I went to school with a legend. No, it’s not Michael Jordan, Martin Scorsese, or Pee Wee Herman. His name is Gary C. Back in the day, Gary was the ultimate master of mischief. In the suburban town where I went to school, his reputation precedes him.

The ironic thing, though, is that Gary had a knack for kissing parents’ asses with unabashed flair and enthusiasm. (A result of his having the most outgoing and well-mannered parents in the neighborhood, who taught their children to be equally warm and sincere.) “Why, Mrs. Jackt’s Mom, thank you for making us this wonderful dinner. It is so delicious, I could eat this every day. This chicken is simply delightful. May I please have a second helping?” He spoke like that as a kid. Literally. Parents ate it up.

In fourth grade, Gary took a hot dog and carved one end of it to resemble a penis. He then stuck it part-way into his fly and zipped back up to hold it in place. He ran around at recess with his makeshift weiner-cock hanging out of his pants, dangling and bouncing around everywhere. His teacher nearly fainted.

In middle school, he would tie a headband on (we grew up in a post-Rambo era), strap himself up with the brat’s weapons of choice (Super Soaker, water balloons, rolls of toilet paper, and bottle rockets), and set traps for little old ladies driving around the neighborhood. He was like a teenage TP ninja.

In high school, Gary would sneak his own drawings into our history teacher’s roll of transparencies. Quite amusing when Dr. F. has to pause his European History lecture because everyone’s laughing at the giant green middle finger on the projector screen.

One day, Gary decided to play a prank on our classmate Caroline. Caroline lived across the street, and had this dog named Baryshnikov (she was a dancer- can you tell?). So Gary took a sausage, two meatballs, and some red tomato sauce and put them all into a clear plastic bag. He then made a sign that said “Baryshnikov” and nailed the bag and sign to Caroline’s front door with his Rambo hunting knife.

We all had a good laugh over that one at our high school reunion. Too bad Caroline wasn’t there to kick Gary’s ass.

tags :: humor : pranks : childhood memories

I’m a movie fan. I really like Star Wars. I even made a feeble attempt to break it down in a previous post. For the most part, though, I am your average summer blockbuster lemming. I go to movies and get wowed by the special effects (“Whoaaaa…them’s la-ZERS!”). Who cares about a plot when they’re blowing s**t up, I say.

I have a friend, though, who is much more intelligent about movies than I am. Pantene loves movies. Loves talking about them, thinking about them, repeating famous lines. I think she even enjoys watching them a little bit.

And I really like Pantene’s criteria for what makes an all-time favorite movie. Her take on it is accessible but not shallow. And it’s for movie watchers, not movie makers or industry types. So I asked her to jot it down and email it to me so I can post it here.

And as to why she’s named after a shampoo: I’m very vague on the the details, but what I heard is that it involves a yellow dress, a raffle ticket, and a wild night at a strip club in White River Junction, Vermont. Perhaps they should make a movie out of that.

Below is Pantene’s take on what makes an all-time classic movie.

Pantene on All-Time Classic Movies

Ok,

There are several elements a movie must have to make it Great; “The Best of the Best”. Can you guess what the following have in common?

The List:

• The Unforgiven
• The Shawshank Redemption
• The Godfather, Part I
• The Godfather, Part II
• The English Patient
• Schindler’s List

A Good Script.
Strong, believable, unpredictable dialogue. I hate it when the writers insult my intelligence.

An Epic-Like Story.
I want to feel completely invested in the whole shebang: the people, the location, the story, the struggle. I also want a little complex “moral imperative”; a little gray.

Good Characters.
When evil is sooooo evil and good is sticky sweet, I get bored. Again, with “insulting my intelligence”. I don’t want cookie-cutter characters. Give me dimension, flaws, humility, honesty, “un-categorizable” people if you will. Let me digress a little here: Take a good look at “The Hunt for Red October” again. Not a phenomenal film, but a great action flick nonetheless. You’ll see that there’s no evil senator, no bad-ass general, etc. It’s a battle of wits so to speak. They forgot about this kind of subtlety when they made “Patriot Games”. Oooo, it’s a mean, volatile, greasy-haired bad Columbian drug lord. Gee, do you think he’s the bad guy?

