The Good Side of the Economic Downturn

I'm connecting with people I haven't really talked to in five years. That's good. I like connecting with people who were friends and....lost contact with.
And, because of my business startup, I'm meeting all sorts of...interesting people. This is good stuff.
Yes, I tell myself this. The brainwashing is working: this is good. (Don't use that phrase "it's all good" with me or you'll be asking for a bonking. It's not all good; there's some very painful stuff in life; looking at it like "it's all good" is quite a state of denial and a severe disrespect for the value of pain to human growth.) There, I got that out of the way.

Stan thinks I'm "grumpy." What if he's right? What if he's not?  How could I possibly tell?  I guess I could look at this in, say, twelve months when the world is poised to be flushed down the toilet by the evildoing henchmen of the wealthy, ruling class, couldn't I?  Nah. 

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The Value of Travel: Getting Out of My Normal Headspace

I have fond memories of our trip to Baja California. Post of the people we met there were more simple and gentle in their approach to life. Not as hard as us citizens of such a great country. (Sometimes, I wonder, am I a hardass trying to get my business up and running because I'm a citizen of "the greatest country?" I don't like the answer.) Traveling in Baja reminds me of the vast expanse, the sparseness. Liberating in some ways.

From Dec 29, 2005

Click to hear my music

From Patty and Geo Kayaking at RR Mouth

Getting Lonely Asking for Help...And Not Getting Any

In a really crappy (we've never seen it this bad) economy, I'm asking people I know for help. The responses are so anemic as to make me embarrassed and wonder if, called upon, I would do the same.
I need introductions. And, no matter how I seem to ask for them, I can't get what I need or want.
Friends whom I solicit tell me, in person, to "go to this link on the website" all the while waving their hands like it was the most unimportant thing in the world. Perhaps, there's even a smile that's forthcoming. Meanwhile, the terror in me is growing as I sit and listen. "Where am I going to find help from if not from this [these] people?"
Another guy, Peter, a fellow Rotarian, in response to a request for an invitation to the head of his local industry organization, writes in an email: "I don't believe I could be of any help." Geez, all I asked for was a discussion to tell you about what I wanted; you haven't even found out what my request is. Why don't you just say you "don't want to help." Or, something really bold, like "you're too unimportant for me to waste my time on."
Good, I'm breathing easier already: the truth.
BTW, my friend Jack, who's struggling in construction, asked me for help learning Excel so he can get a job at the local water treatment plant. I gave him his first lesson last night; five more to go.
Click to hear my music I'm going to make some more and get it up here real soon.



George Moskoff, a 54 year old guy who wants to be like the Dalai Lama.
www.theapgconsulting.com

