Friday Night Life

It started as a book in 1990. H. G. Bissinger wrote a non-fiction piece about the 1988 Permian Panthers football team and their quest for a high school state championship. From there it was turned into a movie in 2004, directed by Peter Berg and starring Billy Bob Thornton. As far as football movies and high school movies go, it’s pretty darn good. Berg loved the synopsis so much, he took it for a 5 season show that ran from 2006 to 2011, and took coach’s wife Connie Britton to reprise her role, this time opposite Kyle Chandler and featuring future Hollywood names Minka Kelly, Taylor Kitsch, Adrianne Palicki, Jesse Plemons, and of course, Michael B. Jordan. The show was a critical success and has turned into more of a cult following than anything else.

The essence of the book, movie, and show overflows the sprayed sidelines of a football field onto the town, the people, the relationships, and the drama. Football is just the vehicle, and what a vehicle it is, chalk full of pep rally celebrations, playing time controversy, injuries, cheerleaders, and pregame William Wallace-esk speeches. In the movie, B.B. Thornton steals the show with his ‘perfect’ speech. It’s, pun absolutely indented, a perfect speech. It’s dramatic, inspirational, sensational, and chilling. I love it. Kyle Chandler didn’t have it as easy as his speeches were given time and time again, across episodes and seasons, to teams and to individuals, and censored due to network guidelines. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t able to elicit passion and excitement and sentiment when he rolled up his game notes and stared into the eyes of his audience. 

Coach Gaines (Thornton) says, “Being perfect is about being able to look your friends in the eye and know that you didn’t let them down because you told them the truth, and that truth is that you did everything that you could, there wasn’t one more thing that you could have done. Can you live in that moment, the best you can, with clear eyes and love in your heart, with joy in your heart. If you can do that, gentlemen, then you’re perfect.”

Coach Taylor (Chandler) doesn’t have just one speech to reference, but aside from a quote like “Every man at some point in his life is going to lose a battle. He is going to fight and he is going to lose. But what makes him a man is at the midst of that battle he does not lose himself,” which is fantastic, one thread can be stitched through every moment of inspiration: “clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.”

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I don’t love the idea of dating apps. This seems contradictory to how I seem to be spending the majority of my free time these days, but I promise, it’s not my preferred way of meeting a potential partner. I would be shocked if I was in the minority in that sentiment, which is ironic that so many people turn to it. Alas, the essence of most dating apps includes creating a profile. I do not take this lightly, in myself nor in others. It’s my job to market myself as attractively AND honestly as possible to attract a potential match. Therefore a lot of thought gets put into its construction and a lot of my time is spent reading and interpreting the content of other’s, when available. It also serves as a launch pad for early conversation, as long as there is more sustenance than ‘I love puppies, traveling, and my Snapchat is ‘ladyd5.’

Bumble requires the lady to make the opening move, resulting more often than not in ‘Hey Chris, how’s your day?’ Sometimes, and my hat is off to anyone with this sort of creativity, the opener is a question that elicits some actual thought. Someone once asked ‘You go to Target for one thing: what two things do you walk out with?’ Kudos! Recently someone opened with “Story behind using ‘clear eyes full hearts can’t lose’ in your humble profile?” I looked past whether or not ‘humble’ was genuine or slanderous and answered the question (albeit in fewer words than I’ve used below). 

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I watched the movie at some point. I didn’t see it in a theater, so I’m sure it was on HBO and I gave it a watch. Baseball was my main focus in high school, so it might not have resonated quite as much with me as those that banged heads for four years. I enjoyed it, but didn’t love it. It definitely didn’t change my life. 

I remember my mom vacating to the living room to watch Friday Night Lights on NBC, a show that no one else in the family watched. I was in college when it started and wasn’t as interested in that high school show as I was in something like, say, The O.C. (2003-2007), so never gave it a watch. Sometime after the show concluded, I found some shady website that was streaming every episode and decided to sit in my room and catch up on what had turned into a bit of a cultural phenomenon. I binged the show in a few months and really enjoyed the experience. I was able to keep up in conversations about Saracen v Street v Vince and understand why I have a friend that named her dog Riggins. But it definitely didn’t change my life.

Then something happened in my life exploration, in my infinite search for balance, and in my ever-growing appreciation for empathy that made it all click. 

Clear eyes, to me, means honesty, integrity, transparency, authenticity, and purity. It’s the capital T truth. It’s the essence of life. It’s anti-Instagram, meaning filter-less. Pure as the driven snow. 

Full hearts, to me, well I guess it’s kind of obvious, but it means empathy, and consideration, and understanding, and inclusion, and yes, love. It’s warmth. It’s acceptance. It’s the softest blanket made by caring hands. 

The backdrop of a life-or-death-type sport scenario in towns where football was everything couldn’t be a better place for this quote. Where winning and losing is talked about for generations, the (overly-cliché) scoreboard of life is only concerned with that which binds us. When it comes to how we treat people, to how we meet people, and to how we live, it’s the most simple, succinct, and poignant combination of words I’ve ever taken the time to unpack. It’s a motto that can act as a backdrop to the stage of life. 

In other words, it’s perfect.

I’ve always been borderline obsessed with quotes and I honestly don’t think there’s a better one out there, at least not for the life I strive to lead. 

Delivering Empathy

I’m sure this isn’t the first time I’ve brought up This is Water, the title of a commencement speech given by David Foster Wallace. I know the video version a bit better as it’s shorter and well-shot, but the idea remains intact. The daily grind is tough and we’re all in this together. Don’t be so quick to judge.

Last week I had some adventures while ordering food via the app delivery service known as Uber Eats. I’m already acknowledging the silliness in forgoing what is in retrospect a pretty simple and mundane task of picking up food from a nearby establishment, but it was lunch time, I was at work, and, well, I didn’t feel like going anywhere. Plus, with the new tiered pricing for delivery, the closer the restaurant, the cheaper the fee. Yes, by all means, let’s encourage my laziness.