Good Actors.
That is each and every actor is spot-on no matter the size of their role. They don’t have to scream and yell to make themselves believable. Once again, subtlety is key. That’s why Pacino is so goddamn good in Parts I & II (closing the door in Diane Keaton’s face, twice.) and soooooooo shitty in Part III. Parts I & II were made before Al started screaming all his lines. He should take a page from the Ralph Fiennes book on How to Act. How can we forget the German Commandant Amon Goeth (Schindler’s List)? “Whatcha doing with that rifle, Amon? Um…Amon, why don’t you put the gun down and finish your coffee? Um, you’re not really going to shoot… OH MY GOD!! YOU BASTARD!!” With one swift yet apathetic act Ralph Fiennes’ character was able to epitomize the evil of the Third Reich. More noteworthy performances: The interaction between Gene Hackman and Sir Richard Harris’ characters in The Unforgiven…I suggest watching the jail scene again.

Cinematography.
Need I say more?

Movies that come very very very close-but-no-cigar to meeting ALL these needed elements, that is, movies that I feel still kick-ass but are not going to be included with the above mentioned are listed here in no particular order:

Runners-Up:

• The Searchers
• Dances with Wolves
• Lawrence of Arabia
• Lord of the Rings, Two Towers
• Gone with the Wind (how can you not?)
• Mississippi Burning
• Million Dollar Baby
• Pulp Fiction

And of course there are movies that are great indies (Lost In Translation, Magnolia), great comedies (When Harry Met Sally), great action adventures (Raiders of the Lost Ark), great love stories, (Breakfast at Tiffany’s) great thrillers (Sixth Sense) and great guilty pleasures (Ocean’s Eleven, Showgirls).

Check out AFI’s Top 100 Films. I agree with 95% of their list (That’s ’cause I’ve seen only 95 of the movies listed.) To pull a few of my personal favs:

Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, The Third Man, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, & Rear Window. I could go on and on and on…To Kill A Mockingbird, The Graduate, The Big Sleep, Alice, Dead Poets Society, Sound of Music, All The President’s Men, Cry Freedom, Stalag 17, Walk the Line, Fish Called Wanda…..

How’s that Jack?

Pantene

tags :: Classic Movies : AFI : Pantene

In school, I was no science prodigy. I was just OK at biology. And I made a barely passable effort in chemistry.

But physics- well, that was even worse. In a failing effort to teach me relativity theory equations, one of my physics professors (whom I had driven to his wits’ end) came up with a special physics problem just for me involving an X-Wing Fighter flying past the Death Star at the speed of light. He hoped that my dense brain would finally wrap itself around the problem if the challenge appealed to my geeky nature.

I still got a C+.

Knowing how to take a hint, I never considered a career as a physician.

I do, though, have the privilege of knowing many highly competent and talented doctors. Most of their days, it seems, are fairly uneventful. But on occasion, as in every workplace, embarrassing and humorous moments do occur.

But funny moments at hospitals are always much more funny than episodes elsewhere.

Because they usually involve someone’s sphincter.

Always Use The Right Tools for the Job
After performing many physical exams supervised by her teaching physicians, a new intern began giving patients physicals on her own.

After a few solo sessions, the teaching physicians were perplexed. About halfway through each session, they kept hearing a sharp grunt or a muffled cry emanating from behind the exam room door.

After hearing this audible anomaly a few times, one of the more experienced doctors decides to sit in on the new intern’s next physical, in case she had overlooked a step.

You guessed it: She gloved up for the rectal exam like every good doctor should (*sss-nap!*). But she forgot to use lubricant to *ahem* ease the discomfort.

Improvised Explosive Device
A patient comes in, complaining of being constipated for several days. They give her some oral laxatives and send her home.

It doesn’t seem to help. She returns. Her abdomen, naturally, is in a lot of pain at this point.

They admit her to the hospital. The doctors consult with each other to resolve the obstruction. They put her in stirrups and give her suppositories. And more suppositories.

This continues for a quite a while. She’s backed up. She’s lying down, in stirrups. They keep giving her suppositories. Nothing’s happening.

Finally, after a few days of this, one of the nurses hears a bursting sound (*BOOM*!!!) coming from the room.

The dam had burst. Or rather, exploded.

There was poop everywhere.

The linens.

The bed.

The floor.

The wall facing the bed.

Inside the air conditioning vent.

