br />
<br />
'So are you.' I snidely retorted.<br />
<br />
'So what do you have to show for it old man?'<br />
<br />
'I brought my bang-o-rang. Every chance I got.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Now, for those of you that had a childhood and an imagination, the term Bang-o-Rang might hold some meaning for you. It does for me. Essentially, it's what the Lost Boys screamed out when they had amazing adventures with Peter Pan. Whether it be fighting the evil Captain Hook, or rescuing Tiger Lily from the Braves....Bang-o-Rang. Childish....but I love it. Bang-o-rang. Say it. Respect it.<br />
<br />
As the seconds ticked by and my reflection decided to hang around until I provided him with sufficient explanation to validate my ridiculous claim, I started my response with an apology.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry I'm fat. Sorry I've always been and always will be a fat guy. Even if I lose the gut, I will still be jumbo size; the kind of guy that needs 'circus-tent' large when he shops for shirts. I'm sorry that my idea of working on getting a six pack involves me getting in my car and driving to the beer store rather than doing sit ups and crunches.<br />
<br />
My weight has prevented you/me/us from doing many of the adventurous things that western society tells us we must do like climb mountains, run a marathon and go cliff diving. Magazines, TV, the Internet all push us to believe that unless we are active and dashing and rugged 24 hours a day, then we have failed....miserably. But I refuse to believe that I must accomplish these things to be happy. To do what I love. To be Bang-o-rang.<br />
<br />
<br />
You see, these people they want you to be aren't real. The man standing in front of the mirror is. With all his faults and flaws and inconsistencies....he is R-E-A-L. He takes the last cold drink out of the fridge and doesn't replace it. He clogs the toilet from time to time. He makes his wife and kids sad when he loses his temper. But he is R-E-A-L.<br />
<br />
<br />
And here you stand across from me.....asking me what I have to show for my years on this planet? I have grey hair. Each one represents an accomplishment in my inconsequential life. These hairs represent the countless hours I've spent helping businesses stay afloat. These hairs represent the people that I have influenced, angered, educated and loved. These hairs represent thousands of miles traveled; from the steps of the Taj Mahal to the shores of Malibu. These hairs represent the stolen moments between my wife and I when the kids are sleeping and the exhausting yet rewarding backaches, skinned knees and snotty noses that come with raising two wonderful children. They represent lust and hate and regret and redemption.<br />
<br />
They represent me.<br />
<br />
So what have I got to show for it? Bang-o-Rang. That's what.<br />
<br />
So for those of you that have those quiet in-front-of-the-mirror moments where you find yourself critiquing the ever-aging landscape of your face and asking yourself "What have I got to show for it?" Run your fingers through your hair and smile at all those greys. They are what make you. Find your Bang-o-Rang.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT71f8XcEJ4E15iV7lF_5gcF_b9ariGCBQ-xRk8DgP2vfTFt4iZMr-Iy_kVTgPMk2n6lDOpFOKZzJTENpAVghHmkSiMsIX50VX0oqLGkhNSxrf7R0Xdc4k_csdeJcPZLe24DCuLf33StY/s1600/Reflect.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT71f8XcEJ4E15iV7lF_5gcF_b9ariGCBQ-xRk8DgP2vfTFt4iZMr-Iy_kVTgPMk2n6lDOpFOKZzJTENpAVghHmkSiMsIX50VX0oqLGkhNSxrf7R0Xdc4k_csdeJcPZLe24DCuLf33StY/s400/Reflect.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-27825883912590872862012-01-28T17:48:00.000-05:002012-01-28T17:48:03.571-05:00I totally caught that snowflake on my tongue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbeEBagWprWWc__HAL40aXceOhUC9qT9wW-0Ag4uw0MBfuWHmh1Pl0W9KdhuwmJPty1aCxBaoicVD4Jrm9-zKGHc55i76aXKYZ7SJjxMMCfW_ptLi5LsziREpmHuCeaVMYnTVSiYLTvk/s1600/Old+Man+Winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbeEBagWprWWc__HAL40aXceOhUC9qT9wW-0Ag4uw0MBfuWHmh1Pl0W9KdhuwmJPty1aCxBaoicVD4Jrm9-zKGHc55i76aXKYZ7SJjxMMCfW_ptLi5LsziREpmHuCeaVMYnTVSiYLTvk/s1600/Old+Man+Winter.jpg" /></a></div>Dear Old Man Winter,<br />
<br />
when did you officially start sucking? I mean really? At what stage in my life did I stop looking at you with fond wonderment and slight amazement and start looking at you like a blight on my life? When was it that you started making my bones ache and my skin crack?<br />
<br />