The first adventure was Monday, but to call it an adventure is misleading; it was a simple error. The Northbrook campus of UL is made up of several buildings, named in an order that is both logical and baffling. There’s history and progress and an array of reasons, but none of them make it easy for a delivery driver to find my exact location. The two biggest hiccups occur when one, unlike getting picked up by Uber for a ride, my location is not shared to them by my GPS locator, but instead a dot is placed at the address I’ve entered, and unfortunately for those of us sequestered in a building that is not the main building, we do not have a separate address, and therefore the dot is placed directly on what is portrayed by 333 Pfingsten Rd, and two, the name of my building on all signage around the campus is Building 1, what most people would assign as the aforementioned main building, however, that building is instead named 6, 7, 8, a deadly combo of numbers if you ask me, and 9 (ha!). It’s because of this that I choose to stand outside and wave down each delivery, representing the light at the end of what turns out is a pretty convoluted and often back-track-laden tunnel.

Add to these common misdirections the moderate rainfall and I’m sure that Jeroboam was having just a peach of a day, almost certainly directly leading to my shock and disappointment when I opened the bag from McAlister’s Deli to find something I did not order. Instead of what sounded like a tasty beef and swiss hot sub, was instead a cold, boring, basic, Italian meats salad, chalk full of more olives and tomatoes than I care to admit I picked off.

A little tidbit about Uber Eats: once the delivery is made, you can no longer contact your delivery driver. This makes all the sense in the world, but in the moment, ooooooh boy did that make me mad.

I immediately filed a complaint with my order, explaining ‘the entire order is wrong. This is a salad. I ordered a sandwich.’ I also did not leave a favorable rating for Jeroboam. I guess I figured the only job a delivery drive has is to get the order right, so I felt justified in my reaction.

Now comes Friday, and let me tell you, this was a first for me. I’ve ordered lots of food in recent years. The advent of Grub Hub and Door Dash and Uber Eats and whatever the hell GoPuff is has made it exceedingly easy to not leave the couch on the occasional (every) Sunday, so I’ve indulged. I have placed an Uber Eats order while in the back of an Uber on my way home after a late night, trying to time it out to minimize the wait at home before I’m scarfing down a Dagwood pita from Pita Pit. I’ve ordered pizza and fallen asleep, only to awake and wander the streets of Champaign at 3 am in an attempt to track down my Gumby’s. I’ve ordered twice from the same restaurant in the same day.

I guess my point is I’ve been around the block of not having to go around the block.

So it’s with all of that in mind that I share the trials and tribulations of trying to get food in my belly on Friday. The evening before I skimped out on food in a kind embarrassing way, thinking some chips and hummus would mix well with vodka and soda, but nonetheless, after a granola bar on my commute, my stomach demanded that lunch come early. Then it hit me: I’m no longer in Northbrook, bound by desolate suburbia and their $6.99 delivery fees. I’m in River North. I’m around literally dozens of restaurants whose fee would be $3 or less. The neighborhood was my oyster and I was about to get some quality grub, quickly, and at a minimal cost of delivery. Game. On.

Pick the place. Place the order. Half a sandwich and half a salad from a place of which I hadn’t previously heard (Capriotti’s Sandwich Shop). 20-30 minutes. I was so excited. The order was put in at 11:20 am. They received the order and started preparing my food by 11:22 am. At 11:40 am, it was out for delivery. I thought 5, maybe 10 minutes by the cycling bringer-of-heaven until I read that Ben is out delivering another order on the way, so the time shifted. It then said 11:55 am, and I was hurt, but not offended, nor dying. I just finished my water and tried to avoid watching the little GPS-tracked bike graphic traverse the city grid.

The other delivery message went away indicating Ben was on his way and I was salivating. My stomach was uncomfortably loud, like a squeaky toilet paper holder in a quiet office. The little biker image moved north, crossed the river, aaaaaand stopped. I waited. The delivery time kept counting up. The little biker image moved again… SOUTH. Back to the loop. East. West. North. South. Baffled, I messaged our courageous courier.

“What the heck is going on?” I pondered via text.

Minutes go by.

“I’m so sorry, Chris.” Ben started. “The inner tube of my bike popped and I’m looking for a repair shop that can fix it. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way.”

You know that classic cartoon gag of smoke blowing out of the ears of a very fed up animated animal?

As I shared this misfortune with my colleague, I wondered out loud what would go through someone’s head while they ride on a flat tire throughout the city with half a sandwich and half a salad on their back, and how it’s conceivable that they would ride, or maybe just carry, their bike a greater distance in an effort to get their primitive mode of transportation fixed as opposed to simply completing the delivery of my lunch before carrying on with the whole “inner tube repair” part of their day. I was dumbfounded. I was perplexed. I was genuinely curious. But above all, I was something I rarely thought I would ever say and mean: I was HANGRY. You read that correctly. I was so, so hungry that I turned nasty. If I had a Snickers, maybe everything would have been fine. But I did not. And it was not.

“Find someone else! Take an Uber! How long am I going to have to wait until your bike is fixed?!” I spat, hoping I would light a fire under Ben. No response.

Five more minutes transpired before the little biker image moved again, on its way to my office, and into my belly. It was 12:26 pm. And then it happened.

“Order Canceled.”

And a wave of failure crashed onto me like an ocean wave crashing onto an aircraft carrier in tumultuous seas, or like one of those big surfing waves crashing onto shore in Hawaii, or like, well you get the picture. Waves, crashing.

I quickly stormed out of the office, walked 700 feet to Mr. Beef, ordered a beef and sausage combo, turned around, and was back to my desk eating by 12:32 pm. I waited 66 minutes for a canceled order and had food in my belly after six minutes. It was tasty, and I was mostly satisfied hunger-wise, but an aura of disappointment clouded my enjoyment. It wasn’t until later that evening over happy hour Pinot Grigios recounting the story when I realized my folly.

“I still have no idea what happened,” I shared, hoping for and receiving sympathy. “Maybe it was my salty reaction that caused Ben to finally give up.” And there it was. Laying in front of me, so obvious I can’t believe I missed it.

Whether it was my 1-start rating on Monday, through the jumbled UL campus, misleading GPS trackers, and rain, or my snappy comeback to someone most assuredly having a worse day than me, it was my response that didn’t need to happen. Why did I need to be such an asshole? Why couldn’t I understand or empathize with people whose job point out my own stagnation by bringing me food I was too lazy to pick up myself? Why was I looking for sympathy instead of passing it along?

Because in those moments, I believed I was the center of the universe. That everything that happens happens to me or for me. And that every inconvenience I experience carries more weight than anyone else’s. I was weak, and I took it out on others. It doesn’t mean I’m an asshole, and I’m not calling you an asshole if you’ve behaved this way recently. All I’m acknowledging is how hard it is to keep everything in perspective. It’s a constant battle, but one that is so necessary to keep fighting.