The poor nurses were none too happy about clean-up detail. But the backed up lady sure was happy her problem had finally cleared up.

You Say Tomato, I Say Rectal Exam
A doctor is giving a physical.

The patient speaks only Spanish.

The doctor learned Spanish in school. So, in his effort to communicate effectively, he conducts the physical en Espanol.

Or so he thinks.

The first part of the physical goes smoothly. Then comes the rectal exam (told you- every funny story involves someone’s sphincter).

The doctor explains the rectal exam procedure to the patient (in Spanish, of course). That the patient would have to turn around, partially disrobe, and bend over the exam table. That the doctor would then insert his finger into the patient’s rectum to check for abnormalities.

The doctor then leaves the room to get some supplies.

Upon returning, the patient is standing there in his hospital gown.

Underwear off.

Bending backwards.

With his own finger up his ass.

tags :: jokes : humor : doctor : hospital : suppository : sphincter

In Thailand, people call their capital city Krung Thep (pronounced “kroong tape”), meaning “City of Angels.”

Sixty years ago, Krung Thep, known in the West as Bangkok, did not in any way resemble the sprawling, noisy metropolis it is today. During that fabled time, Bangkok was a truly exotic city of the Orient.

It was a different time, a different place. People lived their lives by the water, along a patchwork of klongs, or canals, stitched together like a moving, flowing tapestry. Teak houses perched on stilts lined the waterways. Wives did the household laundry on their dock steps, keeping a watchful eye as their children splashed and played. Merchants carrying food and goods paddled their flatbed canoes to and fro, occasionally stopping at a house to trade goods or gossip, oftentimes both.

Each morning the smell of burning incense wafted from house to house as people prayed to Buddha before starting their day. They prayed for guidance, forgiveness, comfort. Happiness. Hope. At daybreak, monks dressed in flowing orange robes silently glided from home to home, collecting humble offerings of food and other basic necessities for their sustenance. In that era, people donated their time and effort -not just their money- to build gilded temples. They had belief and faith in a Greater Power.

In one particular teakwood house, a young mother was in the throes of labor, the sounds of her struggle projecting through the wood shutters from her room overlooking the canal. Hearing and seeing the commotion, the neighbors walked and paddled over one by one to lend support. After many hours of labor, she finally gave birth to a beautiful boy with a full head of hair. He let out a cry signaling his first gasps of breath, bringing great joy and relief to his mother, family and neighbors. Congratulations and salutations floated along the canal, travelling the same path as early morning incense.

For a few months the mother cared for her child. She fed and bathed him. Could not remember what her life was like before he arrived. Every morning, she told her child stories about the world around him. Every evening she covered his crib in a mosquito net, leaving the bedroom shutters barely open so he wouldn’t catch cold from the water’s breeze. Several times a day, the young mother lit incense and said a silent prayer for her son. That he would have kwaam suuk, enlightenment and contentment, every day of his life.

Then suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, the baby fell ill and died. His mother clutched his lifeless body in her arms, refusing to let his spirit go. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her voice extinguished from endless sobbing, her hopes and dreams shattered.

For days she knelt in front of the shrine ensconced on her porch. Neighbors looked on with concern as they sat on their porches along the water, knowing that there were no words to comfort her. She prayed to the golden statue of Buddha, alternately sobbing and whispering her sorrow and bottomless despair.

The day of her son’s funeral, she knelt again in front of her family shrine. She lit three sticks of incense and a candle, and made an offering of ripe tangerines. She made vows to Buddha: She promised to cease eating meat, to devote her life to doing good and building good karma. Praying in hushed tones, she asked that her son be brought back to her. She dabbed banana paste on her deceased son’s left foot, and tomato paste on his right foot. “Put these marks on him when he returns, so that I know it is him,” she pleaded.

After her special prayer, her sorrow did not fade. But at last she relented, allowing her family to take her son’s body to his funeral. She continued to weep. And pray. For many weeks thereafter.

About a year later, the bereaved mother’s younger sister gave birth to a son of her own. Upon inspecting this newborn child, the young mother whose baby had died a year earlier let out a shriek. On the newborn’s left foot was a big black birth mark, and on his right foot a big red one. Her prayers had been answered: This was her child, delivered back to her arms. She considered him the reincarnation of her deceased son, and for a full year she raised him and refused to let anybody else hold him. She only let him go when she finally realized the anguish she was causing her sister.