I look back on our time together as a child and I think of all the good times we had. Remember that one time when you and I built that huge snow fort in front of the house? It had tunnels and small windows for whipping snow balls at the enemy. Man......we must've hung out in that thing for hours. It had to have been hours 'cause I remember digging out a 'whiz hole' so we could take a leak out the side without ever breaking cover. Nobody could find us in there....at least as long as they didn't track us back to that patch of yellow snow.<br />
<br />
I remember snow days. No, not just snow days but "You can't go outside because your eyeballs will literally freeze in their sockets" kind of snow day. Those were the days that the car refused to start. I can remember my Dad sitting behind the frosty wheel of the old Buick silently cursing you under his breath....the car sputtering and coughing; refusing to turn over. I knew that if that old beast of a vehicle wouldn't come to life, then there was no chance I would be turned out into the cold to walk to school. Thank you for that.<br />
<br />
I remember snowball fights, and snow angels and finding the biggest snow bank I could possibly find and flipping off it head first into piles of soft, cushiony snow. Growing up in the North, you really were a good friend. After all, we really did spend a lot of time together.<br />
<br />
But as I grew older, something changed between you and I. While there were days that I enjoyed hanging out with you, I found that you started becoming more of an inconvenience and annoying more than anything else. Like a dinner guest that just hasn't quite taken the hint that it's time to go....even as the host is standing there in their pyjamas looking longingly at the clock.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZdZ3_2tQLPcXDH1Dw8-ot5YlgBHmTP-inRGjD2yGsmpRbMlLRsm2nT8Gn7AHopeVECVSwLCYrBti_L6phK0tWW7glPxxDmTLZA6eEP1EE7bTVL6Jzp8njDd1SptQYvQyu4K10UlMOcU/s1600/Kick+Snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkZdZ3_2tQLPcXDH1Dw8-ot5YlgBHmTP-inRGjD2yGsmpRbMlLRsm2nT8Gn7AHopeVECVSwLCYrBti_L6phK0tWW7glPxxDmTLZA6eEP1EE7bTVL6Jzp8njDd1SptQYvQyu4K10UlMOcU/s320/Kick+Snow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm totally kickin' your ass Winter!</td></tr>
</tbody></table> I think things really started to get awkward for us when you stopped helping me and started acting more as a hindrance. Like that time you dropped 20+ centimetres on us and you brought along a huge dose of freezing rain for good measure? Ya....pretty impressive. Except you did this the day I had a major meeting at work and I was hours late for it. Not cool dude. In fact, that was pretty downright 'douchee'.<br />
<br />
You see....I grew up. You didn't. My priorities shifted....yours didn't. I guess to some extent I should've seen it coming. I mean, over the years you've always been into the same things. Every year it was all about cold and snow and sleet and freezing rain. Sure you'd mix it up every now and then with a good ol' dose of frostbite. But c'mon man. Things got real boring real quick. Our visits eventually always followed the same routine.<br />
Me: "Hey Winter! How have you been? It's been about a year since we last talked."<br />
You: "Hey dude! Ya things have been awesome man! You know. Freezing people out. Making cars slide into ditches....totally cool stuff."<br />
Me: "Huh. Isn't that what you did last time we talked? And the year before that?"<br />
You: "Well ya. It's kind of my thing."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">.............and so on and so forth for the rest of time........</span></strong></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftl7kX9-3eODz_JgZKObN_4dGsAWP9UxjHmsom1vsokrWHz-6MdfU5AwJ1WqqcBq3cfc_HRkJzBN-HROwoibM4aifXYNftvmwYZpq3sV5cRl6wxjzzg7x6L-toEkS2Le6HJTy5RwfW2I/s1600/Fat+Kid+Sliding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftl7kX9-3eODz_JgZKObN_4dGsAWP9UxjHmsom1vsokrWHz-6MdfU5AwJ1WqqcBq3cfc_HRkJzBN-HROwoibM4aifXYNftvmwYZpq3sV5cRl6wxjzzg7x6L-toEkS2Le6HJTy5RwfW2I/s320/Fat+Kid+Sliding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fat Kid + Momentum+ Slippery Hill=AWESOME!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Look, I'll admit that I still enjoy your company every now and then. Summer's awesome to lounge around with and all. But somedays, you just really need to jump on a crazy carpet and fly down a snowy hill at breakneck speeds. Truth be told, I can't do that with the rest of your family. So there's that I guess.