Saturday Morning Mens' Group: We're All Old and Pondering Death

Mens Group. Saturday morning at David's house. His landlord is trimming or cutting down some evergreen trees. I can see that he's stopped for our 9am-12pm meeting. Mark, his landlord, is quite industrious.
This is Sunday morning that I'm writing; the event was yesterday but the memory is still strong.
About seven older men show up. At 54, I'm the youngest. I'm not going to betray our oath of discretion and confidentiality. I won't mention specific names or who said what. I can't reveal much except the tone, the poetry that was or wasn't spoken (that was our task yesterday).
People are speaking, sometimes abstractly, "one does this, one feels that." I'm spoiled by Community Building where we learn to speak personally. "I did this. I feel that." Changes the feel of communications. Quite powerful. So, I continue to be frustrated in this group because there are no conventions like that nor is there the training to go with it. I'm grateful that in my marriage, we practice those methods.
It's raining pretty hard today; I really wanted to go kayaking but I don't know how to do it without getting soaked. The Laguna just to my east is swollen and allows for put in almost anywhere as the water heads to the Russian River and promises the chance of a flood over there.
So, I'm in the group and I can't help but think about all the things I've got to do for work. Which is, right now, finding some work. Consulting work. Coaching work. I'm giving it away and it's still not enough; I know these are strange times. Stressful and challenging; at least we're not yet selling apples on the streets for a quarter. Organic apples, of course.
So, I'm sitting in the circle, with David's Tivo behind me on an entertainment shelf. It's humming; I don't know if it's recording anything. David likes to watch the local news; I can't stand that stuff; feels like pandering and dribble to me. The hum of the unit is a gentle distraction from my thoughts and my shame that I'm not able to be present with the group.
I'm on one of those "floor chairs" and I'm thinking about an NPR interview I heard the day before. It was about the use of robotics in the military; the guy being interviewed talked about the "three D's" that motivate the use of robots and machines. In the circle, I rack my brain: I can only remember two of the D's. Dangerous. Dull.
Yes, I would not be a good candidate to lie on a hilltop in the remote provinces of Afghanistan with a pair of binoculars mounted to my eyes and watch for shit happening. Dull.
I would prefer not to be asked to dismantle a roadside bomb. Dangerous.
I listen to what's going on in the circle. One guy admits that he's got his brain in overdrive too. And, if he would open his mouth, he would occupy the entire three hours dumping out the contents of his brain's activity. He's smiling. So, he knows he's not completely serious. I keep my mouth shut.
What's the other "D?" Dribble? Dank? Drifting? I'm putting together letters like I do when I can't remember a word but I think I have the first letter: da, db, dc, dd, de....I'm not getting it.
I'm thankful that the landlord, who is diligent about the maintenance of his property, is not using his chainsaw and giving me one more distraction. I move away from the Tivo box.
We're talking about living enough. Dying. Being sort of dead and still being alive -- Alzheimers is what's being brought up in my mind. I admit that I feel fully alive but I don't feel like I need to go on; I don't feel the need to live another 30 years (I blogged on this the day before). And, I don't want to be bullied, yes bullied, by the medical data that suggests I should take all kinds of precautions so that I can live longer and healthier. 81 mg of aspirin a day. Ha!
I know I've sparked some concern among my men friends. I think I'm the youngest by about 6 years. They're wondering if I'm thinking about suicide. I'm not. Not this day anyway; my self esteem is up. What is that other "D?" Damn, I hate when my memory fails me like that. And, when I die, it will all be shut down: and it's not going to reboot. Why do I cram all this stuff in my head, day in day out, when it will disappear when I die? A very curious question to me that is somewhat freeing: I don't need to cram. I can keep what I want in there.
I go outside to move cars around. DIRTY. That's the third "D." I'm so pleased, I write it down on a piece of paper in my car. Dull, Dirty, Dangerous. Oh, I'm so relieved.
Some people leave early for medical and other appointments. The landlord thinks we're done and the chainsaw starts up. I have a sense of what he's doing out there. My mind is occupied and I am unable to hear the poetry that is being spoken in the circle; I am far away from the Tivo machine so the chainsaw is dominating the innards of my brain right now.
I've gotten my three "D's." My brain is working for now. For how long will that go on?


George Moskoff, a 54 year old guy who wants to be like the Dalai Lama.
www.theapgconsulting.com

