This was written about a year and a half ago, but I still feel the same about the two major players, so I thought I would add it to the blog. I am pretty apolitical (i.e. cynical about everyone), so I don't think the political landscape will be a constant theme of mine.
Sarah Palin hit the road a couple of weeks ago to promote her memoir "Going Rogue," and about the same time, Newsweek ran a series of articles about her accompanied with a photo featuring the former PTA leader-turned-vice presidential candidate. The photo was of sexy Sarah in running shorts looking a bit like a Price Is Right spokesmodel.
The ethics of taking a cover shot from a completely different publication — Palin was photographed by Runner's World for a small feature — and using it to convey disdain in an audience's mind is despicable enough, even though it's not technically wrong to do.
No the problem is this: Newsweek spent eight pages inside attacking Palin's record and her inability to be a world leader. That's fair. In fact, that's actually commendable. How Palin is believed by many to be someone who could lead this country is beyond me. What Newsweek did was to mock her, and the publication's intention was clear, even if they denied that intention in the days that followed.
All of this brings me to the buried lead: We are a nation that is quickly turning from credentials to cool factor. Experience is giving way to street cred. And we are looking more and more like a reality show gone horribly wrong. Take the last election. Of the four major players, which two had experience and gravitas and which two had hipness and electricity. Well, the two old white men, Republican presidential nominee John McCain and current Vice President Joe Biden, represent the old school. They've been there. They've done that. But they are yesterday's news. President Barack Obama was so cool, you would have been surprised if he didn't wear sunglasses to press conferences. He had platitudes and a GQ smile. What he didn't have, and what he is proving now that he doesn't have is a sustained plan for stability. And Palin was the wild card. She was a moose hunting beauty queen who didn't really read much of anything, but it didn't matter because she could rattle off corny jokes and rally the base with proclamations against gay marriage and abortion — you know, stuff a president deals with on a day-to-day basis.
But Obama and Palin were all anyone talked about. It was the hybrid of electability and likeability, or what I like to call e-like-tability.
E-like-tability has always been around in one form or another, but now it has morphed into a blob-like creature that trumps anything relating to experience. The phrase," I just really like [insert nominee here]" has gotten sickening.
I don't care if I like my leaders. I'd actually prefer not to. That way, if they screwed up, at least I could say, "Well, I didn't like them anyway."
Obama has made every decision in the past year with an eye toward universal liking. He has overanalyzed every move and acted (or not acted) accordingly. Because of that, the world has looked at 2009 and asked the inevitable question, "What has he done?"
I don't care that he can play basketball. I don't care that he's a closet smoker that could be found shooting the breeze in the back alley. I don't care that he seems like one of us. I don't want one of us. I want someone who doesn't have anything else on their resume except, "Knows How To Lead Country."
Palin is even worse. She was chosen for McCain's running mate because of one simple reason: she was a woman who looked pretty good on camera. The disaster that ensued was laid at her feet, and it's because she was and is unqualified to be a leader on the grand stage.
But because of the e-like-tability meter, it is perceived that cranky ol' McCain was the one that slowed this GOP train down. Palin may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but McCain is just mean, and we don't want mean.
Maybe one day we will get past the focus groups and test audiences and learn to appreciate a presidential contender for what they can do rather than how broad their appeal is. Maybe one day the Bob Doles and Al Gores of the world can prove that they don't have to appear on Saturday Night Live or, worse, a Viagra commercial, to prove that they can connect. Maybe we will learn that they don't need to connect.
They just need to lead.
Last week on Facebook, I used a four-letter word that in some circles may be construed as inappropriate. But I can't help it. It's such a great word.
Have I disappointed you? Let me be clear. "Hate" is a very precious word, one of the few that can have varying degrees of meaning. It should definitely have a color-coded warning level for its different uses. There are the ones that are the most disturbing — hate speech and hate crimes (although let's not get into that second one right now or I might disappoint some you further) — but some have a little more playfulness to them. Without hate, how would Garfield feel about Mondays? What would happen to former XFL player Rod Smart, whose jersey was immortalized with the moniker "He Hate Me." You can be "drinkin' the Haterade" while singing "Skaters gonna skate while haters gonna hate." It's just a lot of fun.
