The Lucky Hand

It was just a simple thing.

Before going to bed last night at a friend's house, my youngest called me to say, "Daddy, I won at Bingo!"

Her prize at the fundraiser she had attended was a $5 gift card at a local ice cream store.

After I hung up, my mind went back to 1999 and an extra weekend away I took on a business trip to Florida. On that weekend I visited my mother, who had been widowed just a few months earlier.

While staying with her, one night she took me to her Bingo game. "Oh no, here comes Anne!" one of the other old ladies said.

The joke was that my mother was always lucky at the game of chance, and she was. She won again that night a couple of times. It happened so often that after a while it didn't seem like luck at all. It was just the way it was for her.

My daughter was only a few months old the night my father died. He never got to meet her. My mother, naturally, after a half century of marriage, was still in shock the next morning when we went back to her mobile home to gather her things for a brief visit across the bay where my wife and kids were waiting.

If ever there was a scene I found therapeutic, it was my aged mother holding my infant daughter, just hours after kissing her husband's body good-bye.

They met again, a few times, grandmother and grand-daughter, but less than three years later for the last time on a visit back to Michigan. My youngest child cannot remember this visit, though photos exist.

Her brothers do remember; the oldest remembers playing the card game, War, with Grandma. "It was the only game I knew," he says now. He was not quite eight years old at that visit.

Two months later, my mother was dead.

I don't think I have played or even thought about Bingo more than a handful of times in the past nine years. But today I couldn't stop thinking about all the things my daughter never knew about her Grandma. They just never got the chance to know one another.

But maybe, as I told her today, somehow her grandmother's lucky hand got passed down to her. Born eighty-three years apart, sharing genes, stranger things have happened.

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Connection Speeds

We're told that our stretch of brief spring weather will now come to a close, and the gray sky over San Francisco suggests that is true. My hope is that the buds that decided to open, the green shoots that have appeared, and most importantly, the hopes that have been born will survive the less favorable conditions ahead.

Making a big deal of the weather has been second nature to me all of my life. Maybe, as the son of a man who grew up on a farm, I absorbed the nearly life-or-death significance of climate to livelihood that all farmers share.

It's also a great metaphor.

Here, in the global home of the Internet and technology generally, a fine slice of chance is what separates many from comfortable wealth and the discomfort of insufficient finances. We all know millionaires, some of us know billionaires. Most of us know homeless people, or people who are in the process of losing their homes.

San Francisco's economy has always had a boom or bust quality to it. It started in the mid 1800s and the Gold Rush, which was succeeded by a deep recession, and the cycle continues unbroken to this day.

That may be part of the reason many people's emotional cycles also seem to move dramatically, partly in tune with the local economy. Money can't bring you happiness or buy you love, but it can ease the strain during downturns.

It's one reason I always urge my children to become savers, not just spenders. When everything is booming and you have enough income, living on credit cards feels like a risk-free way to manage your cash flow. But if you lose your job or suffer some other calamity, credit card debt can virtually destroy you.

But regardless of money, our moods have a life of their own; in some people gyrating madly from high to low and back. I don't mean manic-depressives; I mean everyday folks living around here.

In the middle of that cycle, sometimes the simplest connection with another human being can make the difference between being low and being "normal," or even high. Just the kindness or concern somebody shows you can help enormously.

The disease rampant in America is isolation, loneliness, feeling like your challenges are yours alone. Connecting helps you see you are not alone at all -- that many other people face similar or worse problems than yours.

In the end, that's what this blog tries to do -- to connect people around some of the common challenges in our lives. When that works, I for one, have a slightly happier day.

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Together Again, Or Not

Since I've been more or less reviewing romantic movies lately, I might as well add in Before Sunset, where a writer on tour in Paris to promote a novel based on his one-night relationship with a French woman ten years earlier is surprised when she shows up at his final reading of the tour.

What ensues is a long conversation as the couple strolls through Paris, stops at a cafe, rides a tourist boat, and finally, ends up back at her apartment.

Over the course of the conversation, they both slowly admit that that one night had changed both of them in ways they'd never gotten over. That much had already been apparent about the writer, because he wrote a novel about it, so the revelation comes from her -- the object both of his affection and his story.

