What A Lonely Place!

Travel is about discovering unexpected and hidden places. Many times these places are hidden in plain view. You may pass by them day after day for years only to discover them by chance. My chance discovery was at a place I had visited hundreds of times, my hometown airport.

It was late in the afternoon last week, when I was arriving home from some forgettable business trip to Washington DC. I was fortunate enough to get a direct flight instead of a trip around the horn. It was a Canada Air regional jet with hard seats sized two inches smaller than the space required to inhale a full breath of air. I called the process of sitting absolutely still with no room to move as being in “suspend animation”. The 45 passenger regional jet was never designed for a three hour cross country flight. It is literally a pain in the ass to sit in those seats for three hours without moving. Getting up to visit the restroom is typically out of the question.

The plane lands and pulls up to the gate. As the tone sounds indicating that it is acceptable to stand up, everybody on the flight jumps into the aisle. This process is much more dramatic on regional jets because of the confined space and the fact that everyone is in considerable pain from the rock hard seats. Once in the aisle the formation resembles what the army used to call “nuts to butts”. For the brief time is takes to unload the plane all rules about public space are suspended. I’ve seen people who rode the Tokyo subway every day for years begin to panic in this cattle stampede.

Eventually I the people begin to file out of the aircraft past the flight attendant with the vacant stare and plastic smile. The first breath of fresh air in the jetway is the first signal to your body that you are close to ending this latest round of torture. Quietly I file past the crowd of people waiting in the lobby, scanning the subdued faces. I allow myself a small grin while thanking my lucky stars that I am exiting the plane, not getting ready to load the plane like the poor fools I’m passing.

Most of these emotions and actions are instinctual responses. I am on automatic pilot, slowly working my way to the door like a rat in a maze. My first action upon exiting security is to stop in at the men’s room in anticipation of the long drive home. I shuffle in like normal and turned the corner. I think to myself “They must have remodeled the restrooms since my last visit”. The urinals used to be over there. I begin to hunt for the new location of the urinals. Within a second or two of realizing they don’t exist here, light went on! This is not the men’s room this is the ladies room! The primitive part of the brain took control and panic set in. The preservation by flight reflex kicked in. I started heading for the door as quickly as I deemed publicly acceptable. Moving at a rate any quicker than what I was traveling, would I believe target me as a pervert.

As I approached the door to exit, I met a lady on her way into the restroom. Typically I’m never at a loss for words or a funny comment, but I didn’t have much meaningful to contribute at that particular point in time. Startled by my presence we were standing face to face about six inches apart. I turned my shoulder sideways allowing her to pass and gave her what I thought was a nervous smile. In reality the combination of shock and a false nervous smile probably make me look like the pervert I was trying to avoid. I picked up speed and headed for the car.

While driving home I began to think about this new hidden world I just experienced. I could only compare the experience to the men’s room which I was so familiar with. It was so different, it was disturbing to me. The ladies room was vacant and baron. Every one was hidden behind closed stall doors. It was quiet and depressing, with no activity. In contrast the men’s room is always filled with men standing around in plain view. Although conversation is not encouraged at least you feel like you are part of a larger group. Activity is visible and noise fills the space. Since this will be probably my only experience in a ladies restroom for a long time, I will be struck by a single impression. “Man, what a lonely place”.

Junkyard Blues - Part II

The smallest mechanical miscalculation can lead to a total conflagration of the system. Its part of a larger industrial conspiracy called “planned obsolesces”. Objects are designed to self destruct at the slightest hint that a repair is going to be attempted. In the 1960’s manufacturers came to the conclusion that is they made a washing machine that would last thirty years they would not be able to sell you a new washing machine for another thirty years. No longer satisfied with market growth from expanding legion of consumers created by the post war baby boom, manufacturers decided to shift our attention away from quality and distract us with new features. In the process, planned obsolesces became the primary focus of our consumer economy.

During the last half century the concept of planned obsolesces has continued to evolve. Electronic consumer goods are the perfect example of a product designed to be obsolete the instant the box is opened. It is problematic that manufacturers have become so efficient that they obsolete products before they are sold from the store shelf.

Hewlett Packard is the undisputed king of planned obsolesces. HP design jet printers are essentially carrying case for disposable parts. HP sells or I should say gives a printer to a consumer for less than it costs to manufacturer it. Company profit is in years of selling high priced “consumables” for the printer. Most of the moving parts are designed for only 30 to 60 day life expectancy. During the time the consumer owns the printer they will purchase consumables costing twenty times the original purchase price of the printer. A product designed to sell more products. How more perfect can it get?

For years I have raged a personal war against planned obsolesces. I once ran a Minolta copier eight years past when the company would make parts for it. I ran it four years past when third party overseas replacement parts makers would make parts for it. I ran it two years past when I could find abandon copiers in the nationwide Minolta dealerships. The local Minolta distributor finally offered me a six year old replacement for free, just because they were just tired of repairing my unit. The damn thing would still be running is only Klaus could only figure out how to attach a crank to it.

An unintended result of this planned obsolesces is that we are losing the people who know how to fix things. We are losing the art of troubleshooting. Today’s repairmen are nineteen year old “swap jocks”, who basically pulls an assembly out of a machine and replaces it with another. This process is repeated until the machine magically works. The consumer is then charged for the cost of all the assemblies installed instead of the single assembly which was broken. In most cases the broken part is a small object on the assembly. You can no longer go the television shop and buy a couple “vacuum tubes” to replace and fix the TV. Anyone under thirty will have no idea what a vacuum tube is. I’m advocating that all the “swap jocks” should be replaced by monkeys in white shirts and ties. There would be no change in the mental capability, the repair process would continue as intended and the process would be more entertaining. Assuming the laws of probability the monkeys would repair the machines faster than the “swap jock” about 50% of the time.

The world of free thinking, talented repairmen is under assault. Most of these old world craftsmen have gone into hiding. It is possible to seek them out, but they are not easy to find. They are now old men with grey hair in worn faded overalls. If you look hard enough they can be found in the backroom of tired cinderblock buildings with rusted bars over the painted windows. Look for these buildings are far from the interstate intersections. They are most commonly found on the old state highways sometimes called “blue highways”. These are the parts of our cities that were disposed of when the interstate highway made its appearance in the 1960’s. Nestled between the abandon drive up motor lodge and the pawn shop they are hidden. The signs, if any, are old and possibly hand painted.

Like searching for druids in Celtic caves, it is easy to identify a true old world repairman’s shop when you enter one. There is a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling without a shade, the type you turn on by pulling a string. A worn dining room chair with the seat replaced and a leg repaired with wire sits behind a huge wooden oak desk. The desk has piles of old faded papers with curled ends that have not been touched in years. Two or three calendars that are a dozen years old, no longer measure time but are used for decoration hang on the unpainted wall. The floor is either scuffed faded checkerboard pattern or rough concrete that has been burnished to a chocolate brown over the years. In one corner of the room is a hound dog that is so old and tired it won’t get up to greet you.

Against the walls are dented galvanized metal shelves with piles of parts in dusty stained cardboard boxes from companies that no longer exist. Scattered on the floor is the evidence of the repairman’s years of study, piles of carefully dissected machine each discarded after revealing their secrets. Like the way doctors use corpses to learn disease, repairmen study broken machines. The wooden counter separating you from the repairman is deeply worn from the thousands of people seeking his wisdom over the years.