I used the term in the most common setting: sports. For those of you that know me, you understand my feeling about two teams above all else: Arkansas and Texas A&M. While my hatred (sports hatred, mind you) of the Razorbacks has ebbed in recent years, my disgust lingers with anything Aggie-related outside of actual human beings. Being a Baylor University graduate, you learn from an early age which mascots to despise, and for me, it was a fake military man with a penchant to yell out, "Gig Em!" But you can't live in Texas and not make friends with all types of strange beings from Horned Frogs to Mustangs, Longhorns and ... yes, Aggies. Heck, during a short stint where my parents were not together in college, my mother went on a date with an actual Aggie ... I'll pause to let that horrifying feeling pass.
It extends to the professional sporting ranks as well. I was born in Dallas and will bleed Cowboy blue until the day I die no matter what whack job owns the team. So will my brother and my mother and sister and uncle. So when Joe Theisman — he, the star quarterback of the hated Washington Redskins — actually passed my brother in the foyer of a church in Memphis a few years ago, my brother's wife looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Isn't that Joe Theisman?"
"Yeah."
"Well, don't you want to say hi?"
My brother just shook his head and chuckled.
"Honey ... he's a Redskin. What are you thinking?"
Hate is a such delicate word. Although it may not have as much weight as "fate," It's usually used as bait, which can open the gate of even more hate (Dr. Seuss is one of my heroes).
So in a current Facebook status, I may have mentioned how much I hate the Aggies. Of course it was under my breath, but you can't really do that in a Facebook status. It's good old fashioned sports hate, and those of us immersed in sports can appreciate it as such. Many Aggies should look at it as respect. I certainly don't hate Rice University or even Texas Tech. I hate A&M because they usually beat the stuffing out of us. Our most devastating losses have come to those wretched maroon-colored creatures, and to see any of them succeed fills me with bile. Of course, place a Baylor jersey on the same person, and I completely change my tune. I admit it. I basically root for laundry. So what?
I guess what makes rivalries and sports hate so great is that it usually bonds people together more if they have a common enemy. Why is the feeling so much more satisfying to yell "YOU SUCK!" rather than "WE'RE GREAT!" Is it the schadenfreude effect? Is it the feeling that even if we cannot achieve ultimate success in our own lives, we can be part of a group that can dominate someone else? I'm not sure, but I do know it feels good.
And our battles don't come close to the rivalry that A&M has with Texas. And that rivalry doesn't come close to the one Texas has with Oklahoma. And even those pale in comparison with the three biggest ones: Duke/North Carolina, Ohio State/Michigan and Auburn/Alabama.
Which brings me to Toomer's Corner. This is the type of thing that people who have no need or use for sports point to and act is if they are above those of us wallowing in the depths of depravity. For those of you reading this who have more of an interest in the fashions at the Grammys than in drunk frat boys yelling at a scoreboard, let me catch you up.
The two major schools in the state of Alabama are the University of Alabama and Auburn University. Allegiance is shown to one of these schools ... period. This is not a choice like Elvis vs. The Beatles. If you choose one side, you will never ever show anything but disdain for the other. I assume that job applicants who graduate from Auburn have to check to see if their boss is an Alabama alum if they have a chance at getting hired.
The hallowed ground at Auburn University is Toomer's Corner, which marks the transition from downtown Auburn to the campus of the university. On the corner sit two enormous oak trees, as revered a spot as anything on campus. Whenever anything good happens at the university, the tradition of "rolling the corner" occurs, and dozens of rolls of toilet paper hang from the massive limbs of the stately living trees.
As anyone who follows sports knows, Auburn won the national championship in college football this year. Those also know that last year, the national championship was won by Auburn's hated rivals from Tuscaloosa, the Alabama Crimson Tide. One would think that having the top football team in the entire nation two years in a row from the same state would be something akin to pride. But I can guarantee you that not one person from Auburn rooted for Alabama in 2010, and not one Tide fan pulled for the Tigers this year. That's what makes sports hate so great.
Auburn defeated Alabama 28-27 en route to winning a national champiosnhip, and Toomer's Corner was bathed in quilted cotton. All was right in the world ... at least in Auburn.
