Today in Pictures

I'm at 117, with one more this year pending. That will be four days before Halloween, when Julia turns 9 and I'll have 118 parenting years, which means the kids will average out to 19.7 years each at that point.

Collectively, they're almost twice as old as I am; and believe me when I say, I feel it.



Most parents in this era will understand what I mean when I say we learn from our kids. This is a natural situation when the pace of technological change has removed some of the natural advantages of age.

How many middle-aged people know how to text message?



It's just like the situation that immigrant parents feel when their kids understand the language and culture so much better than they do that they lose their parental advantage on the basis of communication ability alone.



That's what it is like for almost all parents today.



So yes, this night was for Aidan, as we had a big party honoring his 13th birthday earlier this month. His buddy since birth, Alice, shared his chair as we all thundered "Happy Birthday" on Bernal Hill tonight.






Earlier today, it was week two in soccer.












Both of my soccer players had good games. My non-player, still in his beloved Russian Red Army Cossack hat, likes to sit way up high, when he can find a perfect perch, from which he tolerates these long Saturdays in good spirit, even though he finds the games pretty much...boring.












Aidan's always been a great athlete, no matter what sport he plays. His little sister seems to just now be coming into her own. She's a player now!










Today, I lost my voice. The games were both close, exciting, hard-fought battles.






I love watching children compete in sports.






Oh yeah, one more number:

Michigan 38 Notre Dame 0.

-30-

Patterns all around

Looking upward, in the late afternoon heat, under my picnic table umbrella, I could see the UV heat of our home star, burning through 93 million miles of space, plus a slender cloak of atmosphere, which we humans are systematically destroying as if we could exist naked in this world. It was both a lovely and terrifying sight.



We cannot. Not white people, yellow people, brown people, red people, even black people. Not of us have skin tough enough to resist the power of the sun, once our vulnerable clothing of ozone has been stripped away by the greenhouse gases our immature technologies emit needlessly on our behalf.





It is bad enough knowing the the flatulence of our cattle is one of the major pollutants destroying our planetary cloak. After all, many of us love a good steak, and almost all of us drink or eat milk, cheese, yogurt, sour cream, buttermilk, cottage cheese, whipped cream, or ice cream -- all derived from the fluid that is squeezed out of a cow's generously long, supple, pink nipple.




Now I have gone and distracted myself, on a couple of counts. First, as to the degradation of milk products. I used to work summers in a milk plant (that's how I paid my way through college.) One of my jobs was to empty the "returns" our trucks brought back from the many grocery stores we served throughout the Saginaw Valley in Michigan.

The way we did this was to grasp a half-gallon milk carton, and smash it on the side of a metal cylinder, much the way you might crack an egg on the side of your frying pan. When our technique was perfect, the paper container's top blew open and the contents, often curdled and smelly, poured into the container.

(You do not even want to know what happened when we performed this odious task incorrectly.)








In the best of times, this was a truly yucky business. Yours truly has always had a weak stomach when it comes to things that remind one of vomit. And this stuff did, believe me. Ugh.





One of my working class colleagues, noticing how I gagged as I emptied the spoiled milk into its resting place, offered: "What bothers you so much, kid? It's just cottage cheese!" We sell it in a different container, that's all. Nobody likes it when it comes out of a milk carton."







Another way I have distracted myself is by using the word "nipple." But I am determined not to go there, not tonight and not in this post.







I love to eat seaweed and so does my youngest daughter. It's fair to say we are seaweed enthusiasts. We buy it in sheets and eat it raw, or sprinkle it on popcorn or in soups or on almost anything else in my refrigerator or cupboard.






Thanks to my lovely Japanese friend, I know that eating seaweed gives you silky hair and soft skin. She's got lots of credibility on these issues because she has the loveliest hair and the softest skin one could imagine.







All around us, the patterns present themselves, if only we open our eyes to see.







My eyes are always wide open. I cannot believe how lucky we still are to inhabit this planet.

Beauty is, after all, like love -- all around.

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Treasure Seeker

With almost no wind but some nice waves, the surfers were out this morning at Ocean Beach. As a (newly) man of leisure, I hiked there for two hours. There was the usual assortment of joggers, fishermen, and dog walkers.






I met two of the dog owners, one a slender, dark-haired Englishwoman whose female dog was furiously digging a hole. "What's she digging for?" I asked."Her ball. She buries it and then digs it back up."








The other dog person was a blond woman with a movie star smile. She was walking her male dog ahead of me on the beach until they encountered a couple with two other dogs. The gorgeous blond woman's dog joined in the fun as the man threw a ball into the surf for the three dogs to retrieve.