We can get so caught up in the insignificant, trying, troubling, meaningless details that we often have to take a step back and remind ourselves, this is water… this is water.

And maybe it’s okay to walk to the nearby restaurant to get your own damn food.

Cubs Win: Fandom, Family, and Sports

I don't know where to start.

I was starting to become a sport cynic. I was barely three months old when the Bears won the Super Bowl in '85. And even though I was scraping the roof of being a teenager when the Bulls won their sixth title in eight years, there's no way that their first championship in '91 could have had any significant impact on my life, especially considering the absolute dominance that those six seasons contained. My involvement was harnessed to reading the game recaps in the Tribune the next morning while eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes. I'll fast forward through the White Sox' World Series, not because I didn't watch it, but I just didn't care who won. 

2010 really marked the first time in my life that a team in which I supported, after a season in which I watched, was crowned a winner. I can't call myself a die-hard Blackhawks fan. I mean, we went to a game during the 2009 season, so I was interested, but I'm not even sure I knew the full definition of icing or offsides at that point.

Well thanks to NHL '09 on PS4, I learned the game and learned the team, so when Jonathan Toews hoisted the Stanley Cup in June of 2010, there was a pretty special release of pure elation. It got a little crazy on Division St. that night, and memories of Kane's overtime winner will never leave me, but before you know it, three years later... BOOM, and two year later... BOOM. 

By the time the Cup was raised for the third time, the feeling was not only fleeting, the feeling was almost empty. Sure, I already knew that I wasn't on the one on the ice, ripping wristers or blocking passes, and that anyone who says 'we' when referring to a sports team is quite possibly partially insane, unless of course they work for that team, in which case: kudos, but there was an extra feeling of ineptitude or helplessness as we drank from the bottle of J. Roget at Waterhouse. It's always fun to celebrate, but the overwhelming thought of what are we actually celebrating lingered long after that night in June. I didn't win anything. I didn't accomplish anything. Hell, the only reason I support the team goes back to a relatively random decision of a family of Lazzerinis settling in a large Midwestern city. 

And then the 2016 Cubs season happened.

There has never been a season of a sport that I spent more time watching than the 2016 Cubs season. Obviously, given the excitement and success of the previous year, and the size of the target on their back, it was easy to invest, but let me tell you just exactly what I invested. 

I don't remember a time in my life when baseball was not present. Even if I can maybe place a memory or two before the first time I picked up a bat on the timeline of me, my older brother was already playing the sport in an organized fashion, AND, I was definitely the 'baby at the bar' after my dad's softball games in the late 80s. I began playing 'weekend travel' baseball as a seven-year-old, which was some slightly more serious competition after the initial 'house league' season had ended. Three years later, and for the next five years, I played 'permanent travel' baseball, where children (with the support of loving and caring adults) played 60+ games in a summer, traveling down to Lisle, IL or out to Cary, IL on a week night, up to Minnesota or down to Omaha on a weekend. 

Then four years of Spring high school baseball, three years of Summer high school baseball, one year of Fall high school baseball, and finally and barely two years of college Club Baseball, where the pain I felt after a game was most likely due to a hangover as opposed to throwing too many pitches. Toss in one more season of a young men's league (under 22) after college and a decade of softball, and it's pretty easy to see how much playing the sport as been a part of my life. 

And then there's the Cubs. My grandfather spent a good chunk of his younger years at 1935 N. Sheffield Ave., just two miles south of Wrigley Field. He used to walk up to the north edge of the stadium during the formerly more common double-headers to wait for the first game to end. Much-to-do folks would leave after game 1, drop their ticket in the street, and continue their day. Forever frugal Al Lazzerini would scoop up the discarded and watch game 2 with his buddies for free. 

For the time I lived at home, Sundays were spent one way: with our grandparents. Fortunate enough to grow up a few miles away and eventually only a block, we spent lunch to dinner with them every Sunday for the first 20+ years of my life. College and moving out complicated things, but generally, Sundays were untouchable. In the fall, it was the Bears at noon, Italian sausage on the grill. Football Sundays were special for sure, but nothing compares to the grind and persistence of a six month, 162 game baseball schedule. Watching and reacting (often negatively) to Cubs games while sitting around their kitchen table populates a series of memories that I can't imagine fading. We are a family of baseball fans, and more accurately, we are a family of Cubs fan. 

In March of 2013, my grandfather passed away, months after taking care of my grandmother to the end of her run, and through what turned out to be stage four cancer that he fought off just long enough. Ninety years on this planet, and never once did he see his Cubs win a World Series.

As I watched the playoffs transpire, often at the same bar, at the same table, and in the same seat, I got nervous. Not contemplating their chances of winning or stressing with every blown save or offensive shutout, but with what would happen if they actually won. Barely a year had passed since I sat with that empty feeling of victory, one that I didn't earn and had no reason bragging about, so how would I react when the final out was made?

Fandom is a tricky topic. We know, 'sure as God created green apples,' that the players on the team for which we root are not the same thing as the team. They are a constantly moving, evolving, and changing group of professionals that are simply doing their job. But obviously, being a fan is more than cheering for players. Sports, the best and purest possible form of reality TV, goes being entertainment and borders a world of escapism, whatever that may mean to you. It goes beyond entertainment and borders a world of emotional awakening. Borders a world of legacy and history. Of friends, family, camaraderie. Of passion. Of hope. 

Game 7 was a roller coaster that is nearly impossible to describe. Everyone had their own experience, and everyone will remember where they were for one of the most memorable games in the history of sports. When Kris Bryant connected with Anthony Rizzo for the final out, for the hours, days, and now weeks after, my tear ducts have been loose, my emotions have been rampant, and my spirit has been vibrating. 

Everything I had ever put in, the years, the pain, the admiration, the practice, the time, the patience, the energy, the arguments, the scouting, the excitement, the persistence, the scrutiny, the fun, the pieces of myself, all of it was returned tenfold on Wednesday night, November 2nd, 2016, and we will always be connected, past, present, and future, by the most exciting, excruciating, invigorating, and nearly unbelievable but undeniably unforgettable season that's ever been played. 

No Hope in Sports

On February 15^th, 2014, Ray Rice knocked out his fiancé in an elevator. On film. He was suspended for two games. The criminal charges dropped. And actually won a settlement against the Ravens for an undisclosed but likely multi-million dollar amount because of a ‘second punishment.’