Some repairmen’s wisdom is so extensive it may be difficult to understand him. Like reading from some foreign scripture, he will mumble phases long lost to society. “Oh, that’s the model 195B which was replaced in 62 by model 215C with the articulated control arm.” Listening in reverence, the proper thing to do is to smile quietly and nod your head. The mumbling will continue. “Never did like the 195B, thought the 165-FC was a better solution, it came with reversible clutch which allowed….. I think I’ve got one here, somewhere? You ever have seen one?” No need to answer he will continue to mumble regardless of your answer. As the damaged machine is placed on the counter, like a detective he will finally get around to asking you “What’s it doing?” This is your opportunity to speak.

This is the most difficult part of the visit. I come prepared for meeting the repairman, by carefully listening to the offending machine and attempting to articulate the sound of its malaise. It is like trying to talk to Einstein using only baby talk. Realize, you will never say anything remotely intelligent to the repairman. Grunting and pointing at the machine with a puzzled look like a big ape usually works the best for me. Otherwise you end up saying something childish like “When the black piece hits that thing there in makes a clump-clump sound.”

All good repairmen will show enough respect to allow you to think for a brief second that you communicated something of value. In reality, the fly buzzing against the window behind you is having an equally useful conversation with the repairman as you are. Behind the quiet façade his mind is inspecting the machine and visualizing all of the parts functioning in concert. After you have finished whatever prepared diatribe you feel you need to convey, he will turn his back on you and walk to the metal shelves mumbling some other long lost phase. “Sonny, you remind me of Bob on Maple, he had a problem with his 49M-3 decided to leave it here and buy a new 1800EM, never worked worth a damn.”

After a moment of silence, the mumbling will begin again. “I’ll bet you the gasket is interfering with the idler control screw. I saw that happen all the time with the 217-DC. What we use to do it replace it with an o-ring from the 383-XL, since they stopped making parts for the XL in 78, I substitute the gasket from a 478-CA.” Again this is the proper time to smile and nod. Any stupid comment at this point will disrespect the process and may cost you the “you are an idiot service charge of $25”.

The conversation will begin to conclude as the repairman roots around on the metal shelves. “Now was that part number 29481C? No it was 29497D.” As you look at the stacks of parts catalogues discarded in the corner, you realize they are like old newspapers that have been read and contain no information that the repairman doesn’t already know. The catalogues are for your entertainment, no one else. The repairman perfectly in harmony with his environment will reach into a half rotten cardboard box and pull out a rubber gasket wrapped in clear plastic. He will walk back to the counter grab a pair of pliers hand forged during the first industrial revolution and begin to perform surgery on the machine before your eyes.

There will be a couple small grunts as he struggles with accumulation of rust and scale, but after three minutes the old broken part will discarded and replaced with a part from another machine that even the original manufacturer doesn’t know will work. Finally he will look up at you and smile “That should keep it going for another ten years.” As he gently lays the machine back into your arms you ask what you owe him. He turns to gaze at the calendars that are reminders of years gone by and says “That’s going to be $2.78 today, Sonny.”

Leaving the shop you ask yourself “What will happen to the world when we lose the last of these aging forgotten wise men?” The future is bleak. We will never be able to replace these bastions of knowledge with the hordes of pimpled faced “swap jocks” from Circuit City. Whatever the future, I guarantee I’ll be the last person they drag screaming and kicking into this disposable society.

Junkyard Blues - Part I

Personal commitment to ideology or principals can manifest itself in unusual ways. I have always been interested in conservation, although my lifestyle has not always followed a strict expression of this ideal. I tend to pick the ideals I wish to express on how convenient they are at the time. Humans tend to be lax on issues that require personal sacrifice. “I’ve done my share let someone else finish saving the world”.

Somewhere along the way I decided to express my commitment to preservation in the car I drove. I did not take the simple solution which would be to go out and purchase a hybrid vehicle. This solution yields little personal sacrifice. My badge of honor required pain and suffering. Purchasing a new hybrid vehicle only contributed to the consumer economy and it places one more vehicle in the junkyard.

I decided to extend the life of the vehicles I owned. I would purchase a vehicle with just over 100,000 miles on the odometer and drive them into the ground, which would occur around 200,000 miles. At the point where the vehicle was a total loss, it would be cannibalized for parts for the next aging car I would purchase. This concept of conservation extended not only the life of individual vehicles it extended the life of every part of the vehicle. My unique approach to conservation required the adherence of two important principals. In order to maximize the efficient reuse of parts, I must continue to purchase vehicles of the same model and production year. Secondly, an individual must have sufficient mechanical skills to successfully place salvaged parts on another vehicle with sufficient competency so that one’s life would not constantly be in danger. I was much less successful at developing the necessary mechanical skills than I was at purchasing a consistent model year. My lack of mechanical skills fulfilled my pain and suffering requirement many times over.

A self anointed shade tree mechanic and gregarious friend of mine was a European road rally car fan. Klaus was smuggled out of East Germany at the age of five. He was tall, energetic and a supremely confident individual with a loud booming voice and laugh that was infectious. His long muscular arms were trained like a contortionist to twist like pretzels reaching deeply into engine compartment to blindly unscrew the smallest of bolts. While buried in the bowels of an engine his jet black mop of curly hair would flop around and clean the grime from the compartment like a duster. Klaus lived for Saturday to rip into another engine.

Klaus was firmly convinced that his German heritage endowed him with all the mechanical and engineering knowledge of the entire German people. This was not entirely true, I found out later. He would remove a part and study it intensely until the mechanical essence of the part would revel itself to him. If a part’s function would elude him, after a few hours of intense scrutiny he would summarily dismiss the part as being non-essential and toss it away. Once it was determined the vehicle would run without a particular part, Klaus would never change his opinion about the uselessness of the part. All classified nonessential parts would be automatically removed from all future vehicles. Over the course of time Klaus identified dozens of nonessential parts which would pile up in the corner of the garage.

After much discussion, Klaus convinced me that the vehicle I was destined to be conserved was the 1978 Saab 99 Turbo. The vehicle had an impressive racing record in Europe. It was wide and low and the suspension gave it handling that was very good for the time. The chassis was also designed for safety. What convinced Klaus was in 1978 the first turbocharged version of the car was introduced. The engine was a four-cylinder in-line turbocharged engine that was tilted at 45 degrees, basically half of a V8 which produced 87 hp at 5500 rpm. Previously a bit of a dog, the addition of the turbocharger resulted in an impressive speed boost for the lightweight vehicle. As the rumors went, the turbocharged engine was designed for the new larger and heavier Saab 900. Unfortunately in 1978 the new Saab 900 body was not complete, so the engine was installed in the Saab 99. While in production Saab discovered that the power of the turbocharger over extended the top end performance of the engine past safe design limits. To correct the problem, Saab installed an electronic governor on the engine in 1979 to limit the explosive top end performance. Klaus often stated “It was an oversized engine stuffed into a small coupe which made it run like a striped ape”. I never disagreed with him. It was a street legal race car.

For over a decade Klaus and I cornered the 1978 Saab 99 Turbo market in the Midwest. We were known for hundreds of miles as the consumers of these aging vehicles. Saab dealers knew us personally and we would be the first one called when a turbo was traded in. Eventually we knew of every 1978 Saab 99 Turbo within two hundred miles whether or not you had any interest in selling it. During my tenure as president of the Saab 99 Turbo conservation movement I owned at least six of these cars. We understood the personality of the car like nobody else. I could tell you what part would break next based purely on the odometer reading. Do not assume this means we obtained the status of master Saab mechanic. Saab was a company that also built jet engines in Sweden. Many unique tools were required for the proper installation of many parts. Klaus never believed a part should ever require a special tool, so we usually did with out the special tool and opted for the mind numbing process of conducting precision mechanical surgery on the car with nothing but the most primitive Sears 99-piece tool kit.

