One of my least favorite phrases these days as we explore this new chapter of my life is “age appropriate.”
It is usually used in some kind of context as to where people should go out to socialize.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go there,” she says, barely feigning kindness, “You should go somewhere more age appropriate.”
Ah. So in today’s Brave New World you must not only be a certain age to get into places but apparently you can age out of them after a while as well.
Do bouncers card for overage?
“But..but…what if I really like the band? Or the food? Maybe I’m meeting some people I know. Maybe I just want to go somewhere that I’ve been going to since before half of the current crowd was even born! Does any of that count?”
Don’t misunderstand. With the exception of a few of my co-workers and any young woman with the last name of Bremner I have little interest in even talking to any younglings, let alone dating one.
The complete inability to even grasp any of my numerous cultural references grows tedious quickly.
“Who’s Marlon Brando?”
“Where’s Green Acres?”
“Carpenters? Were they a singing group or a trade union?”
Good grief! I may not have lived through the Civil War but I know it happened!
Both my free time and my disposable income have limits these days so spending an evening out babysitting holds no great allure.
I like going to places that cater to people my age but I also reserve the right to frequent any other place without being made to feel that it’s creepy to even be there.
Anything else seems somehow…inappropriate.
My daughters have much in common but approach life from different angles.
When they were younger my oldest would often take a moment to look before she leapt, a risk vs reward analyzer born perhaps out of the abundance of caution that comes from first time parents.
She would get to the top of the stairs and stop to think about it, weighing the fun of what she was about to do balanced against the possibility of injury.
My youngest, while being her sister’s intellectual equal, has no such hesitations.
She would brush past and hurl herself forward, body surfing her way to the landing below.
Their mother and I would be standing in the kitchen, the only proof that the competition had begun would be the resounding thump, thump, thump, thump BOOM.
Perhaps there is something to this “Circle of Life” thing.
Now that I’m older and on my own again I’m finding that my new social interactions remind me of those days from years ago.
Most people I meet these days have become analyzers from the elder’s camp; carrying their baggage, fearing their scars and hesitant in the face of potential additional pain.
I have to believe that most of them, at least secretly, yearn to live life like the younger; to once again feel the rush of betting the “all in,” using both feet at once and worrying about the consequences later.
I don’t blame them. It’s common sense to flinch in the face of reliving deep personal pain.
How does the saying go? Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice….?
So while the fear is real we also know that a fulfilling life is only found in the time spent on the other side of that fear.
So now that’s the journey; a little less analysis and a little more what-the-hell. Just don’t expect me to go thump thump thump thump BOOM down a set of stairs anytime soon.
There is an unwritten rule for those of us who go on television for a living. Not only is it not in any handbook but no boss in my thirty-plus years has ever mentioned it to me.
It may be unwritten, even unspoken but real all the same. It’s true in many companies but particularly on television.
It’s more of a bargain really, a deal that goes with the landscape of being on the public tip of the iceberg that floats the news of the day to viewers.
The deal is this: If you are going to represent the company to the public you must always display proper decorum to the public.
Most people who approach those they see on their televisions are polite and sincere, wanting to ask about an on-going issue or genuinely curious about the machinery that generates news each day.
But not everyone. Some are convinced that we are working from one bias or another and want to tell us about it in no uncertain terms. In my day many would approach me, perhaps even meaning well, to tell me that I don’t look nearly as heavy in person as I do on TV. Sigh.
Like everyone else, we have our good days and our bad, so trust me when there are times when I simply wanted to point north and say “Hey, the Lake is that way! Why don’t you go jump in it?”
But we don’t and it’s not because we’re afraid the person might call the boss to complain. We strive to maintain our civility because it’s part of the deal to understand that you represent something larger than yourself.
As a walking, talking symbol for your product and your brand there is a responsibility to present an image consistent with how you want your viewers to see your newscast.
Mistakes are made sometimes, sure, we’re all human but that’s the goal every time you interact publicly.
I’ve been thinking about that lately while watching the unfolding carnival that is this year’s presidential campaign, a place where insults have routinely replaced insight.
These aren’t people seeking to represent one company in one city; these people are asking to have the most powerful job in the world, to be the walking, talking symbol for the United States of America.
I’m sure there are many times during a grueling campaign when all of the candidates vent but it’s not just unbecoming to see it in public, it’s downright distressing.
If members of someone’s own party cause such unseemly public behavior, what does that forebode for a tough legislative fight on the Hill or negotiations with a foreign leader?
This is a process that will determine the next President of the United States. I just wish that more people would remember to act like it.
I’m on my own now after walking down the aisle 21 years ago. While my soon-to-be ex-wife moves on with her life, I have to re-learn a lot of the things she had done for us for decades.
One of them is walking down the aisles of grocery stores, something I would do only to pick up one or two things on the way home from work.
So with my inexperience clearly showing on my first trip solo, I went into Produce, immensely proud of my ability to find the apples after a reasonably short search.
Then I started to move through the store, with no real clue as to what was where. My pride grew as I, quite by accident of course, found a few more needs.
I had made it about halfway through the store when I realized I also needed lettuce, located about six rows in the rear view mirror back where I started.
So I put it In reverse, up the down staircase as it were, getting knowing glances from the women I passed who knew all too well that look of male deer-in-the-headlights shopping confusion.
So it was that I eventually made it back to Produce in Row 1.
That’s right ladies I now have captured both lettuce and apples and that swagger lost in the humbling backtrack to Produce was slowly returning.
Okay cheese, where’s the cheese? Row 12? Really??
Cereal? Back to Row 4.