On January 18^th, 2015, the NFL began investigation on the Patriots for using deflated footballs in the AFC Championship game. Tom Brady was suspended 4 games. A judge overturned the suspension because Brady didn’t have enough notice. On April 25^th, 2016, the U.S. Second Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the judge’s decision and Tom Brady was suspended for four games.

On June 21^st, 2014, Hope Solo assaulted her 17-year-old nephew while intoxicated, punching him, tackling him, ripping his shirt, scratching his arm, and causing his ear to bleed. She also threatened a police officer by saying, ‘You're such a b----. You're scared of me because you know that if the handcuffs were off, I'd kick your ass.’ No action was taken by the U.S. Women’s National Team.

On August 12^th, 2016, the U.S. Women’s National Team lost to Sweden and Hope Solo says ‘we played a bunch of cowards… I don't think they're going to make it far in the tournament. I think it was very cowardly.’ For her comments, Hope Solo was suspended for 6 months.

Now, I’m sure there are details to these stories that I either missed or don’t care about, but these are the highlights, and they are the facts. I could do more research, but this is a blog, not the NYT.

I’ve already come to grips with the fact that celebrities are treated differently than civilians. If my recent binge-watching of Ray Donovan has taught me anything, there are plenty of people in the world that leverage, punish, or generally cover up anyone or anything that might damage an image, and that this kind of activity not only happens everywhere, but often, for those that can afford it. Fine. To be fair, I can’t think of anything in my life that would require Ray or Aví or Lena to help out. Sure, I’ve chalked up a few on the embarrassing stories scoreboard, but nothing that would keep me out of running for office, a profession I would never consider.

The only explanation on how Ray Rice and an angry-drunk Hope Solo received a lesser penalty for their actions than Tom Brady and a sharp-tongued Hope Solo is that the NFL and the U.S. Women’s National Team care more about the ‘integrity’ of their sport than the integrity of the people participating.

In simpler terms, the game matters more than life.

The billion dollar industry of the NFL – at least I understand that it’s all about the money, and you can’t have players cheating and expect people to watch. Except that players already cheat, across the league, top of roster to bottom, just in non-visible ways. But the U.S. Women’s National Team, an organization that you would hope supports victims in a far greater way than any of the major leagues – that one really doesn’t make sense. Leagues or teams tend to pucker up when someone criticizes management, officials, or the league higher-ups, which to some extent makes sense. But calling another team cowards seems like a pretty normal thing to say. Stupid, petty, and based in frustration, but really not too bad, except that it paints the team in a bad light.

So if you do anything – and I mean anything – that hurts or injures the team or the game, that’s more severe than if you do something that hurts or injures a person.

I don’t know a lot, but I know this: LIFE is more important than entertainment.

What possible message could they be sending into the world? It doesn’t matter what laws you break in the real world, once you’re inside the Coliseum, you’re rinsed of your sins and reborn again? As long as you feel bad for what you say, then strap on your gear and get ready to compete? It’s asinine and shameful.

I’m sorry, I have to get back to this. Hope Solo punched her 17-year-old nephew and verbally assaulted a police officer and nothing happens. Hope Solo calls the Sweden team cowards for having a conservative game plan and loses half a year of playing. Sticks and stones.

I probably don’t have to go through meandering sentences and long-winded theories on why I feel so strongly about this particular juxtaposition, because I don’t know anyone that would disagree with me. I’m sure I’ll never understand the pressure and spotlight of being an international superstar, and that my life couldn’t possibly compare to the monumental entertainers that captivate worldwide audiences, but I know that life is more important than work. Every time. Every single time. I struggle to comprehend anything else. 

Currency

My dad and I had a conversation recently, and the conclusion was challenging but ultimately expected. From two different generations, our values don’t align. That’s not to say that we don’t have overlapping perspectives regarding literal human existence, but, to quote DFW, what we both see as the “capital T truth” about who we are and why we are alive is different. And that’s okay.

I spend a lot of time in my car. The reality of living in Chicago and working in the suburbs takes its toll on my car, but it no longer takes a toll on me. Regardless if podcasts are the reasons, I’ve found solace in my solo driving. If nothing else, it gives me a chance to think. Which is exactly what happened when I listened to [my favorite sports and pop culture guru] Bill Simmons talk to [a now wildly respected and very curious billionaire investor] Chris Sacca, touching on topics that I’ve very rarely been tasked with considering along my seemingly perpetual 2 hours of driving a day.

We didn’t have a ton growing up. Don’t get me wrong, we (my brother and I) were privileged. Good school, new toys, and happy, in-love parents. So I guess take all of this with a grain of salt. But from an early stage, my parents taught the value of the dollar. They were not world-beaters at 30. And again, that isn’t an insult. It was a sign of the times. They worked their asses off to make sure we didn’t know they were working their asses off. It’s an unbelievable trait, and I don’t write metaphorically.

Thing is, whether it’s my kind of hippie parents that somehow, unbenounced to the rest of the world, found absolute happiness, or Chris Sacca, someone that has both wiffed and connected on so many amazing Silicon Valley enterprises, the end result tends to be the same.

If we’re talking monetary value, how could you even put my parents in the same stratosphere as Chris Sacca? I don’t know a lot, but I’ve learned this.

Value is not in the face on the bill.

Currency is a fallacy. Sure, money makes it easier, but poll the 1% and ask if they are happier. I know the ‘mo’ money mo’ problems’ idea isn’t new, but it goes beyond the value of stocks or your retirement number. There has been such a fucking notion seeping through society of ‘playing it safe’ is how you get from point A to point B, that the average mind-numb imbecile is ready to chalk up life to what was so clearly laid out for them. Truth is, and I believe and DFW implied, the capital T truth is that currency is not the dollar or Euro or Yen or Pound… The capital T ‘truth’ is currency is secret, selfish, BUT, shockingly universal.

Universal, unlike the mildly entertaining theme parked attached to the sweaty belly button that is Orlando, means that we all experience it. Whether we’re stuck in rush hour traffic, banging the walls of our cubicle, or cleaning up literal shit, we cannot believe this is all that matters. To quote another -famous-but-mainly-from-a-movie figure, “would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance…” to walk away happy.