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I hate the fact that you make me buy snow tires, and add more driving time to my commute and cause my gas bill to go up. I hate that you freeze snot to my mustache and cause my lungs to burn when I walk outside in the morning. It's not cool that you make me chisel my car out of a block of ice or break my back having to shovel tons of snow out of my driveway.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>But I will admit that I still giggle like a little school girl when I catch that perfect snowflake on my tongue (I totally caught that snowflake on my tongue). I still love the way my heart races when I jump on a toboggan and power slide down a huge hill. And that bully inside of me still gets a kick when I land that perfect snowball across someone's face! Especially when it's my kids. Shhhh.....don't tell the wife.<br />
<br />
Maybe we'll never get back what we once had. I'm willing to accept that. I willing to accept that we may need to change the rules of our relationship so that we're not at odds for the rest of my life. I know I left your completely for 4 years. California offered me an escape from you and your abusive tendencies but I came back. I always come back.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaA6f44LyBos9xwOZbXAKEW-zfEyBCMbz-jFHlwMrB0DuxE29DXKX5bUFn_8woETpPTtWvjwCx5WERVG4ggzRm4K5Uz2dVNk8lO7RQrvhudAHjzJZX-lKMWoxZmHVUHOSxBRFSZude84/s1600/Cali.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaA6f44LyBos9xwOZbXAKEW-zfEyBCMbz-jFHlwMrB0DuxE29DXKX5bUFn_8woETpPTtWvjwCx5WERVG4ggzRm4K5Uz2dVNk8lO7RQrvhudAHjzJZX-lKMWoxZmHVUHOSxBRFSZude84/s320/Cali.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Contrary to popular belief...I didn't have a gun to my head when choosing to leave this behind.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So let's do this right. I don't like you anymore on a personal level but I respect you on a professional level. My recommendation is as follows:<br />
<br />
<ol><li>We will have contact with one another during the months of November through March. Any correspondence outside of that range will result in cursing and swearing and shaking my fist at the sky.</li>
<li>You will give these dunder-head weathermen ample warning before you drop ass on us. These guys seem to have trouble tying their own shoes most days let along predicting the weather. They might as well "Consult the bones" rather than watching the Doppler radar. It'd probably more accurate.</li>
<li>You'll keep your tantrums down to no more than 5 over the course of the season. I don't mind an occasional flurry here or there....but 30+ centimetres and 6 feet of sleet and ice don't cut it anymore.</li>
</ol>These are my terms. You will accept them. Only in doing so will you suck less and regain some of that wonder and amazement you lost when you refused to grow up along with me. If our friendship meant anything to you.....you'll take those next steps to make amends.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6krmevInkHnwoGLU9vxlqE1HGFtJsyPhxRi04dtanQa66lGOVnmPT6MunP-_P9ym_9Gava7ujmtFOsrb_cDbgoEAP7HqwjigXsTILBICrcT5nVn7cHFtYHdE9qWXNZT2CHOTqbU5r2kY/s1600/Cry+Snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6krmevInkHnwoGLU9vxlqE1HGFtJsyPhxRi04dtanQa66lGOVnmPT6MunP-_P9ym_9Gava7ujmtFOsrb_cDbgoEAP7HqwjigXsTILBICrcT5nVn7cHFtYHdE9qWXNZT2CHOTqbU5r2kY/s200/Cry+Snow.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm not crying....I'm sweating tears from my eyeballs.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>The Can-eh-dian Kid</em></span>.@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7870531020254185916.post-45255555433459700182012-01-20T23:24:00.000-05:002012-01-20T23:24:37.830-05:00I'd like to introduce you to my new friend SARAH<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUsYqkNQW3BerNOJv2x_jk9fknPgxkyZ69sUc3i-lMekcUcb_cBFhf9c8BEPDmKYBpqxXjB4PD_mqVY5yty4cCZAwOdGscyKePlp50oIhB1pxHqtUby84wv9IuHe2LHihz9AAsCOLARs/s1600/Evan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUsYqkNQW3BerNOJv2x_jk9fknPgxkyZ69sUc3i-lMekcUcb_cBFhf9c8BEPDmKYBpqxXjB4PD_mqVY5yty4cCZAwOdGscyKePlp50oIhB1pxHqtUby84wv9IuHe2LHihz9AAsCOLARs/s320/Evan.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'd like to introduce you to my new friend SARAH. She's going to be staying for a while. She's moved on in to my house and now has her feet up on the coffee table as I write this. It doesn't look like she's going anywhere anytime soon. That's what she thinks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Funny thing about SARAH is the longer she stays, the better the visit ends off. But while she comes in raging like a bull in a China shop, she often leaves with hugs and kisses and a sense that all will be well. But we're not at that part of the visit just yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife and I knew SARAH was planning on making an appearance sometime in the New Year. In fact, we've been anticipating her visit for about 10 years now. Her plans though really didn't solidify until about a year ago. At that point, we started mentally getting ourselves ready for her stay. But no matter how prepped we were, her arrival was still a kick to the gut.