This is a true story. I have colored in some of the surrounding details, but these events did indeed occur. The baby’s (American) name is Sam. He is now in his sixties, and lives in Los Angeles with his wife and grown son. He is one of my parents’ oldest and closest friends.

I have seen the marks on his feet.

Was what happened the result of mere coincidence, or the sign of a Higher Power at work? In our hurried, cynical world, it would be nice, if only briefly, to imagine life in a teakwood house along that canal. Where the travelling scent of burning incense from each home mingles in an unspoken communal blessing, and spirituality and holiness flow freely upon the water. Where a person can kneel beside the water and whisper a prayer, creating in that solemn moment a true hope that what you wish for may come true.

tags :: prayer : spirituality : belief : Buddhism : Bangkok : Thailand

To protect the guilty who are party to this post (screw the innocent- they’ve got nothing to be arrested for!), names have been redacted, aliases assigned, genders switched, chest hairs glued on, rubber masks donned, and pants stuffed.

Below is a picture of my friend, The Notorious C.N.G. No!- No!- No- torious! (sing it, baby!) is a man of many talents, with a long list of hobbies and preferred activities. Two of his favorites, as you can see, are travel and photography.

Now, the human race for some reason loves to build phallic monuments to itself. Everywhere you go around the world, there are a plethora of giant, skyward-pointing, rock hard (they are made of stone, after all) penises declaring “My country/ religion/ ideology’s horsedick is bigger than your [whatever's] pencildick. Come stand in the shadow of its erect glory and touch it.”

But The Notorious C.N.G. ain’t buying that! Whenever he travels, he sets aside a few hours to find the local cock-nationale so that he can snap a photograph of himself posing suggestively in front of it.

Part self-mocking and part monu-mocking, The Notorious C.N.G. has many such photos in his personal collection. These monu-mockumentaries are not doctored or Photoshopped in any way, except for the blurring I did of The Notorious C.N.G.’s face (again, to protect the guilty). After all, much of the fun is in getting dirty looks from disapproving strangers while posing for the pictures.

Because what happens in D.C. doesn’t always stay in D.C.

Sometimes it gets stroked and snapped, then splashed on the Internet.

Those of you who have read about my pizza restaurant prank have probably surmised that I, too, enjoy practical jokes. I have been the instigator or victim of many a prank in my lifetime. But every practical joke that I have pulled or been subject to has been a spur-of-the-moment affair, devised and executed in a few short minutes. Cheap laughs for minimal effort- I’m lazy that way.

The Notorious C.N.G., though, is a true practical joke artiste. For The Notorious C.N.G., a good prank is a labor of love, meant to be savored like a fine wine.

When The Notorious C.N.G. started his freshman year in high school, he had a Plan. A Plan that would take four years to execute. The first step was to join the yearbook committee. As a lowly freshman, he helped out on the yearbook staff, but did not have much decision-making power. Following The Plan, he worked his way up the ladder, and by his senior year The Notorious C.N.G. was put in charge of the yearbook Clubs section.

Right where he wanted to be.

To this day, the high school faculty rues the day that The Notorious C.N.G. was made Editor of the Clubs section.

The picture above is a scan of a half-page spread from The Notorious C.N.G.’s senior year yearbook. The club featured is a complete fabrication.

Hard to believe, I know, but there really is no “International Low Budget Jaw Harp Guild and Orchestra” at any high school in Orange County. Especially not one whose members gather to watch B-Movies like The Deadly Art of Rooster Fighting.

The Notorious C.N.G. also took the liberty of adding non-student members to the Jaw Harp Guild. In fact, these members were not real people at all. Because not many parents would name their children Mike Hunt (“my c**t”), Benjamin Dover (“bend over”) or Haywood Jablome (“hey, would you blow me”).

That infamous yearbook was, needless to say, the last to be assembled and published at The Notorious C.N.G.’s high school without close faculty supervision.

tags :: jokes : humor : practical jokes : monuments : high school : yearbook : clubs

One day a long, long, time ago in a town not so far, far, away, I was hanging out with my friend Shont and his sister Arpi. (Aside: These are real names, people. My buddy’s name is Shont and his sister’s name is Arpi. They are full-blooded Americans, born and raised in Los Angeles. I’m not making this up. If I were to make up strange non-American sounding names, they’d be called Neetork and Clutox.) Arpi’s friend Azure was also present. (Aside part deux: Azure. yet another uncommon name, but at least it’s an English word…derived from French. O brother. I mean, mon Dieu.)