But here's where drinkin' the Haterade can get a little tricky. In late January, a man who called himself Al from Dadeville called into a sports talk show claiming to have poisoned the Toomer's Corner trees. He said he spiked the soil around the trees with a deadly herbicide following Alabama's loss to the Tigers. Two weeks later, Auburn officials confirmed that the 130-year old oak trees had definitely been poisoned with a lethal dose, commenting that the active and persistent chemical could likely be in the soil for the next 3-5 years.
Al said that he poisoned the trees not just for the recent loss but because of photographic evidence he possessed that showed Auburn fans rolling Toomer's Corner following the death of the legendary Alabama football coach Paul "Bear" Bryant in 1983. He also threw in the fact that Auburn fans placed an Auburn jersey of quarterback Cam Newton on the statue of Bryant earlier this year. He ended his call by yelling. "Roll Damn Tide!"
Of course, an exhaustive search of newspaper clippings found no such evidence that Auburn fans reveled in the death of a rival coach 28 years prior. Quite the opposite. The local Auburn newspaper as well as the Auburn University paper had nothing but glowing admiration and respect for who many consider the greatest football coach of all time, no matter where he coached.
The jersey is another matter. That, in the great tradition of sports hate, is a classic prank. Does it try to knock down the legend of Bear Bryant a peg or two? Of course. But what any good Bama fan does is to rip the jersey off and burn it in front of your peers while working yourself into an emotional lather.
An arrest was made of Harvey Almorn Updyke, Jr., who lived about 40 miles from Auburn. Not only was this guy a certified tree killer ... allegedly ... but he was also pretty stupid, placing the call to the radio show from his house. And for a short time, he will be the face of Alabama fans. That's a bit sad since they are so passionate about their football team in the most wonderful ways. To have a redneck destroy something that is actually living is criminal and sickening. And it gives those of us who love to maintain our rivalries a bad name.
No matter how heinous this is, it will add to the lore of the greatest of all sports rivalries. Hopefully it won't push it further down into vengeance and retribution. The best revenge is living well, and for the next year at least, Auburn fans can live quite well.
There is a story about a prank pulled by some A&M students against Baylor back in the 1960s. In the classic tradition of stealing the opponents' mascot, some unruly Aggies nabbed the Baylor bear cub before the annual football meeting between the two schools. As was usually the case, the mascot is stolen and returned after the game, but this cub was stored in the car of one of the Aggie faithful. When they went to retrieve the bear, the back seat was ripped to shreds.
All I can say is ... That'll do, bear. That'll do.
I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.
There aren't many advantages to being in your late 30's nowadays. Sometimes I feel like I am staring at a map at an amusement park — YOU ARE HERE — while many of my peers are in vastly different places. Some have kids who are nearly grown, some are just now starting families, some are successful, some are not, and some, like myself, are in a state of limbo. It's as if we didn't get the memo that the race was starting.
When you're an adult, you make do on your own. There is no "No Child Left Behind" because we are no longer children. In high school, we all rounded the racetrack together. Sure, there were competitions. Some excelled in class, some took part in clubs and activities, some just got by. But we all moved on together, and we all graduated together. Then the gun sounded, and everyone took off on their own.
So forgive me if I look back fondly at those days. For those of us who grew up during that time, we were lucky to have at least one man in our corner ... John Hughes. A kid of the suburbs, Hughes was the first to give voice to our generation in a way that no other filmmaker had before or since. I was 14 when "Sixteen Candles" came out. A year later came "The Breakfast Club" and "Weird Science." After that was "Pretty In Pink" and "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." By the time I was in college, Hughes had moved on to "Home Alone" territory. It's as if he wrote high school movies just for me and my friends.
John Hughes films were great because they were a combination of the school life we were experiencing and a dream of what school life could be. A child of the suburbs, he realized that teenagers are smarter than anyone gives them credit to be, and no one had given them a voice before. And every voice was represented. Sure, the nerds were a little too nerdy, and the jocks were a little too dumb. At a time when we were trying to figure out who we were and where we fit in, it was nice to know that our hopes and dreams were visualized with such sincere laughter and tears as they were in a Hughes film.