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Five days ago, my 10 year old son was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome; a mild form of autism. In brief: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Asperger syndrome is a form of </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.autism.org.uk/en-GB/About-autism/Autism-and-Asperger-syndrome-an-introduction/What-is-autism.aspx"><b><span style="color: blue;">autism</span></b></a><b>, which is a lifelong disability that affects how a person makes sense of the world, processes information and relates to other people. Autism is often described as a 'spectrum disorder' because the condition affects people in many different ways and to varying degrees. </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Asperger syndrome is mostly a 'hidden disability'. This means that you can't tell that someone has the condition from their outward appearance. People with the condition have difficulties in three main areas. They are:</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><ul type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">social communication </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">social interaction </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list 36.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">social imagination. (<a href="http://www.autism.org.uk/asperger"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.autism.org.</span><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">uk</span><span style="color: blue;">/</span><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">asperger</span></a>)</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></li>
</ul><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">While my wife and I had our suspicions; she much earlier than I, it was still a slap in the face when those words spilled out of the Psychologist's mouth. "Your son has Asperger's Syndrome." Somewhere in my mind an imaginary phone began ringing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'That's SARAH calling. She's finalized her travel plans and should be here later this afternoon.'</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Your son has Asperger's Syndrome."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'I'm not sure if we can handle having her visit. There's too much to do. She'll only get in the way of things!'</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">"Your son has Asperger's Syndrome."</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Driving to work after the diagnosis was an odd experience. My wife was on the phone with her Mom. The radio was playing but I can't remember what was on. I remember gliding through traffic and eventually showing up in the parking lot. It was freezing outside that day and regardless of how hot the car heater was blowing, I felt cold....numb. There weren't really any tears shed nor many words spoken in the car that day. How do you react to something that you saw coming from 10 miles away? Nope. There'd be plenty of time for all of that once SARAH got here.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I finished work and was in the process of driving home with the family (they had picked me up after work) when SARAH showed up. I had stopped to pump gas when she tapped me on the shoulder to say Hi. An overwhelming sense of sadness came flooding in; like a weight had been dropped into the pit of my stomach. The first phase had begun.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I should clarify. SARAH is not a person. She is not even a She. She is an it. A concept. An idea. SARAH is what I use to classify the 5 stages people go through when dealing with a traumatic event or loss on some level. Sadness, Anger, Rejection, Acceptance and Healing. The time needed to move from phase to phase is as unique as the person who is going through the process. Needless to say, SARAH has so far been able to manifest in her first two phases. It really comes out of nowhere and there's nothing you can do but roll with it.