The choice seems simple. Either be happy, or live long enough to see yourself become an asshole. But it’s my firm contention that either way, it’s a choice. Long live the days when a speckle of gold made your life valuable. These days, value is not only placed on what can make you money, but on who can make you feel whole. A few extra commas in your bank account is nice, but I promise you, feeling is the most valuable commodity we have on this planet. Sympathy. Empathy. Compassion. Understanding. Trust. The more we use these 5 words, the closer we get to a society that understands itself. My dad is 62. We are not the same person. But I see in him, for possibly the first time in my lifetime, an openness to what could be next.

Every day, every one of us gets closer to dying. That’s not cynicism, that’s reality. But the way I see it, we have two goals in life. Impact everyone you meet in a positive way, and be happy with who you are. Those ideas are so independent of fiscal representation…

Currency is not a fact, it’s an opinion. 

A Quiet Phone

My first job out of college was called an instructional designer, a title I still possess today. In nine years, while my title has not changed, my position and experience within an industry I never knew existed most certainly has. Well before I knew about Kirkpatrick’s four levels of feedback or Bloom’s Taxonomy, I simply had an eye for formatting PowerPoints and a knack of the English Language, which apparently was enough to be hired, employed, and actually promoted to a lead designer during this 7-month project contract. Since that first job until today at work, everything I’ve learned has been on the job. With no formal education, I’ve had to try and figure out this intangible and generally unknown field as I go.

The thing is, instructional design falls within a broad category called adult learning. Some instructional design for adult learning actually produces the aforementioned formal education, but my work almost exclusively focused on internal training projects for a company, ranging from quite technical, process-oriented material to high-level leadership ideas, and ranging from a paper manual to an interactive and dynamic piece of online learning. No matter the medium, the greatest thing about adult learning: guess what I am? An adult (usually)! So while craft and skill and creativeness dominate the field, there is a relatively simple, consistent backbone that supports the entire industry; would I want to take this? It seems kind of obvious, but even if I’m designing a course for people at the lower end of the adult spectrum, I’ve experienced what they are going through and generally can connect with the audience, something that, say, a high school teacher at the end of their career might struggle with. So when asked to narrate 30 minutes of content with mild PowerPoint animation in the background, I can confidently push back by saying, ‘is this something that you would want to do? Then why put our participants through it?’

Speaking of high school, I wasn’t prom king. That’s pretty narrow, but even if we widened that demographic to include the ‘generally popular kids,’ once again I was on the outside looking in. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends. I kind of walked the line, inadvertently, between pop, jock, and nerd. Mostly A student playing football and baseball that let his friends drink at his empty parents’ house despite not drinking until college. But when I wasn’t taking advantage of my parents’ 25th anniversary, I spent most weekends in front of a similar screen at which I am currently staring, scrolling through my rolodex of people that regretted ever sharing their phone number. I didn’t really know what kids did on the weekend, but it seemed like the place to be. My most common, non-intrusive line when I finally got people on the phone would be something along the lines of keep me posted if something actually happens. And when the phone never rang, I just assumed everyone was equally bored and lonely. This wasn’t the case.

With those as my memories from high school, it's not hard to explain how I am today. It doesn’t take formal education in psychology. For years, I felt ignored, rejected, and alone. There have been enough songs and quotes about the visceral darkness that accompanies waiting by a phone that never rings. It’s crushing. And when it happens ritually, it shapes the rest of your life. Despite the way technology has made it easier to connect and communicate, some of the same pitfalls from life 15 years ago still apply. We have more ways to talk than ever before, but more distractions too. So the idea of staying off the internet to keep a phone line free is obviously extinct, fine, but the onslaught of communication has amplified the opportunities for disappointment.

But for as many opportunities there are for disappointment, there’s an equal number of chances for fulfillment. In 2016, this looks like responding to a text or an email. We’ve become a society where not having your cell phone with you is hard to imagine. The panic that sets in during the initial moments of checking your pocket or purse and not immediately locating your phone rivals any thrill ride I’ve ever embarked. Of course, restrictions apply, but generally, even if you work a job that requires relatively dedicated attention, there are still opportunities. In 2016, this looks like replying to a Facebook invitation with an accurate response, in a relatively timely manner. Because we all get that it’s a little silly, but what other medium do we have?

In 2016, this means saying yes. What I mean is easier explained when turned around. I understand that not everyone has the same sense of adventure, but if at some point you have thought or read or heard of an event or restaurant or bar or store or park that you want to check out and generally would like some company when you do. Not revolutionary. But with the advent of Netflix and blah blah blah it’s become easier to do nothing while still feeling connected. But true connection happens face to face.

For me, it’s probably deep-seeded in my angst-y high school days when I didn’t understand why I often felt on the outside. It’s easier to look back, but those experiences have affected my current perspective. An unanswered text won’t leave me inconsolable in my bedroom with a heavy metal album playing on repeat. So with a slideshow of memories on call, I try, as honestly as I can, to treat others the way I wish I was treated. How does it feel when your texts fall on empty thumbs? When your emails fall on empty hands? When your invites go unanswered or ignored or simply declined?

Just like when I’m designing a new training course at work, all you have to ask is ‘would I want this done to me?’ 

On Demand

I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie that impacted me this much. When I was younger, it seemed to happen a bunch. The movies and music that you’re exposed to as a teenager hits you at the perfect time for long-lasting impact. Ask your parents their favorite album or movie and most likely it was released before they turned 25. So on a lazy, quiet, sunny Saturday morning, I wasn’t expecting to browse my favorited movies on Comcast, find that ‘Once’ was on demand, and for 86 minutes, become completely entranced. It’s such a beautiful and powerful and warm movie that I’m still glowing. So much so that I spent some time during lunch today browsing YouTube for Glenn Hansard performances. Some from the movie. Some with his co-start. But one in particular with another Irish musician, Lisa Hannigan. Click. Highlight. Drag and drop. Wikipedia. Holy shit, she was in Damien Rice’s band during his albums O and 9. I KNOW HER! YouTube. Click. Listen. Like. Grab phone. Unlock. Spotify. Search. Find. Albums. Sea Sew – Save. Passenger – Save.

