Jeff’s Pad

Today’s story is a short one. But I love this quote from the German philosopher/poet Goethe:

“Whatever you can do, or dream, begin it. Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it. Begin it now.”

I consider my hometown a good place to live.

Today’s story is my lament over one thing that makes it a not-so-great place.

Many people in this midwestern community- way too many people- suck at merging onto the freeway.

And while this is what many would perhaps consider trivial, it nonetheless is ‘postworthy.’

Let me describe the behavior. It’s really quite simple.

Drivers come onto the freeway at, oh, 35 or 40 mph, maybe 45 mph.

Not 48mph. Not 50 mph. Not 52 mph. More like 40.

This causes problems. Obvious problems. Because when you are driving 55 mph, and someone pulls in front of you, braking or lane changing happens. Then, others are affected. This becomes a chain reaction event, and usually the offending party- the slow driver who hasn’t a clue- drives along unaware and (unfortunately) unchanged, a virus on the road of healthy driving organisms, moving along into the future to infect more innocent organisms.

It may be a killer-virus.

This behavior happens all the time. And I think our community has more of this than other places. Especially more than bigger cities.

Here, in Fargo-Moorhead, folks think they can bumble along well below 55 mph and then accelerate after they reach the flow of traffic.

No. This is not correct.

YOU MUST ACCELERATE TO 55MPH WHILE ON/COMING OFF THE RAMP AND MERGE INTO THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC IN A MANNER CONSISTENT WITH THE TRAFFIC. (I write this like some of these people who do this may actually be reading this blog, much less understand that they are impaired freeway mergers)

The capitalizations, italics, and sentiment in the previous sentence are mine. None of it is from a driver’s manual, state law, or any of that. But I know it’s right. It makes sense. And this is my blog.

This kind of driving is something which makes me use bad words. And, despite my attempts to change my behavior, seems to cause me to react the same way each and every time it happens.

This must mean I am crazy. Perhaps it means I need to move. To one of those bigger cities. Or maybe I need counseling. Maybe all three.

Or perhaps it means I should produce something educational for these miscreants on public access television, where I can disseminate all things correct and enlightening for the freeway merging-challenged among us.

This leads me to a fantasy where I am the creator of a video masterpiece, a production so wonderful and entertaining (yet educational) that it influences hordes of previously unaware dolts to turn inward and say to themselves, ‘wow, next time on that ramp I’m gonna speed up. Glad I watched this show.”

Another thing I have noticed about my own behavior is that I am nearly always curious as to what these drivers look like. I find myself looking at them as I accelerate past. I try to look calm. I say the bad words that I mentioned earlier in a way that shields my anger. Or I think I do.

See, I don’t want to look like one of those crazy road-rage guys (is that sexist? Because I kind of assume that road-rage people are mostly male. maybe not. maybe women are making in-roads on that too. I don’t know. Please offer any information you may have on that if you care to)

Anyway, I think the urge to look at these clueless slow-driving miscreant defective freeway merging dimwits is kind of , uh, odd.

I mean, what do I expect to see? That they will mouth the words, “I’m so sorry. Meant to be going faster. Will do better next time?”

Not gonna happen.

I guess I want to seem nice. But I’m not feeling nice at this time. I’m usually angry.

This must mean I’m guilty of Minnesota Nice. Acting like everything’s all a-ok, but really below the surface you want to annihilate the other person. You want to reduce the other person to utter ruin.

In the end I think I’m moving toward the “I’m crazy” explanation. Why would anyone spend one second in negative thought ruminating about bad driving behavior? There is an ocean of bad driving out there. No, wait, it’s way bigger than an ocean. It’s a couple of continents. Or a couple of oceans. Maybe it’s a hemisphere.

Ok, ok. Proving the point?

EDITOR’S NOTE: This article first appeared last January 2008. By appeared I mean written. By written I mean typed on the keyboard of a computer.

Some days are just throwaway days. Like today was. It was a bureaucracy day. I spent most of the day doing what feels like swimming through- actually ‘wrestling with’ may be more accurate- swimming through has way too much grace implied- red tape. The tape came in the form of a visa application to go see my fiance’ in Brazil.

The visa process is akin to brain surgery, in that you move as delicately as possible through the application procedure as is humanly possible. Each question on the app brings interminable contemplation of the possible ramifications of misinterpreting the query. Things like ‘what do you intend to do while in the country?’ are excruciatingly difficult for me. What level of response does the interested party want? Lots of detail? Should I attach a sheet spelling it out? Or, would that piss them off? What does a bureaucrat want? What kind of bureaucrat will read this? Is ‘visiting my fiance’ enough? Should I add ‘having sex as much as possible over the six days while there?’ Would that be rude and uncouth? Or, perhaps that would make them laugh. Maybe a horny bureaucrat will read this. That may be a good comment.

This document gives copious amounts of power to an unknown and unseen Brazilian presence in Chicago, Illinois. Chicago is where the Brazilian area consulate office is. For the time being, this person or persons is like a god to me. Sorry, I meant God. They have my fate in their hands. Or at least my traveling fate.