Arpi and Azure were going on and on about the movie “Pretty Woman”: Ohhhhh it’s the best movie ever. Ohhhhh Richard Gere is so handsome in it. Ohhhhh Julia Roberts is so perky! Ohhhhhh it’s so cute how they fall in love. Ohhhhh I really identify with that movie. Ohhhhh where’s the boom box- let’s all sway to a New Kids on the Block song, because that “Pretty Woman” movie is so romantic.

Shont starts to shake his head in his characteristic quirky, opinionated manner, and blurts out: “OK, you guys. Let’s take a step back. Think about it. This movie is about a mean rich guy. Who falls in love with a hooker. Plain and simple.”

Shont is right. It’s a movie about a guy who falls in love with a hooker. Yet we all fondly remember it through nostalgia-tinted lenses as one of the best romantic comedies ever. The movie that made Julia Roberts the top actress in Hollywood.

Let’s consider another one. One of my personal favorites (“Pretty Woman” was not one of my personal favorites).

Once there was this director from Modesto, California. He had recently made a movie about teenagers in a small whitebread American town, cruising around on a weekend night. Starring Opie. Also in the cast were Shirley (Laverne’s best friend) and The Fugitive. (Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon in Reverse? Anyone?)

After the modest success of that movie, the director goes to the studio and tells them that, for his next movie, he wants to make a space opera. The studio execs show a puzzled look, and declare, “Why, that sounds intriguing, although we have no clue what a ‘space opera’ is, but we have to pretend we’re smart since we have corner offices. What is it about?”

“It’s an epic narrative set in outer space about a lost son who stumbles upon his destiny, a beautiful princess, and an old sage who guides them on their quest”, the filmmaker replies. “Oh! Why that sounds intriguing! As long as it comes within budget, of course,” say the execs.

In case you haven’t guessed by now, the director was George Lucas.

The movie, of course, was “Star Wars”.

Even without the benefit of hindsight, that one-sentence premise sounds great, doesn’t it? A classic myth with a science fiction backdrop. What’s not to like?

But just think about what happens next, after the money men begin digging into the script and the details. I can only imagine:

Encouraged by the positive initial reaction, the filmmaker continues: “Here’s my latest draft of the script. I’ll give you the highlights. It takes place in outer space. The main characters wear loose-fitting, flowing robes, as if a civilization with light-speed transport technology never bothered to invent a sewing machine. The princess wears a cinammon roll on each side of her head. She wanted to make a fashion statement but couldn’t find any white iPod earbuds. Everyone has a laser gun which shoots deadly energy-based projectiles thousands of feet, but the hero uses a laser sword, which shoots nothing and has a range of three feet. The hero and the princess are actually siblings by birth, but the pervey sage only reveals this to them after the princess slips her own brother the tongue.

“The villain wears a black samurai helmet on his head and has a 10-pound bionic lung strapped to his chest that looks like the Commodore 64′s great grandchild. He also dons a weird-looking mechanical facemask with big black Jackie O-style goggle lenses. When he talks, he sounds like a late-stage emphysema patient.

“There are two characters written in for comic relief. They are robots with human personalities. One is a neurotic, uptight nervous nelly. But male. The other robot is not in human form. He looks more like a white and blue suppository on wheels. He doesn’t speak English. He just utters a series of beeps and chirps, yet everyone in that universe can understand everything he says.

“One of the hero’s friends is a roguish character who is a space-faring pirate. He wears a white long-sleeved shirt underneath a black vest with a gun and holster strapped low on his thigh, as if he were the long lost seventh member of the Village People.

“And the space pirate’s sidekick is an 8-foot-tall dog that walks upright on two feet and shoots a laser crossbow. He wears no clothing, so the costumers will have to figure it out since I don’t want him hangin’ brain during a gunfight. Even though the walking dog speaks by uttering the exact same series of high-pitched grunts and growls, the space pirate can still carry on long, involved conversations with him. Because nnggghhhooooo nnggghhhooooo nngghoo ngghhooo means ‘Imperial Stormtroopers are on our ass’ as well as ‘I have shit on my fur’.”