I am excited to forget that I saved two albums by Lisa Hannigan, get bored one afternoon, browse artists I’ve recently added, and listen to her music. Maybe in the car. Maybe before bed. Maybe just on a lazy, quiet, sunny Saturday morning. But it’s there, and it’s nice to know it’s there. Losing all my music on a dropped external hard drive wasn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me, mainly because I immediately signed up for Spotify Premium and all of a sudden have access to more music than I can listen to in a hundred lifetimes. Sure I have Tragic Kingdom saved because music in 1995 had a major impact on me, especially albums that were released on my 10^th birthday, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love scrolling through my list of saved artists and not recognizing dozens of names because I heard one of their songs on an Evening Chill playlist and decided to save 38 of their songs on 3 albums.

Around 1995, well a year or two before and the years after, at least until the fall of 1999 when my brother went off to college, music was a special thing. It created a bond with my dad when I told him I wanted the entire Pink Floyd ‘The Wall’ album recorded onto a cassette tape, and again when I decided that ZZ top was a good band to listen to as a fifth grader. With my brother when I let the alternative minded music seep into my everyday listening, and again when live shows became a part of everyday life, from garage punk bands to the House of Blues. But the most vivid memories related to music come from riding in my parents’ Cutlass while my brother drove, Palatine to Roselle, Roselle to Algonquin, and all the way west until you hit this tiny music palace called Record Breakers. I don’t think it was always there, but for the sake of this story, that’s what I remember. That’s not around the corner from where we lived, so to go there took some actual effort. Luckily (I guess) my calendar wasn’t too full.

We’d go to this store and literally browse the stacks of tapes and CDs. The smell of incense wafted strong throughout the store. Sometimes there was a mission. Sometimes there was not. Sometimes you would listen to a CD in the CD listening stations and make a decision. Sometimes you would buy a poster or a hat or a shirt. Sometimes you would get a suggestion from a worker and try something new. Sometimes you would see that a band member of a band you like had a previous band worth checking out. Sometimes you would hear a song on a soundtrack and that would open up a whole new set of music to explore. Sometimes nothing would happen. But every time, something was happening. You didn’t always walk out with new merchandise, but you always walked out.

There’s something about this on-demand world that is suffocating our society. That Pink Floyd tape sounded better because I had to talk my dad into setting up a time to make the recording, he had to get his equipment set up, the recording had to happen, and then I got to listen to it. Finding a CD at Record Breakers was exciting and adventurous and rewarding in a way that made you appreciate the music.

And don’t even get me started on video games. NBA Jam TE (tournament edition) was one of the greatest Sega Genesis games of all time. And the cheat codes you could implement to unlock characters, super dunks, super threes, big heads; amazing. After seeing a Kobe Bryant spoof with NBA Jam graphics, I decided to search for a current version of NBA Jam, and if I couldn’t find one, create a Kickstarter, because that game needs to exist for PS3 or PS4. Well much to my surprise, an NBA Jam game had been created, the On Fire edition, and with rosters updated through 2013. And because technology is amazing, sure as shit you could download the game and be playing it within minutes. I was dumbfounded and wildly excited. Know what I did on a Friday night? I stayed in and played NBA Jam with my brother and for about 2 hours, it was 1994 again. I had a great time.

Flash back to 1994. “Mom, can we get a ride to Blockbuster?” I still remember the smell of that place. Straight to the video games. Walk. And browse. Pick up. Read. Look. Compare. The anticipation of renting a video game on a Friday night rivals the adult version of being in an airport before a vacation. That game could be anything. It could be everything. And the clock’s ticking. As soon as you leave the store, every second you aren’t playing that game is wasted. The amount of nights I stayed up until 3 or 4 or 5 in the morning playing video games… It was research. Reconnaissance. And it was amazing.

I’m not sure how I feel about this on-demand life. I’m definitely a participant. But without losing perspective. On-demand makes it easier to avoid the outside world. Netflix a show, GrubHub your meal, Saucey some booze, and never leave your couch. Sometimes that’s amazing. But we’re breeding a population that expects everything to be available. The only way they know how to discover something new is with a search bar. Be adventurous and the reward will taste sweeter.

In This Moment

On July 31st, I was vibrating with excitement. In the days of technology and computers and smart phones and tablets, we have access to more tools and resources and gadgets that can organize or maintain or simply keep track of seemingly every activity we choose or do not choose to engage in. Some of these tools I use. Take, oh I don’t know, Facebook event invitations. Yet others, for reasons unbeknownst to me, never quite stuck. The most prominent of which is the digital calendar. I’ve tried. Boy have I tried. But there is something gravitationally controlling my documentation of plans and events and dates and outings and games and concerts and meetings: PAPER. I can’t get enough of it. I hate taking notes. I hate writing anything more than 10 words. I hate carrying around extra items. But there is some sense of accomplishment, some sense of reality, when I take my Bic Atlantis black ballpoint and fill up the day-by-day of my life, one month at a time.

August was a beautiful month. As I look back, only 5 days remain blank. There were so many things scheduled, I was counting the hours for the calendar to flip. After some changes and struggles and challenging situations, it was my immerse-myself-in-everything-I-possibly-can-for-as-many-days-as-I-can-until-I’m-so-tired-I-have-to-take-a-day-off-work-just-to-sleep phase. And it worked. All the way through my August 31st day of rest. I burned it at both ends. I rode ten roller coasters, played six rounds of golf,  five softball games, drafted three fantasy football teams, attended three concerts, three dinners, a baby shower, a wedding, and a movie. Read ‘em and weep. I went all-in and doubled up.

Looking at the next six Saturdays, my calendar is solid, beginning with this extended Labor Day weekend of fun at the lake. This morning I sent a text that included the quote ‘already looking forward to the weekend,’ and c’mon, who’s not? Take polls, ask friends, email your coworkers, call your parents, and please, someone tell me if you can find more than one grouch that isn’t looking forward to the weekend, even if they qualify it by saying ‘well I look forward to any time away from work’ or ‘well it’s a long weekend, so it’s more exciting.’ It doesn’t matter. We are all apparently programmed to long for moments away from our responsibilities and everything else is just getting in the way. Why, I fell victim to this thinking not 5 hours ago. And why wouldn’t I? I got golf, boating, partying, and golf again. Of course that’s better than what I do when I’m at work. Of course, of course. But, maybe, if all I can do is count down the minutes until the weekend starts, I shouldn’t be alive in the first place.