And how I behave during this process reflects this genuflection in their direction. I am nervous as I write the return address. I obsess about the enclosures I need to include. I am paralyzed by the decision about how to pay the $110 dollars in fees and application costs. Fees are $10, application costs are $100. Should the money order be for the whole amount? Or should I purchase two money orders? The directions never said anything. Am I supposed to know that? Should I be checking this out on the internet? Would that source be reliable?

Maybe I should marry an American girl. Somebody from Barnesville (25 miles away from my hometown of Moorhead, Minnesota) perhaps. You don’t need a visa to visit your fiance’ from Barnesville. Maybe just a hankering for potatoes. Barnesville, you see, has a festival each year called ‘Potato Days.’ It’s kind of their Mardi Gras with a vegetable.

There was a news story a short while back of a suicide bomber in Iraq who attacked a funeral group. I think they said about 20 were killed. Would that be considered ironic? It is certainly immensely sad.

23^rd and absurd

Absurdity is my god.

I revere it. I know it, and it knows me.

It gives me comfort when I am distressed. It is there for me when I call.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of reality, which includes people and their shadows, I fear no evil, for thou art with me.

Thy rod and thy staff, they become metaphorical devices for relief-giving buffoonery.

My imagination leads me to clear, deep waters, where I do unspeakable things with lusty women, yet remain afloat. (which is absurd- you can’t do those kinds of things in deep water and stay afloat- wanted to make sure you got that one)

It prepares a table before me in the presence of mine enemies, most of whom can’t even spell absurdity, much less get it when it’s good.

Truly, if absurdity is my shepherd, I probably won’t want goodness and mercy the rest of my days, as they may just get in the way. That would be absurd.

…though apparently a number of people believe he/she/it is a nationalist.

Which serves as the preface to the question I pose today; what in the world does it mean when people say “God bless America?”

I am serious. I can’t for the life of me- though I suggest a meaning at the end of this post- understand what in the hell people mean by this.

I heard the Senator from Massachusetts, John Kerry (D), utter these words the other night. And then it was Mitt Romney at the Republican National Convention in St. Paul.

They were just the latest in a long line of windbags who use this wrap-up. Whether from the far left or the far right or somewhere in-between, politicians are particularly prone to this pious incantation.

It usually occurs at the end of their speech. It is as if this conclusion lends special credibility to their words, or perhaps a level of sacrosanct patriotism not attainable by their adversaries.

So…let’s slow way down and examine the words.

God Bless America.

Hmmmm.

Does God really pick out certain nation-states to shower with blessing over others? Do democracies have an advantage? Maybe North American countries? Does God have some kind of animus toward Asians, or perhaps Africans or South Americans?

Have you ever heard a leader from another nation ask for this intervention? Perhaps French President Nicolas Sarkozy? Did General Augusto Pinochet ever say these words in front of the Chilean people? How about Serbian leader Slobodan Milosevic? God knows (or at least clear-thinking humans) the people of the former Yugoslavia could have used some help from God.

If we really believe God will somehow intervene in some helpful way, why limit this treatment to just Americans? Why not do the Christian thing, and say something like “God bless us everyone?” What, are we selfish? Why not spread the love?

And if in fact it is a possibility that God will bless us when we ask…does that mean God kind of pulls the strings from up there? Or from wherever God would be when he pulls the strings?

And…if that is the case, what becomes of the ‘free will’ we allegedly possess? I mean, if God kind of jumps in the picture now and then, doesn’t that make life kind of a charade? Why wouldn’t God help the victims of hurricanes? Or children from sexual abuse? Or people with horrific diseases? Why wouldn’t that merit intervention?

I am left with the following questions/observations:

1. is it possible that some people, while professing a belief in God, have not a clue what that God is?

2. some people, particularly politicians, are charlatans and manipulators who use the words “God bless America” to posture as pure-as-the-driven-snow leaders.

This leads to another question, which is rather disturbing:

If these people are our leaders, what does this say about the rest of us, in light of the following quote:

“We get the leaders we deserve.” (author unknown)

One of the most incredible things that has happened in the grocery world, in my mind, has been the advent of the rotisserie chicken. Space exploration has had the moon landing, medicine has had the polio vaccine, and rock-n-roll has had the Beatles. But groceries now have rotisserie chicken. This invention is akin to man inventing the wheel.

When I first saw this edible exposition I was awestruck. I am quite sure that had there been a security camera videotape of my expression, my wonderment would have been made clear by my gaping mouth.

And the packaging! The appearance of the delightful bird is displayed in a clear plastic tub that you open like the hood of your car. You open it, you eat some or all of it, you close it. Later you can do it all over again. Sometimes you just open it to admire it.

And the taste! It is juicy, tender and succulent. Magnifique!

Anyway, today at Hornbachers grocery store I was extremely conflicted as to whether or not to buy a rotisserie chicken. Or is it Rotisserie chicken? Anyway, at that moment of indecision, which turned out to be way more than a moment, I couldn’t ‘pull the trigger’ of decision making. It was a titanic internal struggle.