It doesn't even matter that "Sixteen Candles" or "Pretty In Pink" are essentially chick flicks. It doesn't make a difference that no matter how much you tried, you could never actually create a woman using a Commodore 64. And although we all skipped class, we wish we could have done it with the panache of a Ferris Bueller. The one 2-hour stint I spent in detention (for not being able to skip class like Ferris) was nothing like "The Breakfast Club." I will admit that repeated viewings of "Ferris Bueller" helped me remember what the Laffer Curve was in a college economics class. Anyone? Anyone?
The wonderful thing about these films (and the awesome, one-hit wonderness of their new wave soundtracks, available only at White Dog Music or Hot Dog at Indian Mall ... am I right?) is that despite the fact that they are creeping toward being 30 years old, I am fairly certain that today's teenagers can still relate. I don't think any of my generation can sit and watch "Blackboard Jungle" or even "Rebel Without A Cause" and think that those films spoke for us. Hughes movies are very much of their time and timeless all at once.
I was lucky enough to have great upbringing, and it may be my one quibble with Hughes' teen angst movies. At times, adults are seen as the enemy. The principal in "Ferris Bueller" is a buffoon while the parents are clueless. In "Sixteen Candles" they are self-absorbed. In "The Breakfast Club" they are cruel. In "Pretty In Pink" they are irresponsible. But maybe that's the way a lot of kids felt. Putting the teens at the center of these films showed that they had legitimate feelings and thoughts. Making them the heroes was only natural. Adults had their own movies.
Hughes spawned a number of copycat films with varying degrees of success. "Can't Buy Me Love" introduced us to some guy that my "Grey's Anatomy" friends refer to as McDreamy. It also perfected the use of the slow clap building to universal cheers. I've tried it several times to no avail. "Risky Business" was just a tease, giving high school boys the fantasy that they could run a brothel out of their parents' house and use the business model to get into an Ivy League school. Trust me, that doesn't work. "The Outsiders" made us secretly wish to be poor. "Heathers" fulfilled our killing-people-we-hate fantasies. "Footloose" made us appreciate those Methodist Church dances.
And yet, even as these films helped to define us as a generation and make us look a little cooler than we actually were, it wasn't any film by John Hughes that stuck with me over the past 20 years the way another teen film did.
"Say Anything ..." was written and directed by Cameron Crowe. It was his only real foray into the high school experience, even though the first scene takes place at graduation. It bypassed the cuteness and stereotypes that Hughes leaned on and created several real characters as well as unconventional families with real problems. The unobtainable Dianne Court was not the most popular girl in school. Her father was a bit controlling but had genuine love and respect for his daughter. Lloyd Dobler was smart and funny ... and he had no clue what to do when that racing gun finally went off.
Sure, it has that stalker-ific scene when Lloyd blasts "In Your Eyes" outside Dianne's window. I am not sure how many copycats got themselves arrested by angry parents after that. But there was a sincerity there. Lloyd wasn't exactly a slacker. He was just unapologetically unsure of the future. For those of us in his shoes, it was a relief.
Two decades later, some people have it figured out (or so we think). Many of us are still in our Dobler moment. Some of us have been up the hill and been knocked back down in the valley. We are having to start the race again, whether it be in out professional or personal lives. But it doesn't matter what age you are, the lessons of Lloyd still linger.
The world is full of guys. Be a man.
With everything I learned from John Hughes and his legion of Shermer, Illinois brat packers, It was that one line from Crowe that I recite every morning now. Do I wish I could go back and try to run the race again? Sometimes. But that's what a guy would want. Not a man.
Reeling from recent personal and professional setbacks, I had resolved to right my ship. I was in the midst of a proverbial storm, and any lifeline was greeted by me with outstretched arms. But that hat. That ugly, pretentious, God-forsaken cowboy hat. It was as if that lifeline was a lasso, pulling me from my boat into the water.
Thanks, friend, but I could have jumped in all by myself.
The man underneath the cowboy hat was named ... well, for all intents and purposes, let's call him Ray. His name isn't really Ray, so I apologize to all cowboy-hat-wearing Rays out there who didn't screw me over.