Part of the back story is that the pair had planned a rendezvous six months after their one night together -- in Vienna. We learn that he flew over there, filled with expectation and hope, only to discover that she did not show up. (It turns out she had a good excuse -- her beloved grandmother's funeral.)

What she finally admits is that after meeting and losing him she stopped believing in love.

There, that's enough of a synopsis. The very best and sexiest line comes at the end, however, when she observes, "Somebody's going to miss his plane."

***

There'd be no love without trust, a most fragile commodity. Trust yields connection. Connection forges a bond strong enough to last forever, though often it does not.

I remember in the aftermath of one breakup when my ex-partner explained that she still loved me, she just wasn't in love with me any more. Believe it or not, that helped me get over her, particularly when extremely soon after this, someone new did fall in love with me.

Happy endings. Ah yes, ask me again tomorrow. Yesterday I believed in them, today I don't. It's bound to be that way, no? Back and forth, like flowers in the breeze.

This was going through my mind when I spied the two little purple beauties in a sea of clover that formed the image in the photo at the top of this post.

Somehow, people find each other -- that part I get.

Somehow people lose each other -- that part I still don't get.

If it seems like we've wandered down this path before, we have, but life, love, loss, grief, recovery, new life -- it's all part of the process, right?

At least, the artists say we are not alone in our journey.

Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on
Everybody hurts. You are not alone -- R.E.M.

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All in an Instant

Entering the 101 freeway tonight from Palo Alto, the Big Dipper filled my view of the southern sky for an instant, then disappeared behind trees, buildings and other worldly things.

In that instant I remembered so many other times and places when I gazed up at that collection of stars. It was a happy sight, reuniting the current me with many former iterations of myself, starting way back a long time ago, as a little boy in rural Michigan.

It's refreshing and stimulating to be spending more time down in the valley (Silicon Valley) these days and nights. Lately, as I've considered various options for my next professional move, I've come to realize that many of the jobs or organizations I've looked into bore me to tears.

There's a reason I've hopped from job to job the past 20 years. I'm extremely restless when it comes to work: I am mainly attracted to new, entrepreneurial ventures, and the people who, like me, take big risks to try and make them succeed.

In the world of the entrepreneur, the stakes are higher than in other parts of the economy. Here, you put your reputation and labor on the line, gambling that you can help build a successful company.

Nine times out of ten (at best), you lose that bet.

Thus, after working killer hours for a year or two or three, you have to let that dream go, find a way to recover from the loss, and move ahead.

I've done this over and over; you could say I am a serial entrepreneur of sorts. But I rarely start companies myself -- that's not my core competence. What I do is join them at an early stage, and become the chronicler of their early history.

More often that not, as I've indicated, that history turns out to be exceedingly brief. Very few of the companies I've worked for since my first job on the web in 1995 are still in operation, at least here in the U.S.

(On the other hand, the overseas versions of a number of them, including HotWired and Excite, live on in Japan, or at least did so the last time I was in Tokyo a few years back.)

And all of them can still be found on the Wayback Machine, which is sort of a heaven for websites after they die.

So much of what we do and experience in this era is fleeting, here today, gone tomorrow. That's how most of my jobs have been, and I'm merely an early adapter to the emerging global economy that soon will govern virtually all work on the planet.

***

An instant is all that you have sometimes of somebody or something special. Because of this, or because story-telling is my forte, I prefer most beginnings to most endings.

It's often the case, however, that we are conditioned by our culture to give endings more weight that they may deserve.

Think about it: "They broke up." "She died instantly." "He killed himself." "We lost the war." "He lost the election." "She was laid off." "They got divorced."

Over and over, throughout my lifetime, I have had to deal with this social preoccupation with how very special things and very special people meet their end, and it's bugged me no end for years.

Of course, when the ending is traumatic, there is a natural tendency to focus on the circumstances of death or failure or divorce.

But when we do this, we instantly devalue everything that came before. Should the fact that Marilyn Monroe killed herself obviate her unparalleled contributions to liberating a prudish American culture at the very moment the oppressive 50's were giving way to the 60's?