Work isn’t as fun as golf, but if I spend all my time wishing it were another time, then I’m literally wasting time. Being alive is fucking amazing. Every capability that we have is nearly inconceivable. Scratch that. It is inconceivable. I can’t honestly comprehend the idea of life. There. I said it. And I’m not ashamed. You can tell me a thousand times how the brain sends signals to the heart and the heart pumps blood through veins and our lungs inhale one thing and exhale another and our kidneys and our muscles and whatever and whatever and whatever and everything and anything, and I can answer the questions on an exam and pass biology, but my brain does not have the capability to truly understand existence. Evolution: go ahead and explain it without sounding like a lunatic. It’s not possible. I believe science. But I don’t understand it. The fact that I am here, doing this, thinking this, admitting this, living this, is unbe-fucking-lievable.

So instead of wavering over line between wishing it was the weekend and folding my laundry, mentally escaping my immediate activity, hoping that the also incomprehensible notion of time would inexplicably quicken, I will attempt to teeter between different thoughts. There’s either the task at hand, or the absolute truth that I am alive, and the unbridled appreciation for my opportunities in life. It’s the anti-Office Space. It’s something I heard in an amazing song many years ago, something which resonated in me so wholly, so starkly, that it’s discouraging that I still have to remind myself this thing. It was spoken by the now-Oscar-winning-rapper Common, the song is called ‘Be,’ and the line goes:

“Never looking back or too far in front of me, the present is a gift, and I just wanna be.”

Agent of Chaos

If the Joker is an agent of chaos, he must be my spirit animal. At least recently. It’s been a while since I sat down and felt like writing. It’s not that I’ve been avoiding it, it’s not like I have nothing to say, and it’s not like I didn’t wish that it never went away. Things just came up. I won’t say that I didn’t have time, but instead I chose to engage in other activities. Priorities, I would say. Like my video about the very same topic. Plus, you know, summer.

But it’s been more than just that. Change is something that I normally embrace and typically have no issue with, but, as those close to me are aware, the changes in my life register relatively large on the Richter Scale of life, sending vibrations through my entire experience that reverberate loudest when it’s the quietest.  I’ve reconnected with folks at a higher frequency in the last month, and depending on the length of time between our last conversations, assuming it’s 2 years or less, I could be employed at one of four companies, residing at one of three apartments, and driving one of two vehicles, not to mention my fluctuating relationship status during that time. Admittedly, these life changes have been instigated by me, and I’m not assigning blame, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t ripples that have penetrated me, legitimately affected me to the core, and shaken my day-to-day routine.

Routine is the word on which I would like to focus. At the beginning, priorities set your world in place. While I can quote myself by saying ‘every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every month of every year is a choice,’ the truth is you don’t make a choice every second. Or, I should say, the choices become simplified and the answer becomes repetitive. I don’t have to decide to go to work each day. While some might call the office life a droning existence sequestered in tall cubicle walls, the fact of the matter is I enjoy my job, I enjoy the company I work for and the people I work with, and aside from the occasional late night event, I have very few if any issues with waking up before sunrise and trudging through now-school-in-session bolstered traffic patterns every weekday morning. Because even though it sounds monotonous and restricted, it’s also routinely and comfortable.  I don’t live a boring life and if my time spent away from the office can contain as much activity as possible, the eight or so hours in the office don’t need to titillate my nerves and stimulate my eagerness to be alive. I’ve been fortunate enough to find a career that’s challenging and creative and suits my skill set, so there’s no concern on that front.

I don’t know many people that don’t enjoy be comfortable. For the occasional person, being comfortable means inducing chaos, but that’s rare. And even in those circumstances, there are almost always aspects of their life that could be considered routine or boring or safe or comfortable, from food to a bicycle to their partner. For the rest of us, getting into a routine feels less like a rut and more like a groove; same general principle, but a significantly different connotation. And that’s where I like to be, in a groove. When you’re in a groove, it feels like you are on the same frequency as the universe. Like you’re behind the cosmic curtain and finally understand how shit works. When you’re putting dishes away and a glass falls, you have the unbelievable sensation of gravity and special recognition to catch it before it shatters on the kitchen floor. It’s like when Kerry Wood would backhand a ground ball with his back to the batter; some things just come naturally when you’re connected to the moment.

I don’t really have any of that right now. There’s days I get in my car and don’t know where I’m supposed to drive to get to work. Or I run up and down two flights of stairs because I forgot where I put my shoes. Or I run to the car in the rain because I forgot I keep my umbrella under the seat. Or I bang my head on the pole in the closet because the ceiling in my room gets shorter as you go wider. Or I bang my foot on the trash under my desk. Or I jump into bed without turning the light off. Or I re-park three times because I can’t fucking figure out how to get my car to stop in a straight damn line. I would have locked my keys in my car four different times since I bought the thing in October if the car wasn’t smarter than me and says, ‘Hey, you, dummy, I’m not going to let you lock me because your only means of getting me back open are sitting on my scolding hot black leather, you idiot.’ My car can be snotty, apparently.

This isn’t a cry for help or even complaining. From top to bottom, as I reconnect with folks that I’ve missed over time, I can honestly say that I’m still happy and I like the direction that my life is going. For now, and I don’t know for how much longer, it feels like the Earth is spinning a little faster and I’m just trying to hold on. Every change has come with a period of adjustment. When those changes overlap, the period length tends to multiply. My only choice is to embrace the chaos until a routine resurfaces.

The end of summer is a shit-show, so just run with it. Book and double-book my calendar. Over-extend while I have the flexibility. And ultimately learn something about myself. I already know that I like routines and patterns and grooves, but if you always do what you’ve always done, you won’t grow. So instead of feeling like I need to hold on, a bigger part of me feels like I need to let go. Only then can self-development and self-discovery take place and continue to take place.

Self-discovery is not a destination but a lifestyle.

Polish or Labor

A few weeks ago, the country hemmed and hawed at celebrities strutting the red carpet and hamming it up on camera during the 87th annual Academy Awards. Anchoring the egregiously long television event is the award for best picture, so popular that most people in this nation understand what ‘Oscar season’ means. And yet, after researching the last decade of nominees, I’ve only seen 30% of them. My movie taste has barely evolved since I built my first top-ten list, requiring a mammoth personal experience with a film to even sniff the top 20. While it’s easier with music, I think it’s hard to untie the feelings and emotions and reactions to a movie when you first truly discovered the role they can play in your life. These days it’s unlikely that a movie will change my life. When I was 16, everything changed my life. I’m not saying that I can’t still learn or change or grow, but I’m a little less impressionable as I approach 30. Given all of this information, I think it’s pretty easy to determine that I am no movie expert and most certainly could not weigh an educated guess or suggestion on who or what deserves a heavy, gold statue.