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQujPAzmODr-t0-vBmNEt9meJl0vwl6_KCW4RmgciSTMfYThfYo3vp_YyAA7BDAEtfAyVgr0h7LEEPCsr542L7mSgETjDb1O215Wah1tBevJUnuz4vf-kYiT9b0X3vRTuyagHRmEcEZa0/s1600/Evan2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQujPAzmODr-t0-vBmNEt9meJl0vwl6_KCW4RmgciSTMfYThfYo3vp_YyAA7BDAEtfAyVgr0h7LEEPCsr542L7mSgETjDb1O215Wah1tBevJUnuz4vf-kYiT9b0X3vRTuyagHRmEcEZa0/s200/Evan2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I've been waking up late at night (I'm not sleeping terribly well these last few nights) and ask myself....'What's next for our boy?' The long and short of it is that he will never be "cured" in the traditional sense. There's no magic pill that makes it all go away. At least that's what the experts say. But I have hope. Maybe that's SARAH making her presence known and showing me her "Rejection" side. I denounce the possibility that there's no possibility for my son to wake up and snap out of it. I think I'll probably always reject that idea on some level.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My wife and I are doing our best to begin to adapt our lifestyle, routines and household to this new and strange disorder. While nothing drastic has changed, the diagnosis; the stigma around the word has us looking at the world through slightly different glasses than before. We're taking steps to help him more with school, chores and social interaction in general, but it's an uphill battle.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Imagine a typical 10 year old boy; full of questions, mischief, humour and heart. Think about how they thrive on social interaction; hanging with their buddies, playing sports. Imagine them collapsing into bed exhausted at night to dream the night away after a hard day of playing. Now imagine a child that has no 'off switch'; no ability to recharge because their mind never stops working….ever. A child with all the hopes and ambitions as other typical 10 year olds but with an inability to read social cues; to understand why their behaviour and actions come across as odd or weird or disruptive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An inability to make and maintain friendships. There's no happy ending right now....only adapting and coping.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div>There's a whole community of Parents with Asperger children out there. They affectionately refer to their children as "<span style="background: yellow;">Aspies</span>". Cute. But at this stage I find the name offensive and not much classier than calling someone a Retard. They speak about the uniqueness of their child and how they will grow up to be Professors or Rocket Scientists or something else amazing. But truth be told, not every child will be so lucky. Some will never be able to live an independent life. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4xqyPwgxgw-2xkg2iDX2ngtT2ienMDtZ7fT10LHDmmeE1HSU2BTR90YQOJw8Z7WzBTYzJKbOlzCyWmsjhAAxnsgp5d_jv7v2pdF7rPR4WCgOuk_B8Bku4JwWtuf69iN739ICmKwYNEk/s1600/Dino.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4xqyPwgxgw-2xkg2iDX2ngtT2ienMDtZ7fT10LHDmmeE1HSU2BTR90YQOJw8Z7WzBTYzJKbOlzCyWmsjhAAxnsgp5d_jv7v2pdF7rPR4WCgOuk_B8Bku4JwWtuf69iN739ICmKwYNEk/s200/Dino.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>We're extremely lucky that Evan will more than likely fall into the first category; able to utilize his amazing visual/memory talents for the greater good. This is a kid who at age 4 could memorize where all the objects were on a seek and find picture book. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the proper social coaching and care he’ll not just be able to cope but thrive. They say 1 in every 150 children in North American is affected by the Autism Spectrum Disorder. Our boy just happens to be one of them.<br />
<br />
My hope is that SARAH will eventually pack her stuff and move on to some other poor bastard family. She's not really welcome here anymore. In the meantime, we'll continue to learn and love as best as we can.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i4wlF7khY_LaDA_XyhZFz7y1GKU2CkmNWHaUkep0wF-jjvRZyDkS9HS1HZtPcXC0tqzNwTF0b90THgH45jP3un1AigYeaSH1ps5qebUw38PkLNS9u77NRqKYhW7tK1g6MTNfqTmV5Ro/s1600/3+of+us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8i4wlF7khY_LaDA_XyhZFz7y1GKU2CkmNWHaUkep0wF-jjvRZyDkS9HS1HZtPcXC0tqzNwTF0b90THgH45jP3un1AigYeaSH1ps5qebUw38PkLNS9u77NRqKYhW7tK1g6MTNfqTmV5Ro/s200/3+of+us.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>@Bluecontra1http://www.blogger.com/profile/00793548232269932756noreply@blogger.com2