Of course not. She was just ahead of her time, as Elton John noted in his song, "Candle in the Wind."

You can see where I am going with this. I've endured my share of endings, both personal and professional, but when I look back, I almost never think about the last moments, because I still hold dear the first moments.

I remember the first moment I met everyone I have loved, as well as the first moment I found out about a new exciting entrepreneurial challenge. Now that I think about it, I always knew right from the start that I had met someone, or something special.

I knew, and I still know.

It all happens in an instant. Then, in my experience, you jump on a shooting star doomed, one day, to burn out.

Be that as it may, I'm still the kind of guy waiting at the next space station, ready to jump into the next ship that comes along and feels right -- professionally speaking.

And, of course, the kind of guy who can still fall in love, as well.

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You Are Not Alone

Since I seem to be on a R.E.M roll tonight, here's another of my favorites from them:

Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
Everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on
Everybody hurts. You are not alone



Hold on. There is a better day coming.

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Every Whisper

The emotional tenor of any single day, for me, tends to revolve around a song. When I'm happy, it's a happy song; sad, a sad song, etc. But today, the song that played over and over in my head were fragments of R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion."

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spot...light
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much

I haven't said enough
I thought that I heard you launghing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think, I thought, I saw you try
But that was just a dream...

The lyrics to that song are loaded. One of my favorite phrases is "every whisper." Over and over again the past few months, I've found myself living in a world of whispers, some sweet, some oh so cruel.

Some of the whispers that haunt me are of moments that cannot be relived. My father uttered no words, not even whispers, when he sat down next to me on the couch in my parents' mobile home on New Year's Day 1999.

There was something he wanted to show me, something I had no interest in seeing. It was often that way with us -- ships crossing in an ocean of silence -- even though we loved each other as only a child and parent know how to do.

I've often thought of that moment, the old man trying to get his son's attention; the son not wanting to give it.

There was no way I could have known that was our last chance to connect. A few days later, I was helping him let go after a massive stroke, helping him die, kissing him one last time.

Other whispers concern other losses, love lost. Did I ever say "I love you" enough times? Did I manage to pull all of my deepest feelings of love and affection out from their hiding place deep within my soul and make sure she knew?

This is not regret. This is not a foolish hope to undo history. This is my duty to myself to be emotionally honest, every day. If I didn't do it then, how can I do it now?

Sometimes lately, I know I have blurted out the phrase "I love you" to various friends, and it's taken some of them aback. It probably sounds crazy. But then I think of people I never said that to who now are gone. Friends who have died. I loved them too but I never told them.

Maybe one way to think about this is what a person wants to hold onto in his or her final moments. Nobody wants to die in a bitter or hateful mood; everyone wants to die, actually, with love.

I think this may be related to why my youngest and I have amassed a fairly large collection of romantic movies. While her brothers enjoy violent video games in one room, she and I watch movies that invariably make at least one of us cry.

There is a long list but our current favorite is "Definitely, Maybe." The star of that film is a little girl, a bit younger than mine, who asks her divorced father to tell her the story of his love life, and the women who've mattered to him.

As he narrates that story, he changes names and circumstances so that the girl will have to guess who her mother is, among the three women who have been his greatest loves.

But that is not what makes the movie a romance. Her parents have divorced, remember?

What makes the movie a romance is near the end when the little girl looks into her father's eyes and says, "Trust me, Dad, you are not happy."

After that, the movie celebrates the power of stories -- one of my recurring themes here on this blog. And, of course, it delivers a happy ending.

Despite a life filled with the opposite results, I believe with all of my fractured heart in the power of stories. Even in the face of no evidence whatsoever that this will be my fate, I still believe in happy endings.

I believe in love. I think it is very hard at times to sort everything out and stay trusting and open to finding our own happy endings. I also think that "happy" is a much more complicated idea than I did in the past.

We honor the "pursuit of happiness" in our Constitution. Therefore, by definition, all Americans agree to pursue happiness. As far as I know, no other people on earth share this odd goal.