Er, so far this thing sounds like the absurd result of a really bad LSD trip.

I once watched an interview with George Lucas. They asked him how he came up with the Chewbacca character. He said that he used to have a dog named Indiana (yes, he named Indiana Jones after his dog). Indiana (the dog, not Harrison Ford) used to sit upright in the front seat of his car while they drove around town, and Lucas thought it was funny that she sat there like a person, as if a dog were co-piloting the vehicle. So he worked it into the “Star Wars” script.

Thank goodness a movie studio gave Lucas the money to make Star Wars, preposterous as the premise and details may have sounded to many a movie exec.

If it hadn’t happened, I never would have known what a lightsaber is, let alone sign up for lightsaber fighting lessons. It’s important for a fully-grown man to know how to properly wield a functioning lightsaber. Otherwise he may accidentally slice his Star Wars action figure display case in half while pretending to be Darth Maul. In the privacy of his bedroom. Wearing nothing but tighty whiteys.

tags :: humor : Pretty Woman : Star Wars : George Lucas : Unexpected Success

This is admittedly from my own personal perspective, and is not meant to be a general observation that applies to everybody.

My father came to the United States with $80 in his pocket and no friends or personal contacts in America. He had to borrow money for his plane ticket. My mother came here also with hardly any money, and didn’t know anybody but my dad. They were not married at the time- she was friends with my dad’s sister, who asked my dad to find my mom a place to stay and help her enroll in junior college.

My mom initially stayed with a nice family, trading some babysitting and household chores for room and board while she went to junior college. That is, until she kept getting sick and the family asked her to move out. After my parents married, my father went to night school for his accounting degree. In addition to night school, he worked two jobs to support my mom and his sister (my aunt came over for a short while), both of whom were attending junior college.

Most in my parents’ generation don’t speak English well. They didn’t have access to high paying jobs when they were building their lives. They usually had to start their own businesses, funded with money they personally borrowed from family and friends. Despite the disadvantages they faced, my parents and those of their generation managed -through hard work, sacrifice, and sheer determination- to raise a family, bring lots of relatives over, and help each other attain at least a middle class income.

I think being so accustomed to self-sacrifice compelled my parents and those like them to shelter their offspring from the same difficulties they themselves faced throughout their lives. And in some ways, I think our parents’ good intentions had unintended consequences, because we the children certainly took advantage of it. I was afforded a private education my entire life- it was costly and my parents had to sacrifice a lot to send me to private school and college, but they always managed to come up with the tuition somehow. I never really had to work to earn spending money when I was young- my parents always gave me a generous allowance even though they sometimes struggled to pay the mortgage and other bills. At most I would help out at the family business on weekends. But that was more like just hanging out in downtown L.A. on Saturdays and doing a smidgeon of work here and there when I got bored or felt inspired.

Naturally, my experience is similar to those of many of my friends and cousins. Most of us would help out our parents here and there, but mostly we just took everything we had for granted. We hung out, went to school, and spent our parents’ money. We whined, cajoled, and demanded our way to some shiny new car when we got our drivers’ licenses. We went skiing in the winter, went to New York or Europe in the summer, and bought excessively expensive camping gear for class trips in the fall. All on our parents’ dime.

Now our parents are nearing retirement age, and we are all grown up, with responsibilities and families of our own. We have college degrees and professional careers, nice cars, expensive homes and large mortgages to match. Yet we are not all that actively focused on building savings and assets. Many of us have high enough income that, with a lot of saving and some calculated risk, could lead to true wealth accumulation and ultimate financial security. But we don’t care about that. As a generation of shallow imposters, we simply care about projecting the perception of wealth. We can point endlessly to the marketeers and McKinsey consultants who have propagated the mass luxury market, but ultimately we have nobody to blame but ourselves. We don’t pay much attention to the only part of our financial lives that we have 100% control over: costs. We simply want our luxury cars, trophy houses with granite kitchens, designer clothes, meals at fancy restaurants that serve bland food. And we don’t want them when we can truly afford them. We want them now. Instead of thinking about asset allocation, we think about whether we have enough cash coming in every month to make the payments that support our lifestyle. In our minds, the high income spigot feeds from a bottomless well and never gets clogged.