Let me back up. I was in a crisis of employment. I had much to offer, yes, but little place to put it. After the past 10 years in the dying newspaper business, I knew any move upward would have to be taken as a giant leap of faith. I had to cast my net wide and take chances. My grandfather did not finish high school. Although it is something he regretted most of his life, he instead chose to take risks in his professional life, and nearly all of them paid off. My mother said it was one of his greatest assets. Myself, I had chosen to play things close to the vest. Find something you are good at and let someone pay you peanuts to do it.
But that had gotten me nowhere. In fact, it had helped to get me in a bigger hole than a weekend at Oaklawn would have done. So when opportunity came knocking, I hesitantly answered.
Ray is an entrepreneur, a self-made man. His latest venture would involve taking over a company in Kansas City that dealt with energy-related products. That didn't mean much to me. What he needed was someone who could write, who could design, who could take his thoughts and turn them into something tangible. But first, we needed to meet.
I was working two jobs at the time, doing whatever I could to keep the lights on while I discovered my dream, so when I called Ray, he was eager to speak with me as soon as possible.
"I can be there right now," I said. There was a pause.
"Oh. Yeah, okay." Funny, but I thought as soon as possible meant, oh, I don't know, as soon as possible. He continued.
"That's fine. I am having my piano tuned right now, and I'm not even dressed for the day, but why don't you come on over."
Turn the car around, Ricky. Turn the car around right now and drive far away from this man.
"I'm on my way."
Crap.
I drove into Maumelle, an area of Little Rock that I never frequent. I might have well been in Oklahoma. I had no idea this place existed, even though it was only 15 minutes from my home. Hoping that the directions would lead to some sort of gated community, I ventured past the golf course and the trappings of a self-sustaining suburb. Turning onto the street of my future boss, I felt a little more at ease. These were houses that I hoped to attain someday. Unless he was squatting, this had to be a legitimate opportunity ... right?
I pulled into the driveway. One massive pickup truck and one gaudy Mercedes Benz greeted me. The house was not showy, but it was nice. I walked up to the door brimming with confidence. This is what will turn things around. This is that moment.
The door opened, and I saw the hat.
He wasn't even wearing one of those big cowboy hats like you see on those CMT studs. No, this was a smaller hat, curled up on the sides, curled down in the front and back, like it was left on the dashboard of your car. It looked like it belonged on one of those spaghetti-strap wearing co-eds from an SEC school. It didn't look like it belonged on someone who was supposed to turn my life around. This was a girl's cowboy hat.
It didn't help that he was still wearing his bathrobe with silk pajamas underneath. I was juxtaposed in my pressed shirt and pants, resume held at my side. I took one more look at the Mercedes. Take a risk.
"Come on in," he said.
I inched past the aforementioned piano tuner as he was getting out of Dodge and happened upon a very small, very rambunctious dog.
"Oh, that's just Samson," Ray said, scooping him up and holding him under his arm. "Let me get him situated, and we'll talk."
Then came the sales pitch. Without the boring details, I must admit I was convinced that his appearance was contradictory to what this man communicated. I knew what he needed done, and I knew how to do it. I also knew that I could get a very nice paycheck to do so. He said he had a seminar the following weekend, and if I could help him with it, we would discuss the future. I would meet the folks from Kansas City, and we would begin to make some money.
Now, this guy is a salesman. I understand that. But I also knew that I wasn't going to be a part of that. I just needed to do the legwork. As long as I kept my head down and let him convince the masses of his worth, I could punch my ticket to a different type of career. I came back to his house for the next three days to write, to produce and to get all of his ducks in a row for the big event. I met the notorious "Kansas City People," and we discussed my compensation. Hands were shook and smiles were passed around. But I still noted that during that entire time, Ray was either wearing that cowboy hat or a baseball cap.
On the day of Ray's event, I walked through the ballroom doors of the Embassy Suites and saw Ray standing there in his suit, his rings, his million dollar smile ... and the worst hairpiece I have ever seen in my life. My heart sunk.
And yet it went off as a rousing success. I watched him work the room, convincing investors to take part in this energy revolution. I saw my power point presentations, my logos, my designs and my writing contribute to what looked to be a very lucrative morning. When it was over, Ray came up to me and said, "Let's open up the office for you on Monday." He handed me a check for $500 for about three days work, and I justified the dead animal on his head.