What's so good about living a long time

I'm 54 years old. Some days I feel older. I feel like I should change the name of this blog to "A Blog For Old Farts." I could call it FOF for short. For old farts.
I just came back from the gym where I worked out on the elliptical machine for 60 minutes. OK, I lied: 50 minutes. Anyway, I got my heart rate up to the 140's; that was pretty good, eh?
So, I was motivated, after recovering from food poisoning three weeks ago, to get back to exercising and my program that ensures some weight loss which, by the way, doesn't include all the pasta and ice cream I've been eating in the last two weeks. I needed it: comfort food! Gimme a break.
I was also motivated because I went to see my doc today and got back my blood tests. Haven't had any results to review for two years -- that's not too long, is it? Geez, I'm a white privileged guy who CAN get blood tests. (No, no prostate stuff; good news.)
I'm a low risk for cardiovascular disease but, of course, my cholesterol is high. Well, I weigh 208 pounds and I'm 5'7" tall: my Body Mass Index is off the charts.
Yeah, I think I should call this the blog FOF.
I exercise to make me feel good. I need to be lighter; this weight is a load, literally, on my body. I'm not doing it to live longer; I don't know what's so great about living longer. I mean, the longer I live, the more I have to pay for life insurance. You know. I know it's silly; life is silly, isn't it?
Do I eat better to lower my cholesterol so I can live longer without health problems? I don't know. I could certainly eat more olive oil, red wine and exercise to boost my HDL. I like to exercise; it makes me feel good and boosts the effect of my antidepressant; that's a good thing.
My risk of cardiovascular disease, according to the Framingham Study, is only 6%. Could be lower if I had a higher HDL: more red wine. Works for me.
Statistical risks. What about my grandfather who lived, quite healthy mind you, until he was 100. Served in WWI in the Czar's Army -- calvary. Abandoned his horse somewhere east of Poland and hopped on a train to meet his wife. Boy, those were fun times. Not. So, he had some stress. But, he lived until he was 100. I've got some of those genes, don't I? Don't die genes I call 'em.
What did I start writing about? Oh, yeah, living long. Longer. Living past today. I've had a good life; I'm pleased with what I've gotten to do (I'm not at all suicidal today; my self-esteem is up about 80 points) but I don't feel like I gotta hang around for another 30 or 40 years. Yikes, that's a long time. (I can't say "shit" because I think I rated this a "G" blog.) Yeah, that's a long time. Shit isn't such a bad word, is it? Kids hear it all the time, don't they? Hey, kids, if you're reading this blog, you should get off: this is for old farts. Go play in the freeway. And, yes, now I feel better.

Concrete Countertops: You Can't Beat 'Em (I Tried)

 My first concrete countertop.  For our bathroom; didn't want to experiment on someone elses.  Lots of work but I like the product.

Why am I telling you this?  Do you care? 

Go home.  Go have dinner.  Have a glass of wine or a bottle of beer first.  No, have two. 

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If I Had a Hammer, I'd Hammer in the Evening. Not!

 I built this deck.  Not for me; for someone else.  Actually,  I got paid to build it.

And, I don't think I used a hammer for too much of this deck; I think I got screwed.  Not, that's wrong: the deck got screwed.  That's accurate.

So, there.  (I don't know what that has to do with anything.)  Goodnight Gracie.

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Me and my little guy

Does anyone reading any of this wonder what it's like to be a parent and, then, not be a parent? Our 19 year old son is in the desert outside of Tucson learning how to be safe and alive in the wilderness. I'm so glad he's alive and thriving; I could not imagine what it would be like to lose a child, to have him go before me.
I miss him, my not so little guy. We all miss him; there's a sense of grieving in the house even though he spent very little time with us: he slept until 12 or 2pm most days. And, then, he'd head off to the rock climbing gym where he would work on his skills and strength and compare himself to some of the other climbers -- girls who had ripped six-packs that far exceeded his. I chuckle just writing about this right now.
I wonder what my life, my relationship with him is going to be like now. I mean, when he gets back in May. Will I be more appreciative of his gifts and his eccentricities? Or, will I still be annoyed with what an arrogant SOB he is/might be? I guess that's for me to find out.
When he came into my life nineteen years ago, I was given a wonderful opportunity to learn how to be a better human being. A good dad, of course. But, I'd have to learn -- and be motivated -- to be a better human if I wanted to be a better dad. I'd have to let go of some of my crap, my illusions, my fears. All the stuff I was attached to that, somehow, made my life important but was meaningless. And, potentially, quite destructive.
I've made some progress. Not enough but some. And, I have more time: I have until...tomorrow. 'Cause I ain't got no guarantees beyond that. I don't even have that.

A Good Day to be An Old Guy

Today, I am making phone calls to follow up on a letter I sent out about a week ago. It was targeted at accounting firms in the SF Bay area. What I'm pitching to them is less important than how I feel; I connected with one CPA/Firm owner and we had a nice chat. She explained why she and her partners would not be interested but we talked anyway. When asked about my work, my age proved to be an asset: I wasn't that concerned with being perfect and, then, when I got off the call, beating myself up because of that lack of perfection. What I said was pretty good. Good enough. Brilliant? Depends on who was listening. It's a great feeling of comfort to avoid the illusions of perfection that have dogged me so much of my life. I feel grateful.