A lot of us in the kids’ generation probably would have benefitted greatly from facing more career and financial hardship. I can’t help but think that our priorities would be quite different- we’d probably care a lot more about having cash in the bank and a lot less about 5 star hotels and home decorating. It would certainly adjust our expectations and make us more grateful for what we have. Since when did lifestyle become a worthwhile goal? Financial security for yourself and your family is a worthwhile goal. Fostering strong personal relationships with your family and friends is a worthwhile goal. Indulging in expensive wine and custom furniture are not.

It’s funny how, despite all of my negative observations about my generation, in my parents’ eyes they feel that their goal in life has been accomplished. From the day I was born, all they really wanted was to assure that I lead a life filled with happiness and security, no matter the sacrifice to them.

For my own generation, though, I wonder about how we will look back on our own lives when we are old and retired. We’re in our late twenties and early thirties now. For our entire working lives we’ve never experienced an economic downturn that’s lasted longer than a year or two. We’ve never been net borrowers with interest rates at 13%. We’ve never owned a house for 10 years without seeing it appreciate. We’ve never had a favorite aunt or sister ask us for a large personal loan to start some risky business. We’ve never felt compelled to seriously consider such a request simply because we don’t want our loved ones to go from their menial day jobs to the graveyard shift at a gas station every night just to pay their bills. We’ve never had to decide between taking a vacation and paying our kids’ tuition. We’ve never had to defer paying a credit card bill to free up enough cash for a down payment for our teenage child’s first car. We’ve never faced true hardship in any way that is remotely comparable to what our parents had to endure.

Today we face war in Iraq, diplomatic conflict with a defiant Iran, the threat of terrorism, a breathtakingly large trade deficit, and a receding (perhaps bursting) real estate market. It is quite possible that in the unforeseen future looms a protracted economic downturn. One that adversely affects the careers and livelihoods of the majority of us who are now in our prime. On Wall Street they have a saying: “In a bull market, everyone can claim to be a genius. But a bear market truly separates the men from the boys.” I wonder how our character holds up if we ever encounter such hardship.

And perhaps many of us will be blessed from the day we are born to the day we die with the inheritance of a sheltered existence that our parents so dearly bought for us. That would certainly be good for our own comfort, but how does that affect the way we raise our own children, and the values we pass onto them? When all of us -our parents’ and our own generation- are all long dead and gone, how do our incomplete set of values translate into any sort of a lasting, constructive legacy for future generations? Decades from now, when people look back on my own generation, will they comment on our outstanding character? I don’t think they will. I think they will condemn us for our unhealthy sense of entitlement. For failing to recognize that the greatest inheritance our parents left to us is not the fancy education or the down payment on our first house, but rather the selfless example they set and the strength of character they embodied in building truly meaningful lives.

tags :: legacy : inheritance : testimonial : appreciation : money : spoiled : values : character

We are the sum of our experiences, and those we know and love are the ones who teach us the most about life and happiness. Everyone in my life has contributed to making me a better person, and i am compelled to share with others what I have gained from each of them, out of gratitude and as a testament to them, and perhaps with a small hope that their examples will contribute constructively to others’ lives. This is the first installment.Jason and i have known each other since 7th grade. Back then he wore a black Member’s Only jacket and had thicker hair. We became excellent friends in high school, where we co-founded the informal Camel Club, which was comprised entirely of two members, no more and no less, kind of like the sith lords from a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. we are currently considering an exception to the two member rule- the induction of a third member, one Radley A, Jason’s 1 year old son. The camel club was devoted to doing nothing but sitting around and laughing at stupid jokes. The only “official” activity was the official camel club song, which comprised of the smurf and hawaii 5-0 themes, sung simultaneously. little radley will have to learn at least the melody of one of the songs to qualify for induction. or we can just give him a can of blue food coloring and a jar of cotton balls. he’ll mess around in it and inadvertently make himself into a baby papa smurf in no time.

Jason is definitely much smarter than me (not hard to do, yhheeeeppp). He has a very high iq and an innate curiosity about how things work. my love for physically taking stuff apart and deconstructing concepts (which often gets me in deep doo doo!) was mostly picked up from jason over decades of inevitable osmosis. He is a very deep thinker of the most genuine kind- he actually cares about understanding the things that occupy his brain without much thought to declaring them to others with an intention to impress. he’s taught me about proper swimming form, electrical wiring, physics, philosophy, and countless other things (yes, we’re nerdy). in addition to all of these things, jason taught me perhaps the most important lesson of all (if it’s not the most important, i would say that it is the most pervasive, as it influences my thoughts and actions every day).