For the next four weeks, everything chugged along great. I worked out of his office in North Little Rock, "getting things done," getting ready for this big transition, getting ready to get paid. Occasionally Ray would come by.
"Do you have a laptop?"
"Umm, no. I don't."
"We're gonna get you a laptop."
"Great!"
"Do you have your passport?"
"Umm, no. I don't."
"We need to take care of that. I'm sure we'll be doing some traveling."
But I saw some cracks in the armor. Although Ray is a great communicator, I never had to email or text him. He always wanted everything done by phone or Skype or video. Then I finally found out why. Instead of calling him one morning, I decided to send a quick email.
— Hey, were you planning on coming into the office today?
— I no Im lat
Huh? Was that no? Was that "I know. I'm late?" I started to get nervous.
— That's fine. I just needed to know what the schedule was like today.
— B ter latr
For the third time since I met him, I shuddered. This man could not write a complete sentence to save his life. He couldn't spell. This wasn't mere texting language. This was something different. I walked into his office and saw a legal pad on his desk.
New Feul Opmizer. Sav gas! Sav Mony!
For the first time in years, I placed both fingers to my temples. Part of this man's inspirational story was that he was an eighth-grade dropout. I had at least figured he would educate himself as an adult. But this was beyond repair. No wonder he needed someone to do his legwork. Without it, he'd have no legs at all.
But I continued to tell myself, "Take the risk. It will pay off." I had an agreement in place to pay me a healthy salary, and I had sent all of my information to Kansas City. I had already received one paycheck, so if I could just prove my worth, maybe I would become indispensable. Of course, my boss couldn't spell the first half of indispensable. No matter.
After Christmas, I returned to work and submitted my next invoice for services rendered. And I waited ... and waited ... and waited. I emailed my contacts there. Was there a problem? I called. I was placed on hold. I was told to call back. I called back. No one was available.
Then I contacted Ray. This was the man who was going to be taking over their company. He had been out of town for a week. I swallowed hard and emailed him, knowing the response would be like reading hieroglyphics. When I told him that I haven't been paid in a week and that I needed him to help me to get the ball rolling, I received this response.
— I not do busnes with them any mor. they havt pad me ether. they r lires. dont go to offce
So now the man who convinced me to quit two jobs for this incredible opportunity has ceased with his merger and neglected to tell me. When I asked if he could pay me for the work I had already done, he said this.
— I dont rit cheks for them. wat do u wat me 2 do? i am tryng to get new busnes.
And with two quick emails, my new career was dashed on the rocks of illiteracy.
It has been more than 30 days, and I still haven't been paid. I have made contact with the "Kansas City People," and they have said on several occasions that I will get what I earned, but with each passing day, it looks a little bit murkier. As for Ray, I think he is embarrassed that he didn't deliver, and although I still have the keys to the office, neither one of us has contacted the other. Instead of acting responsible for his actions, he passed the buck and turned his back on me.
I don't believe in karma. But more and more I have a sinking feeling that things we have done in the past can come back to us in different ways. In an earlier life (six months ago) I lied about financial information to people that I cared about. It wasn't done out of malice or selfishness. It was done in order to spare those people from any undue stress. I didn't get away with it, and I paid dearly for it, but maybe not dearly enough. It seems now I am learning that it is hard to trust someone who lies to you. I have been lied to many times in the past five weeks, and maybe this is some sort of lesson I need to learn before I can move forward. It's a tough lesson to learn, but maybe it has to be tough in order for me to pay attention. I have to be able to draw something positive from this experience.
I can only think of one other lesson ... stay away from girly cowboy hats.
Sarah Palin hit the road a couple of weeks ago to promote her memoir "Going Rogue," and about the same time, Newsweek ran a series of articles about her accompanied with a photo featuring the former PTA leader-turned-vice presidential candidate. The photo was of sexy Sarah in running shorts looking a bit like a Price Is Right spokesmodel.
I don't care that he can play basketball. I don't care that he's a closet smoker that could be found shooting the breeze in the back alley. I don't care that he seems like one of us. I don't want one of us. I want someone who doesn't have anything else on their resume except, "Knows How To Lead Country."