One of the most consistent problems with the first Saab turbo was that the turbo would get almost white hot when the engine was raced hard. Improper warm up or cool down procedures would immediately warp the turbo o-rings requiring a complete rebuilt. We had so many turbos rebuilt that we became close friends with the local rebuild shop. They got past the point of charging us if we stopped by with our own rebuild kit. We would buy turbo rebuild kits by the dozen. To the turbo shop we were a form of weekly entertainment.

One Sunday just as it was turning dark, we just finished replacing some broken parts with salvaged parts from the accumulated warehouse of parts in our garage. The next morning I had an extensive multiple city business trip. The three city airline booking was a non-refundable airfare which cost over a thousand dollars. Rebooking this trip would cost at least five hundred dollars. As is typical with all my travel, I started for the airport late. The thirty five mile drive to the airport is the longest journey in the world especially when you are going to miss a plane. The Saab 99 turbo was perfectly suited for this type of hyper travel.

Each trip was an exercise in avoiding the speed traps placed along my route. Having been stopped at all the possible locations numerous times to be issued speeding tickets, I was relatively confident I knew where to slow down. About halfway into my road rally time trail to the airport, I noticed the temperature gauge beginning to rise into the red. Klaus had trained me well in the art of shade tree mechanics. With a Germanic precision I began to consider all of the factors which would lead to an engine meltdown. My primary focus was the work complete the night before. I didn’t recall Klaus finding any new nonessential parts to be tossed aside. As I retraced each activity of the night before nothing was out of the usual.

I briefly considered stopping to open the hood to take a look, but dismissed the idea after glancing at my watch. I could not afford the five hundred dollars it would cost to miss the flight. I came to the conclusion what I had plenty of spare parts to correct the condition. Passing the three quarter mark of my journey, I was surprised to see the needle on the temperature gauge had graduated past the marks indicating temperature. The needle had pushed so far past the temperature gauge that I now had two needles on my battery gauge. I thought to myself, “I bet Klaus doesn’t even know that a Saab can do that”.

Considering the list of options available I decided to speed up and get the car to the airport as quickly as possible. When Saab decided to place such a large engine in such a small compartment, they created a cooling problem. The small front grill area was not large enough to allow sufficient air past the radiator to cool the excessively hot turbo. Saab’s solution was to install two high powered fans to suck three times the amount of air past the grill to cool the engine. As I considered the engineering comprises required to make this combination of engine and chassis work, I recalled the image of the fan wires dangling unplugged as the hood was shut last night. This solved the riddle of the overheating engine. I knew from past experience that the engine would need to cool for hours before anyone could reach in and reconnect the fan wires. I didn’t have the time to pull over on the shoulder.

I pushed to car to the explosive top end which Saab was in the process of correcting, when I hear a clear pop of a potato gun that had just hurled a spud a couple hundred yards. I immediately focused on the operation of the vehicle. There did not appear to be a loss of power. The turbo was still whirling with a high pitched whine. All spark plugs were firing in order. The engine seemed to be running fine. I began to relax and dismiss the sound as road debris hitting the undercarriage of the car, when something caught the corner of my eye. It was a brief flash of sunlight in the rear view mirror. As I looked into the mirror I noticed there was no car behind me for as far as the eye could see. At closer inspection there was a handful of small round metal parts spinning like tops about 100 feet behind me.

Six to eight obvious engine parts danced on the pavement reflecting sunlight as they spun. The image of the parts shrank and disappeared quickly at the car sped away from the spot. Having just solved one mechanical mystery I began to solve the newest puzzle. Where did those parts spinning on the ground come from? I decided to begin to match the shape of the spinning parts against my extensive parts inventory at home. Again I turned my attention to the operation of the vehicle. Everything seemed to be functioning. No usual sounds? No new vibrations? Using Klaus’ mechanical skills I dismissed the parts as nonessential. Looking back at the dash, the temperature gauge had now circled 270 degree and the temperature needle registered just below cool having knocked off the battery needle along the way. I made a metal note to myself to ask Klaus if he had any spare needles for a battery gauge when I got back.

As the journey pushed forward toward the airport a brilliant white smoke began to trail from the speeding vehicle. I laughed to myself that mechanical riddle number three was much too easy to solve. With the radiator fans unplugged the cooling system was overheating which produced the white smoke as it spewed from the radiator. The car now resembled a rocket as the smoke dissipated into one long thin plume reaching a half of mile in length. I can ride this out. I’m not far from the airport. I was only two miles from the airport when the smoke turned from white to black. Mechanical mystery number four was confusing me. I had no idea what it could be. Black smoke is oil or fuel. White is water and antifreeze. My problem was white smoke. How could the smoke immediately shift from white to black? These were two independent mechanical systems. A conflagration of two systems would result in the mixing of white and black creating grey smoke. I did not understand how the smoke could change colors.

Approaching the airport, there was not enough time to catch the airport shuttle, so I decided to park at one of the small gas stations next to the airport property. Still wrestling mystery number four, I pulled off the interstate onto an exit ramp. At the top of the ramp was a stop sign and to the left one short block was the gas station. As I stopped at the stop sign the paint on top of my hood bubbled like an egg in a hot skillet. I was amazed how rapidly my hood was bubbling. It didn’t take a German rocket scientist to conclude the car was on fire! There wasn’t much comfort in the fact that I solved mystery number four at this point in time. About half the parts under the hood of the car are plastic and plastic burns with a thick black smoke especially when fanned with one hundred mile per hour winds.

While staring at the hood standing still at the ramp intersection, small blue flames popped out from under the grill to look at me. If the flames had a camera to take a photo of me peering through the windshield I’m sure it would have won every photo contest in the world. At my first introduction to the fire, I panicked and decided to drive the burning car to the gas station to put the flames out. I considered this the appropriate conservation solution, maximize the life cycle of the parts that were not quite yet on fire. It’s truly amazing how slow time passes when you are driving a burning car.

In the eternity it took me to travel that one block from the stop sign to the gas station I developed, evaluated and prioritized at least twenty separate plans for exiting the car. Out of habit or maybe because I was in shock I pulled my burning Saab 99 Turbo right up to the gas pump like I need something flammable to be close to. The gas station attendant saw me driving up the street and assumed from the smoke streaming from behind my car that my car was overheated. It this it was the understatement of the year. Apparently the attendant was unaware of the difference between white smoke and black smoke. Casually he shuffled out of the open service station door smiling at the prospect of selling me two gallons of the outrageously overpriced antifreeze.

As the car rolled slowly up to the gas pump I grabbed my luggage and hurled it though the open sunroof. A flood of adrenalin allowed me to rocket the luggage from the car like an ejection seat on an F-18 fighter jet. My luggage made a beautiful arch which reached a height of about ten feet and then landed about twenty feet from the smoking vehicle. Startled by never having seen anyone remove their luggage from a moving vehicle in such a fashion, the attendance began to approach the car laughing. “Looks like you need some water for that car buddy.”

I was a little distracted for small talk with the attendance as I threw open the car door and dove for the ground. Like a dog that is running at full speed when they arrive at the end of the leash, I was about three feet from the car when the seatbelt snapped me back into the car. Strangely none of my twenty plans included unbuckling my seatbelt before exiting the car in panic. I made another mental note to myself seatbelts are useless in a burning vehicle. Quickly I removed my seatbelt and dove again for the ground, easily clearing the pump island and I rolled toward the attendant who was beginning to wonder what type of fruitcake had made an appearance at his station.