Just us. Maybe we are all a nation of hopeless romantics. Maybe we are the people seeking happy endings, you know, the people everyone else around the world, so knowing and so cynical, make fun of.

The naive Americans, foolish and misguided.

Or just maybe we know something they don't know. And that is if you believe in happy endings, you also remain open to happy new beginnings.

Every story has its arc. No story is over until it is over. Hollywood wouldn't deliver romantic movies if there wasn't an audience. All businesses give their customers what they want. Otherwise, they go out of business.

The more I have considered other cultures, the more I have come to suspect their cynicism, their "realism." In fact, this is exactly what President Obama talked about tonight, that we are a nation of people who are not afraid to hope.

We may never find that happy ending. But we try to hear "every whisper," and we are not afraid to dream.

***

BTW, in case you have not heard it lately, here's R.E.M. playing that song live:

Ethics

Watching the President's speech tonight with the kids, one thing that struck me about him is that he projects a strong moral and ethical character. I didn't think it was one of his better speeches, and as far as the content, I'll leave that to the pundits who get paid for their opinion.

But as I watched and listened to him, what was most impressive was his presence as a leader and as a man.

These political leaders come and go, often quite quickly. When you think about it, very little of what they do in matters of public policy (the subject of tonight's talk) is remembered. Advocates will remember a leader who championed their cause, of course; and opponents will not forget or forgive policies or initiatives they strongly oppose.

But most of us would have trouble listing three public policy achievements by previous Presidents.

Beyond this, for me, greatness often comes in the form of compromise. The reason is that a good compromise is one that forges consensus out of disagreement and moves us all forward. No one can reasonably contend that we don't have serious problems in this society; with a divided government, the only possibility for reform is compromise.

There are a lot of things about people that change over time but those who possess a strong moral/ethical core will always return to the high road, the right road. It's relatively rare to encounter people of character in politics, but not unknown.

When you find one, you know it. You can sense that they're good on the inside. They have beliefs and they stand up for them, but they also listen to those who disagree and try to find common ground.

Common ground is the only ground that matters. Extremists always want to tear down consensus, take over common ground, and impose their beliefs on others. Some of what has led to the Tea Party movement is a widespread belief that the federal government has overstepped its authority in recent years. If true, that would mean some beliefs have been imposed on those who now have their chance to reform the reforms because they now hold power.

It swings back an forth like that, first left, then right. As satisfying as it is to believe you are completely correct about some divisive issue or another, the mere fact that many others disagree with you is an indication that there can be no agreed-upon policy that will satisfy everybody.

I think of true leadership, in any setting, as coming from those who seek to remain accountable to those who disagree with them as well as those who support them.

As a parent, I often think about moral and ethical questions and about how to convey core values to my children. It does no good, of course, to spout one set of values but then live by another. Kids are hyper-sensitive to hypocrisy, as are all people under the control of others.

If there is one thing I would least like to be, it would be a hypocrite.

***

Politics are not much on my mind these days. It's spring weather still, so we are warm here on the west coast, even as the east coast freezes. So we are lucky.

New things are growing, which always brings hope. New companies are forming, new jobs are appearing, new friends are showing up. I'm getting busier and busier, and now more deeply focused on the entrepreneurial than the settled.

Problems persist. But in the past few days and nights, I've started to think of this kind of phase as a test of character, particularly as we display it to our children.

They, too, will in time almost certainly face similar problems in their professional and personal lives, so whatever model we set for them will have some sort of impact on how they handle the challenges awaiting them in their adult futures.

Polly-Annaish, I know, but one choice is to view this period as an opportunity to show them how you handle adversity. One way or another, they are watching and studying their parents; thus, teaching lessons is an inevitable part of the relationship.

But which kind of lesson you teach is up to you.

Details = Devils

The more you learn about other life forms on this planet, the more you begin to suspect we don't know very much yet.

Even though there's been an explosion in human knowledge in the sciences in modern times, everything scientists learn seems to open up new questions, as opposed to providing more answers.

For example, it is quite clear that some plants act in ways that we would have to call "intelligent," and it is equally clear that some small and presumably simpler animals than us possess knowledge about certain scientific principles we have only recently perceived ourselves.