While others may buy baby bjorns to snugly attach their babies to themselves, jason concocted one from an airplane blanket. he would much rather understand how something fundamentally works and implement it himself than buy some whiz-bang gizmo that’s supposed to do the same thing at 10 times the price but breaks after two uses with no way of fixing it. in high school, at the peak of my own unchecked materialism, i once picked up jason at the airport. i asked him if he had a backpack full of diversions for the plane ride, and he simply pulled a wrinkled paperback out of his hoodie pouch and said that it was his in-air entertainment. it was as if a light bulb had literally blinked on inside my head. i thought about the all-manner-of-gizmos i’d have had on my own person had i been on that flight. and how convincing myself that i had to have all of that stuff to survive the boredom of an airplane flight was -partially at least- simply a way to fill a hole in my own soul; to validate my own ill-defined self worth.

in an era of excess and blatant consumerism, it’s easy to get caught up and forget what the true sources of one’s happiness are. like many people, i’ve read and heard a lot of stuff from countless brilliant philosophers, poets, pundits, screenwriters, gurus, know-it-alls and blowhards about materialism and how it affects society and the human condition. i’m even buddhist, having been born into a buddhist family. but buddhists have their own share of blatant materialists who pray for bmw’s. but i never truly understood what true detachment and freedom from material things meant until jason demonstrated it to me in that single moment at the airport, and in countless other similar moments and conversations.

there is a zen-inspired poetry as well to jasonism. there is beauty in simplicity, and fulfillment in understanding, having and doing exactly what’s needed; no more and no less. i’m a sailboat guy, not a speedboat guy (actually, i’m not nautical at all but you get the picture). i prefer a swiss army knife to a giant toolbox. books and magazines are much more practical for a plane or train ride than a walkman, laptop, dvd player or anything else that’s battery operated. disposable containers and wrappers are better than empty boxes and cases that you have to lug back home even after you’ve consumed the contents. a lexus gives you dual zone air conditioning, but a honda gives you the freedom to park in a tight spot without caring about getting a ding on your door. sometimes more is more, but it’s almost always more burdensome.

it’s been many years since high school, and today i like most adults have many financial responsibilities. but pat and i are fortunate- we live comfortably, spend modestly, don’t worry too much about money, and travel to see far-off friends and family when we can. but everything that i own was purchased for its utility, and not for my gratification, to seek validation from others, or to otherwise inflate my ego. i drive a honda, not a mercedes benz or bmw. i use a cheap charcoal grill instead of a fancy built-in gas number, and i enjoy the ritual of stacking and lighting the coals. i buy computers that are a few generations behind the cutting edge. same for my digital camera, cell phone, and every other electronic doo-dad i have. i wear wal-mart sandals and not birkenstocks. i’ll only buy the birkenstocks if the wal-mart or target ones don’t fit my overly wide feet. i invest in low cost index funds and not high fee hedge funds. my floating pool recliner is a single thick sheet of flexible foam that is way more comfortable than the fancy doohickeys that cost twice as much. i buy nothing from the sharper image.

yes, i own these things. but they do not own me.

i am defined by my actions. not by my possessions.

for these life-changing insights, i owe jason a debt i can never fully repay.

tags :: friendship : testimonial : appreciation : money : buddhism : happiness

at least that’s what the website tells me. (courtesy of shont miller)
on friendster you can have as many friends as you want. Unless you exceed 500. if you exceed 500 you will have to delete some friends if you want to add new friends. if you delete someone from your friendster list you cannot be friends with them any longer. If you didn’t add someone to your friendster list then they are really not your friend are they. if you want more than 500 friends then you should have a myspace page. but that’s for teenagers who have time to upload songs, movies, and more than a few pics. because on friendster you can only have 50 pics. the entire memory of your life must be comprised of approximately 4 dozen images and a blurb section that is 1000 words or less. college applicants should just submit their friendster page instead of writing an essay. it would be more concise.

tags :: friendship : humor : rants : jokes