In the process of ejecting myself from the car I managed to pull the hood release level which allowed the hood to pop open revealing a nuclear fireball of flame which stretched to the canopy of the pump island. The attendant let out a girlish squeal. It was the type of sound that would ruin your life as a kid if anyone else heard it. It was a sound that you would have to deny forever. A sound that could get you tagged for life with a nickname like “Squiggles” or “Chicken”. Upon hearing the attendant’s cry I thought “Whee what a pussy” as he broking into a dead run for the building. I turn my attention back to the burning car and began to realize the poor decision I made parking the car next to the gas pumps. I let out my own girlish squeal which I continue to deny to this day and headed for the building to see what the attendance was doing.

I was knocked aside as the attendant rocketed out of the gas station with a huge fire extinguisher and began covering the car with a thick blanket of white foam. In a few short seconds the car was transformed was a raging Texas A&M bonfire to a smoldering and hissing pile of parts. With the disaster averted the attendant looked at me with one of those “I’m going to kill this idiot” looks, as I began to collect luggage. I decided I should try to connect with the guy. I walked over and said “Thanks dude, I really needed some help and didn’t know where else to go.” He replied “I wouldn’t suggest driving a burning car up to a gas pump” As I tossed the luggage over my shoulder, I smiled “Yeah next time I’m cruising around in a burning vehicle I’ll remember that.” As I started toward the shuttle bus, the attendant asked “What should I do with the car?” “Just tow it around back and park it. I’ll be back in a week.”

A week later I returned to the gas station to survey to damage and concluded that this particular vehicle would be retired, but there were still some parts that could live on. Asked the attendance for the bill and was shocked to see a line item of $450 for one fire extinguisher. I looked up at him and said “Dude, I never authorized you to use the fire extinguisher on the car. I think you took it upon yourself to use that extinguisher. I’m not paying for that.” Without missing a beat he replied “Yeah your right that’s a mistake that shouldn’t be for the fire extinguisher that $450 charge is for the 25 foot tow you asked for before leaving”. You know he was right, I couldn’t argue. I paid the bill and proceed to call to have the car towed back to the house for salvage.

A Self Inflicted Head Wound

Speaking in public is one of the most universally feared activities by people. Believe it or not public speaking ranks second right behind the fear of death. I’m surprised the fear of death does not have a larger lead. People don’t understand public speaking is a learned skill. Every speaker has to cultivate and nurture the skills required to speak in front of large crowds.
The key to mastering this skill is lots of practice, knowing the subject and managing one’s self image. Henry Ford once said “Whether you think you are, or whether you think you are not, your right.” An individuals ability to achieve a goal is typically limited by the image of themselves. If you believe you are an inadequate writer you will not succeed at writing.

I have developed an ability to speak in front of large crowds with a degree of competency. My ability has only happened through many years of hard work. There was a defining moment that propelled me forward to master public speaking. It was many years ago but I relive the experience over and over in the quiet moments as if it was yesterday. This single event continues to push me toward never allowing me to be comfortable with my speaking ability.

Years ago as a young professional, I aspired to participate in various professional organizations. One of the organizations I joined was a legislative council of design professions. This council represented sixteen separate design association including civil engineers, architects, electrical engineers, planners, interior architects, landscape architects, etc. Each design organization had one vote on the council. I found attending the council fascinating. The council would debate a bill or a piece of legislation that was in one of two adjacent state legislatures and take a political position upon unanimous vote by all sixteen of its members. The group was very active in the two state legislatures. Representing over twelve thousand members the council was a real force in the political process and its opinion was highly respected by lawmakers.

As the council debated issues, I was mesmerized by the intellectual ability of council members to articulate a position of very complicated legislation. I recall listening to one member and thinking as he spoke “That’s the essence of the issue. It can be no other position”. Then just as quickly another member would argue the opposite position with absolute clarity effectively changing my opinion. A third member would speak up with a new insight that would take the discussion into new realm. It was the single greatest training ground for me to learn the political process. As a young profession I would keep quiet and listen as the seasoned council members mentored me in the ways of politics.

In most professional association if you keeping coming to the meeting they will eventually make you president, regardless of your ability. This was the case for me. I seemed eager enough they thought. Reluctantly I accepted, knowing I was way over my head intellectually. I knew I could manage the council’s meetings, they tended to run themselves and all one really need to know was Robert’s Rules of Order for Parliamentary Procedures. The bigger concern was that council had one big public event each year. It was called the Legislators Night Dinner.

The Legislators Night dinner was a huge political event. The council would invite legislators from both state legislatures free of charge to a black tie dinner. It was a wonderfully orchestrated affair with a big multimedia presentation. A legislator from each state was assigned a table. Design professional who paid the $125 dinner fee would jockey to be seated at a table to discuss pending bills of interest with a particular legislator. The annual event was exceptionally popular and would attract four to six hundred people. Invitations would also be extended to the governors, attorney generals, and other state dignitaries. Each year over 200 legislators would attend making the event the largest meeting of legislators outside the state capitols.

As my year as president proceeded I became increasingly nervous about being the host of the dinner. My only hope in the days preceding the event was to script my speech and practice until it was totally committed to memory. Prepared but still exceptionally nervous the event began with me greeting guests at the door. My first official duty was to introduce the mayor, so he could say a few words and welcome the crowd. I had prepared my comments and a short joke about the mayor which was inscribed in granite in my mind. Two minutes before I was to walk to the podium, there was a commotion with a couple of people in charge on making sure the event ran smoothly. One of them ran over to me and said “There has been a change in plans. The mayor won’t be attending so the head of the city council will be acting as mayor pro-tem for the night.” She then immediately shoved a new three page resume in my hand on our new presenter. “Here’s the new bio, take a quick look at it and go out there and introduce him.”

In disbelief I looked at the resume. I have never done well unscripted. Panic began to over take me. My carefully planned way though this event was turning into chaos. Unsure I scanned the paper looking for something to grab on to. I was looking for something to fill the gap of the missing mayor who I now knew so intimately. There was nothing. All my scripted banter was washed away thirty seconds before I was to speak. Deciding to make the best of it, I made my way to podium. Then in the process of walking to the podium I did the worst thing anyone could do. Scanning the crowd of 200 legislators it occurred to me how every one of them must get up daily and speak before large crowds. Emerging from the dark recesses of my mind I thought “Every one in this room is a more accomplished speaker than I am.” That single sentence was crushing head-on collision. It devastated my confidence. I had created a perception I could never recover from. The sad thing was, I didn’t need to be the best speaker in the house; I just needed to be myself.

I stepped up to the podium with this lethal thought ripping apart my mind like a piece of shrapnel. I took a deep breath looking over the 600 invited guests who were intently staring at me and tried to speak. To my horror nothing came out. My mouth moved like it was instructed but no sound emerged. I attempted to speak a second time, but again no sound. I wondered if this was the same feeling that people with spinal cord injuries feel the first time they attempt to move a limb that no longer responds. I stood in front of the crowd piping for air like a goldfish, my mouth opening and closing in pure silence. I can’t recall how long I stood there in silence, but it was ten eternities. There was a clutching feeling of severe fright in my lower spine, the type of fear that is only experienced in childhood nightmares. Slowly the paralyzing fear continued to climb up my spine until it touched the base of my skull and began to envelope it. Suddenly I felt the back of my skull open and my liquid brains cascade my shoulders, all of this occurring while I was literally paralyzed. It was the single most regrettable experience of my life.