Examples of these are given in the book What Technology Wants.

Furthermore, our ability to comprehend what we call the universe is becoming complicated as some scientists suggest that our universe is only one of many universes.

In other words, just as we've gradually come to realize, as a species, that we are not the center of life on our planet, and that our planet is not the center of life in our universe, we gradually may be peeling back a very large onion as we seek to understand what exists out there in the vastness of space.

As I was listening to a scientist and author talk about this today on NPR, I started thinking in the other direction -- microscopically -- imagining that inside our bodies may be the equivalent of multiple universes, if only we could "see" the ever-tinier structures and life forms that live inside of us.

In that case, we may each turn out to be a perfect microcosm of the cosmos. What, then, would prevent us from perceiving that our entire universe is simply a small creature inside a much larger creature?

Maybe this, finally, would be God.

I've long known that the outer edges of physics and philosophy tend to merge. I was a "philo" major for a while in college, and was deeply affected by the writings by all of the major philosophers. I still am.

When you allow your world view to be expanded both in the outer and the inner directions, and take into account the latest findings reported by scientists, you can't help but feel frustrated at just how little we actually know about these ultimate questions.

***

From the abstract to the concrete. No one can exist only by thinking; we also have to keep our physical and emotional beings engaged if we are to be healthy. I've slowly discovered over my lifetime how important the art of conversation is to my own well-being.

Part of this has to do with story-telling. Talking inevitably turns into story-telling of one sort or another. And stories bring us comfort when we most need it.

Even in the routine, mundane details of our daily lives, stories keep forming and unfolding. The issue is whether and at what stage we recognize them.

Some stories remain invisible to us, and this can cause us great harm and great pain. Imagine that you thought you knew somebody really well; that you had touched his or her consciousness so intimately, and he/she in return had touched yours, that there were no secrets left between you.

Then, imagine that you receive a psychic shock that calls all of these assumptions into question.

What are you to do with that kind of experience? Go crazy? Stop trusting your deepest instincts and insights? Stop trusting other people at all? Blame him/her for your error of judgment?

We have a cliche in this country that goes like this -- "what you don't know won't hurt you."

Most cliches seem to have some basis in reality, but this particular one has always seemed to me to be patently false.

Maybe that is the result of being a journalist, spending a lifetime devoted to discovering what is usually considered as the "truth," including learning how to peel back layers of onions built of lies and distortions to reveal truths not previously known, that leaves me unsettled by the above scenario.

Reporters are good at finding bits of information, and often also good at recognizing patterns in information. I know I am.

Informational patterns emerge in a number of ways, one of which is pure math. The numbers of anything will tell a story, once you do the necessary translation.

I'll give an example. Years ago, while researching my first book, I found out that the World Health Organization estimated that 500,000 people a year at that time were poisoned by pesticides.

I translated that into the rough equivalent of one per minute.

From that point on, in countless articles written by others, I noticed the "one per minute" reference about the scale of global pesticide poisonings. (Actually, that number was a slight exaggeration; an accurate figure would have been one poisoning every 63 seconds, but who was counting?)

The point is that by recognizing and documenting patterns, we journalists strive to reveal "truth." The reason I use quotes around that word is that I've long since learned that there rarely is a single truth about anything, but a range of truths, depending on your perspective, experience, and belief system.

So, back to the imaginary scenario where a person who thought he knew someone else finds out that the best evidence suggests he didn't know him/her at all. What can any of us make of that? How do we incorporate this new realization into our sense of self and go forward?

This is truly a dilemma, one that any number of us face at some point in our lives. And it may well be, just as is the case often in the best of our fictional writings, that there is an essential ambiguity at the center of everything we do, think, and feel.

Maybe we never can know the answers to some questions. But the journalist in me protests -- surely someone somewhere knows the "truth!" If only I dig, I will too.

But that raises another cautionary tale, one that perhaps comes closer to confirming that old cliche -- beware of finding what you are looking for.

There are plenty of facts about anything or anyone, but just because you collect those facts does not automatically translate into any greater quantity of "truth" than you had before you started looking.