And why such a big deal over this $5.95 bird? I mean, they’re delicious, what’s to decide? Well, I’m often alone in eating it, so there is the issue of waste. This is the rub. I don’t want to waste any. But so what if I don’t eat it all? So what if a little goes to waste?

And I realized at that grocery shopping impasse that it was a kind of microcosm of my life. Here I am in aisle nine at the grocery store, confronting my deep pathos. I frequently can’t decide what to do. I think it is related to how objective I am. I can see both sides quite clearly and see the benefits of things either way. This isn’t a good thing. I don’t think. Maybe it is.

I guess I can’t decide.

Today’s story is not about McDonald’s. It’s about forgiveness.

This is her story:

“I was pregnant with my third child and I was miserable. My marriage was a disaster and I didn’t want the baby.

My husband was absent. He gave no support. I felt alone. I felt abandoned. I was lost.

Each day I grew more disconsolate. My husband provided material things but was not emotionally available. I suspected (and was later proven correct) he was having affairs. It was a trainwreck relationship.

I hated my situation and, as odd as it may sound, I hated the baby that was inside me. There were many times when I would cry in the shower and pound my own belly in anger and rage.

My own immature response and lack of ability to cope contributed to the difficulty.

My baby was born, yet I did not feel love.

This feeling- rather, the lack of it- continued well after my baby was born. I didn’t want the child. I loved my two older children, but this was different. As the baby grew, my non-love persisted.

Later I would learn that one of my two daycare providers abused my child. I discovered this from the other daycare person. On at least one occasion, the lady put my young child’s head in the toilet and flushed it over some apparent transgression by my child. She also engaged in fondling with my four-year-old.

Time passed and I grew to love my child.

For many reasons, the baby that I had resented and didn’t love came to be the most cherished and loved son that a mother could want. I showered him with love, and each night when he fell asleep I would whisper in his ear my confessions and apologies for how I had felt.

My love for my son would grow and grow. For reasons I am only beginning to understand, I developed a parenting style with my son that wasn’t a healthy love. More than anything, it was unbalanced. Erich Fromm describes the love we give to our children as ‘mother love’ and ‘father love.’ Mother love is unconditional love. Father love is conditional love, where we attach consequences to behavior from our offspring. Both types of love can be provided by either gender. And both types are necessary for normal development.

I provided bundles of mother love to my son. But I provided no father love. Neither did his own father. This meant my son had a lack of boundaries, a lack of structure, and no consequences for his behavior.

As I am now learning, my parental behavior was informed, or guided by, my fear. I equated any kind of tough love as a symptom or indication that I was reverting back to my earlier behaviors. When attempting to teach or discipline (however lightly) my son, I would become fearful that his resistance and negative reaction to my actions would lead to his rejection of me, his ‘realization’ that I was an un-loving mother, and that I was a bad person. I feared that any kind of boundary-setting by me would lead to the loss of my son’s love.

After all, I felt I deserved it.

Sadly, ironically, this kind of parenting has hurt my son all over again. Without clear boundaries, rules, clear expectations, and all the attendant ‘father love’ conditions, my son has been harmed.  He struggles in school and I am concerned about the choices he makes. He seems to gravitate toward bad friends. While he is a loving kid that I am proud of, I also have a lot of concerns.”

My observations

The mother still feels guilt about her behavior during the child’s early years. A happy ending to this story would be for the mother to forgive herself. Only then can she reach a point where she can feel safe and secure in ‘getting in her sons’ face’ when he exhibits behaviors that are destructive.

Forgiveness is probably the most needed thing in the world today. More specifically, forgiveness of self. In our American culture, there are many people who struggle for years carrying unnecessary burdens that have their genesis in this ‘stuckness’ that comes from not getting to a place where we can forgive ourselves.

The bible makes reference to Jesus’ admonition to forgive our brother ‘seven times seventy.’ In old Hebrew, this means an infinite number of times.

This is a great big, complex, difficult yet wonderful world. I believe it is a place which daily becomes more reliant on a humanity which can find healthy ways to work, interact and live. Six billion plus people bring about a lot of imperfection. And that reality means there will be lots of mistakes. And those mistakes mean we need to forgive- and forget.

And that starts with ourselves.

What do you need to forgive yourself for? Do you need to give yourself a break today? Please do it soon. The world needs that from you.

Everything is a story. Absolutely everything.

And the most compelling stories are the ones that convince, motivate, capture, enthrall, entertain…and in some cases, win.

Don’t believe it?

In the next US presidential election, the American people will choose the best story. The Obama story or the McCain story. They will assess everything they have heard and seen and go with the story that feels right in their gut.

And though the American Press doesn’t get it, it won’t be about policy issues.

It will be about the most compelling, convincing and security-inducing story that is told.

At the job interview, the candidate with the best story wins.

At the nightclub, your story matters.

In marketing, from signage to broadcast messages to search engine optimization, the best story is what counts.

Is this all obvious? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Whatever the case, I am dedicating this blog to that simple, though perhaps obvious, axiom.

It’s the story, stupid.

That’s it. That’s the plan. That’s what’s happening at ‘the pad.’

And you are welcome to drop in at jeffspad anytime.