At one of the front tables, a wife of a representative who had served in the legislature for thirty years recognized my dilemma and shouted out “Its Okay honey, my Harold couldn’t speak a lick before I taught him how”. The comment broke the tension in the room with the crowd letting out a big laugh. The noise awoke me from my hypnotic trance. I seriously considered walking off stage and out the door never to be seen again. I rejected to flight response and gathered myself to speak again. I cleared my throat and with a timid broken voice and offered an apology. “I hope you all will excuse me. I’ve never had the opportunity to speak before such a distinguish crowd such as the one assembled tonight. I am a little nervous.” The crowd immediately empathized with this struggling poor mute speaker and took me under their wing with a round of applause. This gave me sufficient courage to continue. I went on to butcher the introduction of the mayor pro-tem, but was able to make it off stage. Six additional times that night I had to summon the strength to walk back to the podium. The night proceeded painfully, but it eventually did end.

The next day I took a solemn oath to never allow myself to be embarrassed again speaking in public. I began slowly in small crowds working my way up. Year after year I would seek out public speaking opportunities to development my skills. Public speaking is about the same as golf. “It’s a game that can never be won, it can only be played.” I still think about that night and the self inflicted head wound.

A Beauty Contest Gone Bad

Interviews are the life blood of a design firm. I will participate in about 35 interviews a year as a primary consultant or as a member of a larger team. Preparing for a project interview of significance is highly competitive and heart-rending process that requires an enormous investment of energy and resources. Interviews are the ultimate chess game where all the strings are pulled and heavyweights go head to head.

The process begins with what is called a Request for Qualifications which requires submitting piles of paper justifying your experience for the selection committee. This is fairly standard information - resumes of team members, firm profile, similar project experience, a statement of project approach, project schedule and the list goes on forever. Most firms have this information stockpiled in one format or another. However each selection committee wants the information in a particular format on special forms. This necessitates monumental rewrites on every submission. It’s the professional equivalent of going to the blackboard to rewrite your name five hundred times as a method of punishment. Failing to follow the rules in the exact prescribed manner will result in dismissal from the selection process.

The selection committee will review the ten or more submittals from everyone who followed the rules. Typically there is a contrived system of scoring the submittals which goes like this- up to 20 points for project understanding, up to ten points for relevance of related work experience, up to 15 points for ability of individuals assigned to the project, etc. The committee with the precision of a sledge hammer identifies the top rated firms using a secret formula created by teams of rocket scientists. All of this carefully constructed to make the process fair and unbiased. The system fails when a group of bureaucrats with no formal training is assigned to judge the merits of professional designs. In their eyes a project is successful if it is finished without getting fired and you were able to take a picture of it for the submittal. I like to think of the phase of the process as a group of blindfolded monkeys playing bingo; nobody will ever know the real criteria. And to monkeys “who cares”. Some selection formulas are so complicated that the selection committee locks the door and weight the submittals to determine the ranking. “Hey! I think you got a winner there, that submittal weights 5.2 pounds.”

The carefully ranked list of firms are “short listed” for interviews. Typically the top three to five firms are asked to provide the committee an interview. Many times selection committee and the interview committee may be a totally different group of monkeys. This is where the process gets competitive. Each of the teams begins to work to discover the magic key to unlock the mystery of the interview. Who is on the selection committee? What is their agenda? What do they like? In other words how can I blow smoke up their ass without making them aware of the fact that smoke is being blow up their ass. As you can tell it is a delicate and complicated activity. Fundamentally the key is to achieve a greater volume of undetected smoke than your competitor.

The anointed teams are assembled on a predetermined day to participant in what we term the “beauty contest”. Each team has usually no more than thirty minutes to provide a presentation followed by fifteen to thirty minutes of grilling with questions specifically designed to demonstrate the committee’s ignorance. Teams prepare for the competition with elaborate and complicated presentations which attempt to weave six hundred issues identified by the committee into a powerful and meaningful message. The level of precision choreography requires repeated practice interviews where each team member is critiqued to the point that they are paralyzed by all the input.

After weeks of preparation the team assembles at the appointed time for the “beauty contest”. Let me set the stage. Team of five to seven member each with diverse and specialized training needs to compress twenty years of professional experience into a relevant, crafted message while answering 600 hundred questions posed by the committee, demonstrating positive team dynamics with concise clock management. All to be accomplished in under thirty minutes with more than have your team being engineers. Anyone who has worked with engineers understands, they are the last group in the world you want standing in front of sometime during an interview. Its easier to become a member of the Chinese national acrobatic team with missing one leg and three fingers than it is to get through the interview flawlessly.

In most cases you have only briefly met the interview committee. More often than not you have only spent a few hours with the members of the team you assembled for the interview. Just enough quality time to learn two are on parole, one is a member of the Nazi Party and the other one has an IQ below zero. The team which can complete this choreography with less mistakes and more personality wins the beauty contest.

A recent interview demonstrates how it can all come apart. For this particular interview I was a team member, not the lead firm. We had a brilliant approach. The team was exceptionally talented and qualified. The team had worked with the institution in the past. Everything pointed toward the stars. We were confident. However this selection committee indicated a desire to meet the day to day manager for the lead team. The golden interview rule says that you don’t bring someone to an interview without giving them sometime to say. The lead firm had a young talented project managed assigned to the project named Steve. This was to be Steve’s first project interview.

During the practice interviews we noticed Steve was nervous, unsure and not comfortable with public speaking. As practice interviews continued we began to reduce his speaking role by giving portions of his text to other individuals who were more elegant. By the end Steve’s role was reduced to a brief five sentences which we believe he was capable of committing to memory.

As we waited for the door of the interview room to open I glanced over at Steve. He had a broken into a moderate sweat with two slight sweat circles emerging around his armpits. The other team members are pumping up each other like the jayvee team at a high school pep rally. I call it putting on the “game face”. The chair of the committee opens the door and asks in to the room. The process begins by us setting up the projection equipment and adeptly adjusting the seating configuration. We introduce ourselves to the committee with large genuine smiles and extended hands. Swiftly the team assembles in formation on the precise scripted spots. The lights dim slightly for the projector and the interview starts. The team leader who is called Jack introduces the team in a confident experienced voice exuding the authority of respected college professor. We are out of the gate with a strong start. Jack has all the style and polish of an interview veteran. He has mastered the art making people immediately like you.

The team is working like a well oiled machine. The first hand off is graceful and comfortable. The interview committee is spellbound. Reminding me of a sheep dog the next speaker skillfully moves the committee to where he wants like a herd of sheep. Just at the right moment he managed to answer six separate questions with one sentence. The committee gasps as if he had just nailed a triple loop jump on the ice. While maintaining eye contact with the committee I glance at Steve. He looks ill. His complexion is a pale white and the two sweat rings on his shirt have enlarged to the size of basketballs. Steve is more rigid than four day old road kill. I attempt to comfort him by leaning over and whispering in his ear how well this interview is going. He quietly admits his nervousness with a vacant stare.

It’s my turn. Another brilliant transition between speakers occurs with a warm friendly quip that indicates our deep respect and committed friendship for each other. That move ought to get the team at least four of the five points for team dynamics. We’re on a scoring blitz. The committee is franticly scribbling notes. I’ve come to realize if they are not taking notes, they are not listening to the message. I slow the tempo for dramatic effect. The words come easily after years of perfecting this stump speech, like sliding into a worn pair of shoes. I approach the committee to address each member with a targeted message and sustained eye contact. Their heads are nodding up and down like bobbers on a fishing pond. I notice an opportunity, a break in the cold façade that can be breached. It is the point we all dream about in interviews, the moment of truth when the intentions of the committee become obvious. I glance over at my team members, they see it to. I probe the issue deeper to gauge the extent of the weakness. Out of the corner of my eye Jack flashes me a subtle signal to make the move. I quickly and smoothly shift the conversation to the apparent insecurity of the selection committee with our competitors. They are caught off guard and embarrassed that their deepest fears are revealed, exposed to scrutiny. We are the doctor, we are here to help. It’s okay.