I know what I am saying here is heresy for a journalist, and I do not mean to in any way undermine the basis of journalism, which I love and respect above all other trades.

And in my own life I have chosen, again and again, to know rather than not know.

But, I now find myself no longer wanting to know all sorts of things. Some things, even though they could be discovered, may better be left unknown. That way, I can continue to think and feel the way I wish to, based on my own imperfect knowledge.

That way, I can continue to nurture that most fragile of traits -- being able to trust others.

That's a choice.

Which is another way of saying that that old cliche -- what you don't know won't hurt you -- may have finally, at least partially, won me over.

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Life Lessons At Any Age

I'd forgotten how stressful it is to be a driving teacher, which shows I am suffering from short-term memory loss, because it wasn't that long ago. (sigh) But, oh man, if you want raise your BP, sit next to a teenager learning to navigate a metal box through traffic of other metal boxes, some impatient (and honking), others cutting in and out behind and in front of him, all of the while sensing just how vulnerable everyone inside your particular metal box is to what happens next.

One thing I believe I am really good at is worrying, and I always have been. It's not a problem for me to imagine the worst possible consequence of whatever I'm doing and play that scenario out as a type of motivation to avoid it coming true.

This is probably a version of what psychologists would call a "control" issue; I've also heard sociologists refer to it as a "strategy" for managing risks.

I just call it worrying.

Back to Dogpatch and up and down Illinois Street we went today. We were one of the few vehicles in the area, which is an industrial zone, as this was a Sunday. The road runs along San Francisco Bay, past any number of old piers and crumbling warehouses.

A massive passenger ship was anchored offshore. "I'd love to go on one of those someday," said our back-seat driver, our pilot's little sister. "Then I wouldn't have to look down at the water but way off in the distance where it would be fun to go."

Her eagle eyes helped a lot, actually, because for whatever reason, many local cop cars seemed to be cruising this district today. "They're probably avoiding doing their jobs, given nobody's down here," I cracked, pleased with finding a joke that crosses several generational divides.

Our driver bravely pushed on, learning the meanings of four-way stops, blinking red lights, turn signals, lane changes, braking softly vs. immediately, taking a hard left vs. a soft left, and on and on.

How the hell am I ever going to be able to turn over to him the knowledge gained from a lifetime of driving. About all of the unexpected things that happen, that test your reflexes, that reward your attentiveness and punish -- sometimes even fatally -- your momentary lapses?

"Cop car coming up from the rear," piped up our back-seat driver. After he had successfully come to a complete stop, and pulled over into a parking spot while the policia disappeared to our west, the big brother turned to the little sister to deliver perhaps the greatest compliment he could have in that moment.

"You are going to be a very good driver!"

As I breathed a sigh of relief (we are doing this off the grid, i.e., with no permit yet) he pulled back into traffic and kept figuring out how to change lanes with the correct turn signal blinking as opposed to triggering the windshield wipers, an equally viable option.

***

Later on this day. I watched this young driver as he competed in an indoor soccer game, which around here is called futsol. I felt kind of bad that he had already put himself (and me, and our backseat driver, though she never complains) through so much stress down in Dogpatch, and then through and over Potrero Hill, and then (on only his second driving lesson!) up Cesar Chavez Street, up and over Bernal Hill to his Mom's place, because futsol is a fast-paced version of soccer where even the slightest mistake in a micro-second leads to the other side scoring a goal.

Since he plays defense, it would be his tiny mistake that could cost his team the game. But of course that is how it always is for an athlete like him. He comported himself well, even brilliantly, but in the end his team lost badly.

As I was driving him back to his Mom's, I realized that teaching an athlete to drive a car is different from teaching other kinds of people. He already is used to making split-second decisions, reacting instantaneously to threats or dangers, and relying on his instincts to survive. He already is doing all of this at a far higher level of competition than I ever have experienced in my lifetime, and he is a bare quarter of my age.

Of course, I am a worrier, and he knows that. As I drove away, with my window down, he leaned over from his Mom's front door to call out, "Thanks, Dad, for the driving lesson today. I loved it. I don't want to be just a good driver, I want to be a great driver. Like you."

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