Birds Are Cooperating in My Backyard

I have been fascinated with birds ever since I was about eight years old. Ms. McFadden was my second grade teacher; compassionate, spirited. I think she was married but had no children. Today, they might be an "in vitro" couple; trying an implant.
Anyway, because of my visual learning, remembering birds and their names was easy; back east we had cardinals, several species of sparrows, etc. Here, in northern California, we have many of the same. Starlings, too. Not native; released here a hundred years ago? Not sure. But, they like it here; they thrive.
So, I have these common finches, chestnut-backed chickadees, tufted titmouse, ruby crowned kinglet, dark-eyed juncos (ground feeders), crowned sparrows (a nice white band going from their forehead back). They all get along; no jihadists. Some pushing and shoving; rare is the appearance of any animosity. I've always liked that about birds and appreciated that. Reminds me of what puzzles me with human behavior. As a kid, I would watch my parents fight over some stupid subject: two open bottles of ketchup in the refrigerator. I knew then it was nonsense.
Looking back now, I'm wondering if we got rid of our refrigerators, would the fighting stop?

Al Franken Needs Money...Again

I just got another message from Al Franken. I love the guy. But, I've given more in this last campaign than ever before. To him. To Obama. To get my business started up again, I'm going into more debt and...I just don't have any more for these guys.
I'm not heartened by the "stimulus" package that's being negotiated; everything I've read suggests it's too little and there's too many tax cuts in there. I've never seen tax cuts work to boost the economy, have you? Bush did it in 2001 even though a downturn was already in the works; damn, it was frustrating living with that guy in the oval office but...confronting reality with Obama is no easier.
Good thing I'm working on being "mindful, present and grateful" these days; otherwise, I could let all this crap get to me.

Blogging Makes Me Feel Old

I'm 54 years old but this blogging stuff makes me feel old. An advisor tells me (advises me) to blog and be authentic; it'll get me higher into Google's search engine. I have no idea.
I feel like I'm writing stuff that no one will read. I could be journaling: same thing. I can't write this fast in my journal, though. (I can type pretty fast and I like to write, you know, the act of putting words on the page.)
So, who knows if this blog is going to do anything for me. Are my clients the kind of folks who shop on the web for management consultants? I don't think so. Might they/she/he be shopping for some coaching services? That's possible. I guess.
Mostly, I feel like I don't know much about being in the game of this web-based marketing. Webinars, teleseminars.
I'm now listening to Paula Cole's latest CD. It's called "Courage" and I think it took a lot for her to put it out.
So, blogging. Even though the younger folks thinks it's "dope" or "fly," I have no such convictions. I feel like a guy with a tie when every one else is wearing a t-shirt, like I'm overdressed for a party to which I didn't get an invitation. Like, what are you doing here?
The picture of the ship above? It comes from a recent National Geographic magazine. A Finnish explorer, Nansen, almost reached the North Pole in 1895 several years before Peary. Nansen built a ship that could withstand the crushing pressure of the ice and flow with it -- quite a trick, I believe. He knew that the ice moved in a pattern, several hundred miles, throghout the winter and took advantage of that movement to allow him and his crew to move closer to the pole without any sleds, skis.
I like reading about guys like that: courageous, smart, ambitious. Reminds me of the possibilities of the human organism. We're not all greedy, selfish, corrupted. Ain't that a good thing.
So, I don't feel so old now. One St. Pauli Girl later and a little writing. It's just writing. What's in my head. Out for now.

Half of an empty nest

My 19 year old son Alexander is leaving today for a NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership School) 3 month program in wilderness training, back woods first aid. It starts in Arizona and then heads up to British Columbia. His younger brother is sad, brooding and angry with me and his mom. Easy targets, I guess.
I'm not sure how I feel; relieved, anxious, excited. Mom said she was going to clean his room after he left but, now, she's changed her mind. Yup.
I'm going to miss him. He's a good person. My wife, Patty, just got that affirmed last night when she went to a school meeting; Ethan's teachers comment, one and all, what men our boys are; how adult they behave. Not like students, but people. I wonder what, if anything, I had to do with that.