I kept on walking, watching for seaglass, stones, shells, and sand dollars. Eventually, I turned around, and when I passed the spot where the English girl's dog had been digging, her hole had been filled by white foam.








All of these people had disappeared by now. Three Vietnamese fishermen gossiped as they kept an eye on their lines, taut to their sinkers far out in the surf.









At first, to the naked eye, this beach is a drab place, all grey and black. Upon closer observation, however, there are so many colors it can take your breath away. Greens, reds, oranges, browns, blacks, whites, blues...







For me, the beach is a long series of micro-environments. Everywhere I glance I find new forms of beauty.









There have been times when I was in "transition" that I felt sad walking alone on the beach. I felt awkward, as if the whole world could tell I had just lost a job, or a marriage, or a parent.








Today, none of those feelings were present. The beach felt like the most natural place in the world for me to be. I wasn't a lonely man, mourning a loss; I was a free bird, seeking my nourishment.








I suspect I'll be going back soon, if this summery heat holds. There is nothing quite as cleansing as a walk along the shore, even if you're not quite sure what it is you are looking for.









Afterwards I had lunch with my sweet friend Tom; still later, tea with my lovely friend Perla, now very pregnant with her second son.







When I came home finally, at the end of the day, I blessed this opportunity to once again start my life, or at least my career, over. I posted on LinkedIn an announcement of the new company I am forming... David Weir Consulting. I'm in the process of inviting friends to join me.








It's about time, methinks, for me to cease working for others, pursuing their dreams, as opposed to my own.








What do you think, dear reader? Would you like for me to consult with you about something?







I love helping people; teaching writing, editing manuscripts, gathering information, as well as organizational theory. I have a pretty well-developed theory of management, for example.







Maybe I'll write a book about this stuff.







Then again, maybe I'll just go back to the beach. There's just no telling, in the mood I'm in...

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Soundlessness

Sitting in the morning sun, sipping coffee, with nowhere to go and no one to meet. From an extremely busy schedule peppered with meetings to the long, slow silence of aloneness. All the little daily pleasantries of working in an office have vanished. You make your own coffee and there’s one to talk to at the water cooler.

Come to think of it, you don’t even have a water cooler. Or a copy machine, a Fax, long-distance telephone service or snacks. There is no Odwalla machine, no fresh bagels this Thursday morning. One irritation is you handled all your appointments via the company’s shared e-calendar system, the kind that allows others to see when you are free to meet and when you are booked.

Since leaving a company in this era means losing all access privileges, you’ve lost access to your own calendar! You cannot remember what is happening when or where. Was the board meeting next week or yesterday? Was that coffee with a friend tomorrow or next month?

Thus disoriented, you go about your new daily rituals: Waking up long before dawn and fretting. Sending out mass emails, letting contacts know you are newly “available.” Moving the car that you used to commute in from one side of the street to the other in order to avoid getting a parking ticket.

You’ve been “redistributed.” Remaindered, de-activated, decommissioned, rendered redundant and eliminated. You’re back to being just a man without a business card.

It’s funny how close you grow with the people you work with in offices. In the days following a layoff or a company shutdown, your first impulse is to try and continue to connect with the people who were such a vital part of your daily life for so long.

But just like after any breakup, you’ve got to realize they are gone now. They’re all gone.


It’s the first lovely day in the City since my change in status. I think I’ll go to the beach and search for some seaglass.

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Just Like (Starting Over)*

The nice thing about the Happy Family moving in a few weeks back is nothing seems to change their attitude.

You can come home and tell them, for example, "I lost my job today," and they just keep on smiling.

*Of course, you never know whether these smiles mask an inner pain, but the Happy Family doesn't really share any deep thoughts.



So I hired a neighborhood artist on the cheap and had the Happies sit for a formal painting. I figured now I'm hanging around here most of the time, we needed some new artwork, y'know?

What is it with artists? Even Contemporary Realists seem to want to delve into the psychological, to tease out inner meaning even where there may not be any.

Life is what happens to you
While you’re busy making other plans


* - references to two John Lennon songs

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Reverse moves

My little grandson James, now 8 months old, is starting to crawl, but his mom tells me he so far only seems to have discovered his reverse gear, with no forward motion as of yet. What he really loves is to stand up and walk around holding her hand. He has also gotten very good at sitting down from the standing position -- all part of the natural learning process.

My guess is he will mostly skip crawling and proceed straight to walking once he is ready. This infantile drive is awesome to behold. Now I am free as a bird, I hope to take some road trips this fall, including up to Portland to see James & his parents.