I’m in the zone. I see the magic key which unlocks the mystery of this committee. It’s a weakness in the other teams. The breach is exploited quickly. I set the premise. I define its importance. I explain the process. Then I built the conclusion. Finally with the verbal dexterity of a power hitter I pull for the fences. Homerun! The team leader slightly leans back with a small grin which says “that’s why we put this boy on the team”. While the committee marvels at the length of the blast, I wait quietly in silence. The golden rule is to never over sell. When you end up saying something so brilliant that it can’t be topped, don’t try to top it. It’s time for me to shut it down and send up the next speaker Steve.

I provide a sincere gracious introduction to the young professional clearing the way for his five sentence scripted proclamation. As Steve stands his legs are stiff like he is walking on stilts. He is so white he begins to blend into his pressed shirt. The two sweat circles are now the size of beach balls which are running into each other under his tie. He painfully squeaks out the first sentence with all of the tonal control of a teenager in puberty. The committee has stopped taking notes and begins to take notice of Steve.

The second sentence begins but is so jumbled in the process it is incomprehensible. With disbelief I listen to him attempt the second sentence again. He looks feeble and confused. I’ve seen people who have undergone six months of chemotherapy with more color than Steve. I don’t have a good feeling about this. The team members lean over and stare at Steve like that’s going to prop him up long enough for his to expel his five sentences. Then like I was watching some bad movie he begins to talk in gibberish. Not like one or two words were transposed and you could sort of guess the meaning of the sentence. This was absolute, no oxygen to the brain, the party is over, turn out the lights gibberish. We have all seen the devoutly religious on the television talking in tongues. Only god knows what Steve was trying to say. The committee members began looking at each other to make sure they weren’t going crazy.

As Steve continued speaking in tongues he began to develop a sway. It started out as if he was standing on a ship at sea. Quickly it grew into a southern pine in a stiff breeze. After the third revolution it was apparent he was going down for the count. The committee members jumped up to assist but were pinned in behind tables. Jack and I leaped to Steve’s side and grabbed both arms as he collapsed.

Placing Steve back into his chair, a couple of the committee member rushed out the door to get some water. It took us about five minutes to partially revive Steve. Showing great concern the committee watched him drink some water. We all stood silence staring at Steve like he was the prize bull at the auction. When it became apparent that Steve was not going to die or require medical assistance we were asked to complete our interview. Slightly rattled Jack picked up where Steve literally dropped off. In a valiant effort the interview proceeded, but Steve not fully recovered slumped quietly moaned and mumbled in the background distracting the committee. We concluded the formal presentation and proceeded with an unspectacular question and answer session. Most of the committee members distracted by the slumped lifeless body of Steve moaning in his seat really did not want to engage the team with any further questions.

We swiftly concluded the interview by thanking the committee, packing up the equipment and carrying Steve out between the two of us like a sack of potatoes. The competitive spirit always burns between interview teams. As we left the room we had to walk past the next team waiting to be interviewed. Shocked and horrified at the image of us dragging a moaning Steve out of the room, they looked to our team leader with wide eyes and gaped mouths. As cool as cucumber he smiled and said “Boys you better watch out that’s a tough crowd in there”, then turned for the door. Needless to say a few days later to nobody’s surprise the committee decided to hire a Steve-less team for the project.

Are They Really That Stupid!

I have a list of travel complaints which quality me for a PhD in the subject. On occasion I find it necessary to rant about one. This single complaint is always at the top of my list. An undefeated heavyweight which will kick the wind out of even the most seasoned traveler. This particular complaint is universally despised by every road warrior I have ever met. It is so painful and reviled that I can barely discuss it. It’s the “Sunday Night Business Trip”. Why in the “#$%&#” do people schedule meeting so that they require Sunday night travel.

I have a couple of theories, but none of them good. The first is easy to explain, they are ignorant bumpkins that have never been out of the trailer park. They can’t comprehend that a Monday morning meeting is simply not possible without Sunday night travel if you live a thousand miles away. Talking to these people about time and space is like talking to them in some ancient forgotten language. I have found a simple approach usually gets the meeting changed. This simple and gentle plan will illuminate the four watt light bulb hanging in that empty cavern called a skull. Having demonstrated no understanding of travel rules and etiquette, just explain to them that Sunday night travel will cost them an extra thousand dollars. With a puzzled look they say “Oh we don’t want to do that”. Damn right we don’t want to do that.

The second theory is called the “Hoop Test”. Early in any business relationship boundaries are defined and explored. The consultant is tested on how high a hoop they will jump through. The “Hoop Test” typically occurs when chasing and interviewing for a new project. This process is much more insidious and evil, not much different than going to the pound to pick out a dog. The dogs are tested my laying them on their back in the palm of the hand and scratching the exposed belly. If they try to bite you, well wrong consultant. If they laid there still and relaxed you can hire them. In order to work for these clients you need to “prove your commitment to the team” or “go the extra distance”. Business is rich with euphemisms for taking it up the ass.

What is so disturbing is most of these clients are governmental or institutional employees that clock in at 8:00 am and leave at 4:30 pm every day. To ask these employees to work past five produces the same effect as if you ran over their dog with your car. They don’t see you as a person with a family or a life. Who ever will subordinate eagerly is the best choice. Never forget business is a team sport. After I have obtained the contract (with the customary “you are an idiot” fee added) I enjoying attempting to get every meeting there after either before 8:00 am or after 4:30 pm; best of all on the weekend. It never matters to me I’m never home anyway. Anytime is just fine, with the exception of Sunday night travel. People tend to forget that they hired you because they needed your help. At the most critical time when they need the final construction review it always happens on their time if I have anything to do with it. “How about we meet this weekend? My schedule won’t allow another trip back here for a month. Oh what a shame your vacation needs to be postponed”. I like to smile with a straight face and tell them we are “going the extra distance for the team”.

Over the past two months I have been away from home seven of eight weekends. Committing to be on the road over the weekend is not a problem. Flying back late Saturday is not a problem. Just give me Sunday to cook a meal or watch a game or to sit in a lawn chair with a beer. It’s just a criminal act against nature to travel Sunday night. I need to go it’s getting late and I’ll miss my plane. Yeah you know its Sunday. The bastards!

A Circle is Fulfilled

I found a place to hide and be a child again. It is such a rare treat to be able to find a place that remains unchanged from my childhood. Two short days was like living my youth all over again in slow motion. It soothed an aching soul. I grew up on the Jersey shore so many years ago. For over thirty years I have been a flatlander from the Midwest. The ocean has always been a part of me. The subtle urging of the familiar pulls me to any large body of water I can find, but nothing is as sweet as home.

Work has brought me to the shore again. Not just once but a number of times over the past two years. Within five miles of my project is Cape May. It has become a popular summer retreat, but I never come with the crowds. I enjoy the off season when the entire seaside is your private playground. There are just a small handful of locals who keep the place from becoming a ghost town. Within an hour or two at the local pub your become a local.

In 1761 Cape May became the first seashore resort in America. The carefully preserved several hundred beautiful houses throughout the city is the largest collection of authentic Victorian structures in the nation. Cape May is rich in history. Among its famous visitors have been Maestro John Philip Sousa; circus impresario P.T. Barnum; Civil War Generals Robert E. Lee and William Sherman; Abe Lincoln before becoming president; Presidents James Buchanan, Franklin Pierce, Ulysses S. Grant and Benjamin Harrison. In 1976 Cape May was officially designated a National Historic Landmark City, only one of five in the nation. It is a walk back in time.