Then why did I feel satisfaction when [spoiler alert] Birdman beat out Boyhood for the coveted Best Picture notoriety?

Here’s what I know about the two movies. Birdman had an exceptional cast, depicted life in Hollywood and on Broadway, and didn’t have many camera cuts. Boyhood had an impressive cast as well, tackled the issue of growing up, and used the same actors over a twelve year period to track the true progress of a boy coming of age.

About a month ago, the equally useless Grammys took place for the 57th time. Equally focused, the ceremony crescendos with album of the year. And again repeating history, Kanye West took it upon himself to sound off about a winner, claiming Beyoncé should have won album of the year instead of Beck. Once again, I haven’t listed to either album. But what I do know is the internet backlash against Mr. West was profound, usually citing the number of contributors on Queen B’s album while pointing out the unbelievable range of individual talent that Beck displayed, writing and performing the whole darn thing by himself.

Then why do I find myself uncomfortable with the whole situation, especially as someone who listens to a genre of music that takes pride in talent, ability, and live performances of real instruments? Because the award wasn’t ‘Who was the most talented musician that made an album,’ and it wasn’t ‘Solo album of the year,’ and it wasn’t even ‘Who accomplished more with the music they made.’ The name of the award is Album of the Year.

Does how something gets made impact your reception of it? Or another way, do the means justify the ends?

While no one doubts that Boyhood is an amazing accomplishment in film-making, does that mean it’s a good movie? Does it impact the way you view it? When you watch it, do you have to think ‘this is a little boring, but that kid basically grew up on camera, so I’m going to like it a little more?’ Can you separate the two, assuming you already know the story? I heard an interview where some B-lister saw the movie and remarked how impressive the casting was to find young actors that looked so much alike as time passed. He had no idea it was the same kid. Does that make the viewing better or worse?

I was raised to respect the talent of musicians. My family has spent hours fawning over the mind-blowing ability of Jimmy Page, Alvin Lee, and Lindsay Buckingham, amongst others. When my interests turned to rock and heavy metal, it was the unimaginable guitars and drumming that mystified me, a body void of musical aptitude. But ask a non-metal head how they feel about the music, and their reaction will be the same: they might be talented, but it sounds like shit. At the end of the day, what matters more? Are they talented, or is the music good?

There is no black or white answer to this, but surprisingly, I fall on the Birdman and Beyoncé side. It shouldn’t matter how you got there, only that you got there. Music is made to sound good, and movies are made to be enjoyed. And I’d rather have a great sounding song that was made by machines than the best guitarist in the world producing crap.

Of course, you can have both. And maybe Boyhood IS an amazing movie that ALSO was a feat to make. And maybe Beck’s album IS a delight to listen to that ALSO was an impressive display of music. And in those scenarios, the how it got made can enhance the what got made. But choosing between the two? Give me polish over labor.

The Fisherman

I was called into an impromptu meeting with my boss. I had been with the company for about six months and our relationship was still in its beginning stages; surface level conversation without much depth. The topic of the conversation was something that I had not spent much time thinking about, it didn’t keep me up at night, I never spent a thousand words exploring it in this blog. It dawned on her that despite our close working quarters and daily conversations, she had never asked me what in retrospect is a pretty important question for her to understand.

“What motivates you?”

I don’t know how many people are prepared to answer that question, but I recommend taking some time to figure out your own response. Quick on my feet, I put together a response that was not only accurate, but has proven so well-aligned with the rest of my life that it’s become something of which I can be proud. Before I said anything, she told me that vacation time was her motivation. Employee incentives rewarded a few extra days, up to five, if you were a high-performing employee the year prior. Every extra day she could travel or relax was worth the investment. So what about me?

“Work-life balance.”

Which might not have been the answer she wanted to hear, now that I think about it. But I could not have better summed the reason I get out of bed in the morning. I want to do enough and do it well enough to do what I want. If you get too heavy on the work side, you forget the reason why you’re working. What’s the point of busting your ass in the office if the rest of your life is passing you by? So you can retire at 50? Great. Have fun going snowboarding with a replaced hip. If you get too heavy on the life side, then you can’t possibly expect to maintain your lifestyle. Take two months off to travel Europe? Phenomenal. Now here’s some debt that will haunt your next decade.

The benefits of balance should be so apparent. I’m not a prophet or a revolutionary or even a qualified professional, but I know feeling. And I know sadness. And I know happiness. I once underwrote a quote from ‘The Pursuit of Happiness’ describing the pursuit as the true representation of happiness, but in my maturing years I’ve come to the realization that that’s bullshit. Happiness is not a slippery, elusive, morphing, contorting, phantom that always rests inches beyond your grasp. Happiness might not be material, but I’ll be damned if it’s not real and attainable.

I spent my fair share of time without it, so I know what it feels like to have it. I spent time shuffling my feet, bullied, timid, and lonely. And while I might not have been facing clinical depression or active thoughts of self-mutilation, but I knew I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t confident, I wasn’t self-aware, and I was not living up to my full potential. Every teach in my life was correct: great potential, lacks motivation.

Well here it is, in the simple words of a former, awesome colleague: work hard, play hard.

I found a profession that instills confidence, creativity, and passion. I found people in my life that instill compassion, comradery, and a sense of belonging. And I found activities and hobbies that stimulate my senses and engage my mind. And I’m not willing to sacrifice any of it, at least not yet. Because the end game is already here. It’s the end of the movie when Will Smith’s character says “this part is called happiness.” Don’t let life pass you by because you think that happiness is the destination. There is no destination. Happiness is real, attainable, and simple. Find balance in your life the rest will fall into place.

I want to end with a short story that I heard told by Al Madrigal on the Pete Holmes podcast You Made It Weird. I found a slightly different version that I edited again, but the point is identical and the message is clear. Check out the podcast if you’re into that kind of thing, but more importantly, read the story.

An American investment banker was at the pier of a coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The banker complimented the fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.
The fisherman replied, "only a little while." The banker then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish. The fisherman said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. “But what do you do with the rest of your time?"The fisherman replied, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, then stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos." The banker scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You could leave this village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City where you will run your expanding enterprise.""How long will this all take?""15 – 20 years.""What then?"The banker laughed, "That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would be a millionaire!""Millionaire – then what?"The banker said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."