When I heard James has already mastered the skill of going backwards in life, my first thought was "Thattaboy! He is truly my grandson."

Taking backward steps in second nature to me now. When, yesterday morning, after a bright and early start including writing a little promo for my then-employer and posting it on one of my other blogs, I noticed a new appointment suddenly crop up on my electronic calendar...a meeting to "touch base" with the boss.

Which reminds me, my buddy Cecilia sent me the following classic exchange by Abbott and Costello:


Who's On First?
by Abbott and Costello


Abbott: Well Costello, I'm going to New York with you. You know Bucky Harris, the Yankee's manager, gave me a job as coach for as long as you're on the team.

Costello: Look Abbott, if you're the coach, you must know all the players.

Abbott: I certainly do.

Costello: Well you know I've never met the guys. So you'll have to tell me their names, and then I'll know who's playing on the team.

Abbott: Oh, I'll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players now-a-days very peculiar names.

Costello: You mean funny names?

Abbott: Strange names, pet names...like Dizzy Dean...

Costello: His brother Daffy.

Abbott: Daffy Dean...

Costello: And their French cousin.

Abbott: French?

Costello: Goofè.

Abbott: Goofè Dean. Well, let's see, we have on the bags, Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know is on third...

Costello: That's what I want to find out.

Abbott: I say Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third.

Costello: Are you the manager?

Abbott: Yes.

Costello: You gonna be the coach too?

Abbott: Yes.

Costello: And you don't know the fellows' names?

Abbott: Well I should.

Costello: Well then who's on first?

Abbott: Yes.

Costello: I mean the fellow's name.

Abbott: Who.

Costello: The guy on first.

Abbott: Who.

Costello: The first baseman.

Abbott: Who.

Costello: The guy playing...

Abbott: Who is on first!

Costello: I'm asking YOU who's on first.

Abbott: That's the man's name.

Costello: That's who's name?

Abbott: Yes.

Costello: Well go ahead and tell me.

Abbott: That's it.

Costello: That's who?

Abbott: Yes.

PAUSE

Costello: Look, you gotta first baseman?

Abbott: Certainly.

Costello: Who's playing first?

Abbott: That's right.

Costello: When you pay off the first baseman every month, who gets the money?

Abbott: Every dollar of it.

Costello: All I'm trying to find out is the fellow's name on first base.

Abbott: Who.

Costello: The guy that gets...

Abbott: That's it.

Costello: Who gets the money...

Abbott: He does, every dollar. Sometimes his wife comes down and collects it.

Costello: Whose wife?

Abbott: Yes.

PAUSE

Abbott: What's wrong with that?

Costello: Look, all I wanna know is when you sign up the first baseman, how does he sign his name?

Abbott: Who.

Costello: The guy.

Abbott: Who.

Costello: How does he sign...

Abbott: That's how he signs it.

Costello: Who?

Abbott: Yes.

PAUSE

Costello: All I'm trying to find out is what's the guy's name on first base.

Abbott: No. What is on second base.

Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.

Abbott: Who's on first.

Costello: One base at a time!

Abbott: Well, don't change the players around.

Costello: I'm not changing nobody!

Abbott: Take it easy, buddy.

Costello: I'm only asking you, who's the guy on first base?

Abbott: That's right.

Costello: Ok.

Abbott: All right.

PAUSE

Costello: What's the guy's name on first base?

Abbott: No. What is on second.

Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.

Abbott: Who's on first.

Costello: I don't know.

Abbott: He's on third, we're not talking about him.

Costello: Now how did I get on third base?

Abbott: Why you mentioned his name.

Costello: If I mentioned the third baseman's name, who did I say is playing third?

Abbott: No. Who's playing first.

Costello: What's on first?

Abbott: What's on second.

Costello: I don't know.

Abbott: He's on third.

Costello: There I go, back on third again!

PAUSE

Costello: Would you just stay on third base and don't go off it.

Abbott: All right, what do you want to know?

Costello: Now who's playing third base?

Abbott: Why do you insist on putting Who on third base?

Costello: What am I putting on third.

Abbott: No. What is on second.

Costello: You don't want who on second?

Abbott: Who is on first.

Costello: I don't know.

Abbott & Costello Together:Third base!

PAUSE

Costello: Look, you gotta outfield?

Abbott: Sure.

Costello: The left fielder's name?

Abbott: Why.

Costello: I just thought I'd ask you.

Abbott: Well, I just thought I'd tell ya.

Costello: Then tell me who's playing left field.

Abbott: Who's playing first.

Costello: I'm not... stay out of the infield! I want to know what's the guy's name in left field?