Walking the narrow streets adjacent to the boardwalk, I mourn the fact that a great majority of the population grew up in the suburbs never experiencing this rich cultural fabric. We have to now drag our children to some Disney resort and pay obscene fees to see a sanitized scripted version of a small coastal community managed by a corporation. What are we thinking?

As I walk toward the shore the weather requires a heavy sweatshirt. The chill touches the bone, reminding of my old friend. There is a soft grey mist that embraces the town like a blanket. I have been able to smell the ocean air for miles now, ever since I crossed the barrier islands. The urge is overwhelming to seek the source of the damp salty air, turning around is no longer possible. This need is primal. The primitive reptile part of the brain responsible for breathing and hunger takes control.

Silently I approach walking back into my childhood. The ocean air has unlocked a flood of memories. The images explode from my mind in brilliant clarity triggered by the scent. I can see my father sitting under an umbrella reading a spy novel with his feet in the sand. I am from many generations of sea worshipers. My father was never happier than when he could spend the day at the shore. The memory is replaced by see the delicate face of the first girl I ever kissed. She is so innocent and perfect. We sit on the sand arm in arm as I work up the courage to caress her eager lips with mine. With each breathe of salt air my soul awakens further from a deep slumber.

The sound of the sea gulls calling on the evening breeze brings me back to the moment. I recall the faint buzzing of the transformers on the lights because of the salt air. The dune grass is gently waving as I climb up and over the boardwalk. I finally touch the sand. I remove my shoes and socks despite the coolness. I am once again grounded to place of my birth. I can see so clearly even though my eyes are closed. The urge to rush to the water subsides as the pleasure of the moment washes over me. Slowly I begin my pilgrimage to the source of all life in complete silence.

The sun is setting and the colors of the landscape are changing as the seconds pass. Approaching the overturned lifeguard stand my hand briefly runs over the worn wooden rails feeling a trace of dew. I see myself standing in the surf with a small sturdy fishing pole casting for the riches of the world. My uncle has just returned with a bucket of minnows we seined earlier from the bay. Every second is filled with dreams and aspiration. We beach is filled with the sounds of hundreds of joyful children. The voices turn into a delightful chorus of happiness. The faint smell of Coppertone passes through the hidden reaches of my memory.

There is a moment at sunset where time stands still. Photographers call it the magic hour. Everything becomes bathed in the softest angelic light. Colors become blended and vibrant. Contrast between light and dark disappear revealing exquisite detail in the shadows. The musician Dr. John said “life occurs in the shadows between the seen and unseen”. This is what he was talking about.

At this moment I reach the water. The tide is rising to greet me. The waves are rolling toward the sand pushing frothing mountains of foam. The sounds of the waves are a soothing lullaby that calms and settles me. As the waves recede, the foam disappears leaving a slight impression only to be replaced by the next wave. The cycle is endless. Bubbles emitted from clams below the surface of the sand create swirling patterns that remind me of the short circular strokes of a paintbrush. I reach down to touch the sea and immediately bring it to my lips. In return tears gently fall back to the sea. It is as if my tears are returning to their origin. They are a forgotten part of the ocean only separated by time. The circle is once again fulfilled. The connection is renewed. Standing still I inhale deeply savoring each breathe trying to capture every bit of it to take with me.

As darkness falls I watch the last light of the day fade. Every nerve in my body is alive attempting to record for my memory the smallest of detail. Staring out over the horizon, the mystery of time unveils itself. For a fleeting instant moment time has no dimension. I can see the entire expanse of my life in the glimmering waves. I am struck by a brief sadness when realizing how quickly the years have passed. Fully aware of the moment I try to see the future over the dark shadows of the waves. It doesn’t bother me much, because the future will travel through me and all I have to do is wait here is the present.

I stood there for a few wonderful hours, until the lights in the old Victorian houses began to disappear. I searched the ground looking for the perfect stone to remember this communion. Immediately upon touching it, I knew I had found my prize. The stone was white quartz not uncommon to the area. However the stone was worn by the sea to a smooth elliptical shape that fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. Carefully I slipped it into my pocket for the journey home.

Walking back to the bed and breakfast I was exhilarated and exhausted. The day could not have been any more perfect. How often do you get a second chance to enjoy the best memories of life? It has been almost ten years since my father has been gone and I had just once again spent another cherished day at the beach with him. I had once again looked into the eyes of the first girl to capture my heart on a warm summer night. I had seen my soul in the rolling waves and we had a good long conversation.

As I climbed the steps to my room for the night I knew I would leave again in the morning. How long would it take for the road to grind all of this out of me? How long could I hold this breathe of salt air before exhaling? The only thing I knew for sure was that I would return many more times before the end catches up with me. It seems almost certain I will retire to the shore so I can spend every day with my old friend. Tomorrow is of no importance right now. The window is open and the surf is singing to me. The salt air is filling my every breath as I fall into a deep slumber.

The Factory of the Future

I had an opportunity to listen to a keynote speech by Barry Asmus the Sr. Economist with the National Center for Policy Analysis. Discussing the irrelevance of job creation in economic growth he stated “Just toss away all the bulldozers and trucks; and have everyone pick up a shovel. Full employment would not necessarily increase our productivity.” He indicated the factory of the future would be run by only two employees, a man and a dog. The man’s job will be to feed the dog. The dog’s job will be to make sure the man does not touch the machines. Something to think about?

Living on the Moon

Recent travels placed me in Phoenix for four days. I continue to find downtown Phoenix one of the most sterile and uninhabitable pedestrian environments created by human hands. Uninspired architecture of drab beige stucco walls surrounded by an excess of parking line the enormous city blocks, an environment designed to traverse only in a personal life support system.

Phoenix is an improbable city located in the heart of the Sonoran Desert. The first residents attempted to farm in the vast Salt River riverbed which is normally dry except when excess runoff forces torrents of muddy silt to pour down over the valley floor from upriver. The city is surrounded by Superstition Mountains far to the east, and the Sierra Estrella to the southwest providing the primary orientation landmarks in an otherwise mundane urban fabric. Why would anyone decide to stop and set up home in the middle of the desert? I have an idea it was the sun. Traveling days without end in the desert without water will make people go insane. Having the choice of hanging around this small puddle of brackish water or continuing to push on through the desert to an insane sun-crazed prospector might make some sense. However it makes no sense to build a major metropolitan city in a region without water.

I have noticed one common and curious trait of American urbanization. The more sublime and spectacular the natural environment in which a city is built, the more tacky, ugly and deplorable are the urban environments we create. It’s like civilization is saying I can’t compete with this beauty, but I can certainly create a contrast you can’t ignore. Like the dog that doesn’t know not to shit on the carpet, we continue to defile natural places out of ignorance or even worse in the name of progress. I’ll save the discussion about personal property rights for another day.