Abbott: No, What is on second.

Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.

Abbott: Who's on first!

Costello: I don't know.

Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!

PAUSE

Costello: The left fielder's name?

Abbott: Why.

Costello: Because!

Abbott: Oh, he's centerfield.

PAUSE

Costello: Look, You gotta pitcher on this team?

Abbott: Sure.

Costello: The pitcher's name?

Abbott: Tomorrow.

Costello: You don't want to tell me today?

Abbott: I'm telling you now.

Costello: Then go ahead.

Abbott: Tomorrow!

Costello: What time?

Abbott: What time what?

Costello: What time tomorrow are you gonna tell me who's pitching?

Abbott: Now listen. Who is not pitching.

Costello: I'll break your arm, you say who's on first! I want to know what's the pitcher's name?

Abbott: What's on second.

Costello: I don't know.

Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!

PAUSE

Costello: Gotta a catcher?

Abbott: Certainly.

Costello: The catcher's name?

Abbott: Today.

Costello: Today, and tomorrow's pitching.

Abbott: Now you've got it.

Costello: All we got is a couple of days on the team.

PAUSE

Costello: You know I'm a catcher too.

Abbott: So they tell me.

Costello: I get behind the plate to do some fancy catching, Tomorrow's pitching on my team and a heavy hitter gets up. Now the heavy hitter bunts the ball. When he bunts the ball, me, being a good catcher, I'm gonna throw the guy out at first base. So I pick up the ball and throw it to who?

Abbott: Now that's the first thing you've said right.

Costello: I don't even know what I'm talking about!

PAUSE

Abbott: That's all you have to do.

Costello: Is to throw the ball to first base.

Abbott: Yes!

Costello: Now who's got it?

Abbott: Naturally.

PAUSE

Costello: Look, if I throw the ball to first base, somebody's gotta get it. Now who has it?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: Who?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: Naturally?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: So I pick up the ball and I throw it to Naturally.

Abbott: No you don't, you throw the ball to Who.

Costello: Naturally.

Abbott: That's different.

Costello: That's what I said.

Abbott: You're not saying it...

Costello: I throw the ball to Naturally.

Abbott: You throw it to Who.

Costello: Naturally.

Abbott: That's it.

Costello: That's what I said!

Abbott: You ask me.

Costello: I throw the ball to who?

Abbott: Naturally.

Costello: Now you ask me.

Abbott: You throw the ball to Who?

Costello: Naturally.

Abbott: That's it.

Costello: Same as you! Same as YOU! I throw the ball to who. Whoever it is drops the ball and the guy runs to second. Who picks up the ball and throws it to What. What throws it to I Don't Know. I Don't Know throws it back to Tomorrow, Triple play. Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Why? I don't know! He's on third and I don't give a darn!

Abbott: What?

Costello: I said I don't give a darn!

Abbott: Oh, that's our shortstop.

***

When I touched base with the boss he sent me home. I had been retired, part of a company "restructure," two years after I got there.



Today, I took a self-portrait. If I appear just the slightest bit blurry, that's not by accident.

-30-

Understanding Media 2.0

The media business has been trying to reinvent itself for years. Traditional platforms -- newspapers, TV, radio, books -- are all in disarray as they attempt to compete with the emergence of a newly digital, global news cycle that chops information up and spits it out more rapidly than a plague of locusts destroy the land.

Online advertising has been booming the past few years as companies attempt to brand their products with younger audiences. The arrival of social networking sites and the user-driven content phenomenon has complicated matters.

"Old" media companies are left with shrinking audiences and declining revenues, reduced reach and an ominous feeling like the best days are past. It need not be this way, but for media companies to adapt, several principles need to be firmly established in any successful media culture:

* Distribute your brand globally; understand that a new, global market for news and information is replacing the traditional national and local markets. (These smaller markets will remain but do not currently present any substantial opportunities.)

* Identify what is "global" about your content and emphasize that for the widest possible distribution.

* Surround your content with widgets that can be added to websites anywhere; these should be small, branded bits of functionality such as has been successfully created by digg.com.

* Never forget that the only content you will be able to charge for is exclusive content. Therefore, concentrate on creating some excellent, exclusive content that people may eventually be willing to pay for.

* Meanwhile, implement advertising strategies that go beyond producing ad revenue but aggregate specific vertical markets that you can charge multiples for.

* Maintain the highest standards of journalistic and business ethics. Ensure that a11 marketing and messaging efforts are clear, accurate descriptions of your service and the value propositions you are offering.

* Concentrate on blending your content widgets with the social and professional networks. Partnerships are essential.

* Don't even bother to foster your own "community" until and unless you have a proven, virally spreading, interactive service that can be accurately described as presenting users with a new, unique set of functionalities.

* Hire me as your consultant!

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Back on the street again*

There's never a day that some young person or another doesn't ask my advice about pursuing a career in journalism. Most days, several do. Over the years, although I've always tried to be encouraging, I also always try to stress the following message: "Don't be like me."

This might seem to be hypocritical, but my advice has a certain logic to it. Twenty years ago, as I traversed my first mid-life crisis, I asked several writers I respect what I would have to do to become a great writer.

They all gave a similar answer, "Be selfish." One of those who advised me in this manner was Peter Matthiessen, a writer I admired, but whose advice I ultimately ignored.

Why? Because at the end of the painful personal and professional transitions that I was experiencing at that time, I chose love and family over the chance at greatness.

Do not read me wrong. I'm no saint, and there are a ton of reasons, some of which are psychological, that I have often turned away from the most aggressive or lucrative options in favor of something that feels more comfortable to me, as I am.

I have no illusions that I am a great writer. I know I am a good writer, but too much of my life is devoted to other pursuits -- raising my children, being a good friend to those who need me, and helping various non-profits and startups get off the ground, as regular readers of this blog understand very well.

Maybe I have followed Peter's advice in a different way; maybe I've been selfish about love and family, parenting and friendship. What I haven't done is focus on my own development as a writer. There is so much I still do not know, and therefore cannot do. Becoming a better writer requires a focus that I have never been willing to steal from the other aspects of my life.

There's more on all of this, but tonight is not the time to speak it. This is a dark night for me. My life and security have been upset; now I need to rest and consider what kind of new future might be possible.

Out where I'm hanging, the only one who can reach me is the greatest of all American poets:

*Im a rollin' stone all alone and lost
For a life of sin I have paid the cost
When I pass by, all the people say
Just another guy on the lost highway

...

Now boys dont start to ramblin' round
On this road of sin are you sorrow bound
Take my advice or youll curse the day
You started rollin down that lost highway

-- Hank Williams

-30-

Attitude Adjustments

Four photos by Dylan in 2006.





Having unearthed some very old Beatles' recordings, most made before the forusome became famous, my home is filled this morning with the sound of raw genius. They were all good musicians; John Lennon was great. Losing him so prematurely via the bullet fired by an idiotic maniac "fan" is one the tragedies that permanently marks my generation.

The Baby Boom was created by World War II. When our Dads came home from Europe or the Pacific, our Moms got pregnant. The statistical anomaly started in 1946, where more and more babies born each subsequent year; the bell curve started falling off in the early '60s, just as we were entering college.

The transformation of Western culture (with deep effects felt also from Japan to Iran) followed.

***

The fog has swept across this slender peninsula that points north through the Pacific as if San Francisco is giving the rest of the country (but not the world) the finger. So the gesture is cloaked at the moment. My girlfriend is back in Tokyo for a spell, so her long, beautiful black hair and kind eyes are missing from my days and my nights. But sometimes at night, the ringing of Skype on my laptop announces that her gentle voice can still reach me from across the world's greatest ocean.

Like many immigrants from Asia, she has chosen this country, this coast, and this town to try and pursue lifelong dreams that continue to elude her in her native country. The Japanese government has done a crummy job of encouraging entrepreneurial ventures; thus it is losing its Best and Brightest to Europe and the U.S.

I've long loved Asia -- all of it -- for many reasons. The ancient civilizations of China and Japan carry an undeniable appeal; I must have read at least 20 books on the history of each country.

But my travels have allowed me access to many other fascinating places -- Afghanistan, Iran, Russia, Pakistan, India, Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the nearby continent of Australia. The languages and dialects, the music and the food, the clothes and the temples, the tropical vegetation and the beauty of the people exert a hold on me long after I've visited there.

To my regret, I've not yet set foot in two other societies that fascinate me -- the Philippines and Vietnam. I've had sort of pen pals in those places, however, that afford me glimpses into everyday life there.

It's a Sunday and my mind is wandering (obviously); pro football season has started in America, but the sport does not interest me. Baseball season is winding down, which saddens me. It's autumn. The laundry's in; soon a chicken coated with olive oil and wedges of garlic will be in the oven, heating my kitchen. This is the first cool morning in a long time; I actually wore a jacket to go to the store!

I'm feeling restless; something is missing but I can't say what it is. Searching for old things (for the Rolling Stone and Michigan Mafia reunions), I uncover other forgotten relics.

How did life pass so quickly? I want to be a boy again.




-30-