Phoenix is one of the few cities where its name has relevance. The phoenix is a mythical Egyptian sacred firebird. According to legend at the end of its life the phoenix builds a nest of cinnamon twigs that ignite and fiercely burn the bird and nest to ashes, and from the ashes is born the new phoenix. It was also said that the phoenix would regenerate when wounded, providing the mythical bird immortality and invincibility. The phoenix is a metaphor for the sun. Interpreting the legend for today the phoenix (sun) rises each morning to do battle with its foe (man); being mortally wounded by what man has done to the world, it bursts into flames reigning fire upon the land, ultimately to be reborn each new day. Man in order to survive this eternal struggle with this mystical bird protects himself in little portable bubbles called cars. To the Navajo, Phoenix is appropriately called “Hoodzo” which translates to, "the place is hot,"

The Sonoran Desert is one of the most fragile and delicate ecosystems in the world. Fauna and flora acknowledge the ruler of the desert, the sun. Life in the desert is an incredible struggle against death. Out of this struggle is found the pristine beauty of this place. A simple footprint might last decades. Once disturbed we do not have the knowledge or ability to restore the balance. Once disturbed nature will punish us turning what was the desert into a lunar like rock strewn pile of dirt for decades on end. Being the thoughtful residents, we feel uncomfortable with the retched strip mined scars that progress created and desire to do something. All of the king’s horses and all of the king’s men don’t know how to put it together again, so we seek to comfort ourselves with things that are familiar. Since nobody is really from the desert, we desire to surround ourselves with the green grass lawn of childhood home in Kentucky, the swaying tropical palms of some Caribbean island we visited once or the majestic elm lined streets of the northeast. Our fond memories can no more survive the desert than we can, but than doesn’t stop us.

Like its residents that are from every corner of the world Phoenix is filled with plants from every corner of the world few of which are a desert environment. In order to make these plant survive and prosper vast resources of water, herbicides, fertilizers, pesticides and grooming are required. Not only is this process insanely wasteful but it is changing the environment making Phoenix even less habitable than what it already is, if that is even possible. Increases in relative humidity can lead to a “discomfort” range increasing stokes. People are more likely to suffer from the allergy of pollen of plants not native to the desert. Oddly enough Phoenix is genus of trees within the palm family Arecaceae (including the Date Palm) from north Africa which is contributes greatly to allergic reactions. The list goes on and on. It’s the insane musings of a desert hermit that has cooked away any logic from his brain. But it’s pretty you say! Remember beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I’m sure that velvet painting of Elvis hanging on the wall of trailer park home has great artistic meaning to its owner.

Phoenix can not afford to cover all the gapping scars of the lunar landscape with this transplanted array of glutinous foreign plants. What can be done with the vast stretches highways carving the desert? We need to decorate them. We can decorate them with what we have in great abundance, rock and dirt. We can decorate the land with tributes to the earliest settlers in the Valley of the Sun, the Hohokam Indian people. The disappearance of the Hohokam civilization which lasted from 350 B.C. to 1450 A.D. remains a mystery to most. It’s not a mystery to me, I believe they got sick and tired of living on the moon and decided to take a vacation to California or Florida.

Phoenix has embarked on a program of doodling designs of cave paintings and ancient patterns in rock and dirt on the landscape. Much to my chagrin the program has received praise from the design community. It’s a tacky blue collar attempt at lawn art with a questionable connection to cultural history. I think it is more about our cultural fascination with tattoos. We have run out of places on our body to inscribe childish cartoons and we have taken it to the streets. Phoenix is fast becoming the undisputed leader of “land tattoos”. How do they do this? Is there a department of ex-bikers that sitting around drinking beer, kicking dogs and scribbling ideas for the next great Tattoo?

We must have the Russian space agency scared to death. The entire program is funded by rich businessmen that are willing to pay millions of dollars for a brief look at the moon. It would destroy the Russian space program if word ever got out that you can come to Phoenix and live of the moon for free.

Rubbing Elbows in Capitol City

Every blue moon a road warrior is even surprised by the travel gods. I can say it has happened only once before in my life. I got off my direct cattle car at Reagan National and headed to buy a bottle of water in the lobby. Standing in line in my normal post decompression malaise my mind was wandering aimlessly thinking about how most people dress for travel like it was the sofa in their den. It won’t be long before you can’t get on a plane unless you are wearing a stained tee shirt and some loose fitting elastic waistband. What has happened to personal hygiene and pride?

As I’m deciding to dump my $3.00 bottle water on my fellow traveler standing in line in front of me and toss him the two bars of the exceedingly plain “fancy” soap I borrowed from the last hotel visited, something caught my attention. From the corner of my eye a large group of well dressed business men were softly ambling past me. Not appearing to be in a hurry, it seemed odd they were huddled together in what seemed to be a formation designed to past through the airport lobby without rubbing up against the other hygienically challenged travelers. I began to notice the polished shoes, the pressed pants, the carefully tailored suits that covered well conditioned bodies, the impeccable selection of colors and fabrics, the clean shaven faces and the earpieces. All of them had the same style of earpieces?

At this point my aimlessly wandering mind began to awake itself to the mystery unfolding. I began to slowly scan the crowd to uncover the simple riddle of the earpieces. As my eyes approach the center of the huddle there was a man taller in stature with surprisingly board shoulders talking on a cell phone in a delicate affable tone. There in the middle a face I recognized, but the face was not turned away. The face was intently focused waiting for me to look up. At the very moment I looked at into the eyes of this somewhat familiar face we were locked in a powerful gaze. Could it be? Yes it is? I can’t believe it! No it can’t be! By god it’s the former president George Sr. My eyes immediately conveyed recognition, for which they were then rewarded with a wide and genuine smile. A comforting familiar smile, like how your dad would smile when he hadn’t seen you for a long time. It was a smile of compassion and strength, one that makes you feel secure and calm.

As quickly as it happened, it was over. The softly ambling huddle of well dressed business men with earpieces quietly swept the former president around security like a leaf gently floating in a mountain stream with adept silence. I’m not sure many other people understood what just happened. It felt like my personal and private audience with the former leader of the free world, even if it only lasted three seconds.

Celebrity watching is not one of my interests. I feel my responsibility to a celebrity is to ignore them and treat them as if they are just another person in the crowd. Seldom do I find it necessary to even note meeting someone famous, but for some reason this was different. I think it was the smile. It made me feel like the chance encounter was equally important to both us.

The Road Always Taken

When it began I cannot recall. When it will end I do not know for certain. My world is perpetual motion. Trained in the visual arts I have achieved a level of recognition for which I am afforded travel without end. To many it is a dream existence of great envy. To most they will never understand the burden of its splendor. Motion is a drug that seduces you with limitless possibilities. Constantly chasing the next event, the next place, the next project drives one harder. Fearful that I am missing something I require even greater mobility. At last count I am approaching two million air miles, which discounts the dozens of free travel vouchers already cashed in. In the past I would measure my accomplishments by my miles, but like a convict with a life sentence counting the number has no meaning. It has become irrelevant.

I have crossed into a world between the seen and the unseen. I am no longer seemingly connected to anywhere. A few days in the office and I feel suffocated and stagnate. On the road, I am like a spirit that never touches the ground long enough to gain comfort or shelter. I am constantly surrounded by notable, accomplished, interesting people, but business travel never gives much of an opportunity to let the guard down. Deep personal friendships or relationships never flourish in the chaos of motion.

My training in the visual arts and my spirit-like existence has made me a very keen observer of human nature, place and culture. I look at the world like a professor observes a laboratory rat. The tools I use to dissect the world are scale, proportion, rhythm, balance, color, texture, light, movement, contrast and contradiction. I see incredible beauty in things many people never observe. My mind is filled with thousands of fleeting images of people and places. I catalogue visual impressions for comparison and dissection. How does this place work? Why do I like this place? Why do people gather there? Over the many years I have accumulated a deep appreciate of urban culture. What I have to contribute to society is a reflection in a mirror, an interpretation of meaning from a trained and experienced observer. Quite simply a blurred picture of perpetual motion.