Uh, milk? Row 10
So it was that a trip that netted about 15 items covered the equivalent mileage of a half-marathon.
It wasn’t all misfires. My math skils came in handy when I saw a major roll of 200 garbage bags normally 14 dollars.
“That’s seven cents a bag,” a voice in the corner of my brain told me.
But the bags were on sale for 11 plus change.
“That’s closer to five cents a bag,” the voice asserted.
It wasn’t until I was walking out to the car it dawned on me. Since I’m by myself now, I only go through one garbage bag a week.
The voice in my head now took on a distinctly mocking edge.
“You just bought enough garbage bags to last the next FOUR YEARS!” it sneered.
A woman at work heard this sad tale and took pity, telling me that she not only makes a shopping list, but she makes it in the order of the aisles so she just goes up, down, up, down, up, down, done.
I’ve never had more respect for what she admits is a slight case of OCD.
I have a lot to work on.
Okay, I admit I’ve been on hiatus for a bit from the column but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been working.
In fact, the reason why I took the extra time is BECAUSE I’m working.
Yes, after more than five months of living the life of leisure, I’m back in the game.
This time not as a reporter but as the Director of Marketing and Development for Home Instead Senior Care in Erie.
The company provides non-medical care for seniors who wish to stay in their homes, helping with daily duties like showers, meals and getting dressed.
Die-hard journalists believe that taking a marketing job is a little like going over to the dark side of the force, Obi Wan Cronkite.
For me it’s a different approach to using many of the same skills, but I must admit to the oddity of being a rookie in my fifties.
Still, there is something invigorating in getting out of the same old grooves, finding a different path and learning where you are going as you do it.
And I’m meeting new people, like a 98-year old birthday girl named Louise and an 87-year old retired music professor named William.
Marketing may be different from journalism but people are people, and just about all of them have stories worth telling.
Now if I can just fit this column into the new weekly work load, we’ll be back in full swing.
It is one of the grand spectacles in American politics and as such, I know I’m supposed to care.
Bringing the President, members of both houses and the Supreme Court all under one roof might be a security nightmare, but it’s also the one chance a year for the entire leadership of American government to come together to chart the course ahead.
But the State of the Union address has also grown into a retelling of well-worn positions and issues. President Obama stuck to those paths in talking about the successes he sees in the economy and the scaling back of armed American forces overseas.
He spoke of the need for a “middle class economy” and the role government can play in providing programs to address health care, child care and tax issues that are making it tough for many families to make ends meet.
The Republican response was equally predictable, saying life isn’t as grand as the President is painting it and continuing to harp on the party’s main bugaboo, Obamacare.
As such the night rarely offers many surprises.
The President also asked for a return to civility, asking the Republican-controlled Congress to at least find those places of common ground so that something can get done.
It was words many listeners were waiting to hear. New polling shows that an overwhelming 91% of the American public believes that Washington is dysfunctional and no longer working for the common good.
But the most telling moment might have been the only unscripted one. When President Obama started a sentence by saying he had no more races to run, it was met by a spattering of applause from the R side of the aisle.
That caused the President to shoot back, “I know, because I won both of them.”
That single remark lit up the Internet and dominated the cyber conversation. Critics of the President called him “rude” and said there was no place for it in an otherwise dignified event. Supporters whooped at the President’s quick wit and willingness to stand his ground.
For me it was proof of how thin the veil of civility really is. Both sides talk of working together because both sides know that’s what people want to hear.
But in the one moment when the curtain was pulled back we got a glimpse at how deep the divide remains.
If the State of the Union is supposed to give us a preview of the year ahead it succeeded. And that’s not good news for those hoping for better out of Washington.
“I don’t have plans and schemes
And I don’t have hopes and dreams
I don’t have anything
Since I don’t have you”
The Skyliners released those lyrics in “Since I Don’t Have You” in 1958.The skies had indeed brightened from the dark clouds of World War II and Camelot was on the horizon. It was a time of romance where it was perfectly normal for a guy to forego just about everything else in his life to pine over a lost love.
“You’re so fine, you’re so fine
You’re mine, you’re mine
I walk, and I talk, about you”
“You’re So Fine” from the Falcons came a year later and continued this theme of being “all-in” when it comes to romance. People would go on dates, to dances or dinner or movies. Do it often enough and you would be “going steady” and wearing his class ring.
And without question there was an element of possession, noted in the Jo Stafford classic “You belong to Me:”
“See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle
But just remember, darling, all the while
You belong to me”
I haven’t talked to them about this directly but I’ve a pretty good idea what my teenage daughters would think about the concept of “belonging” to a guy.
Lovers and dreamers who walk and talk constantly about someone, who feel that they don’t have anything without someone might have been called romantic in the 50’s.
Today they’d be called creepy.
My girls and their peers rarely date one-on-one, preferring the less-awkward comfort of a larger group. Many of their conversations are by text, short and in code.
Don’t get me wrong. As a Dad I prefer my kids safe rather than sorry. I would hope they would stay away from people who think they own them regardless of where they are on the planet.
But there’s a cost that comes from that jaded cynicism, that loss of innocence that was attached to those romantic pop songs of fifty years ago.
Today it’s more likely the girls will meet someone at a place like EHarmony, the Brave New World’s answer to yesterday’s dance floor.
“So this is Christmas
And what have you done?
Another year older
A new one’s just begun”
John Lennon’s lyrics really capture this time of year for me.
Sure, it’s just another day on the calendar, but it also provides for us a clear line in the snow, a bright shiny boundary where we can pause to take stock of the gaps between the people we are and the ones we ultimately want to be.
By its nature a new year comes with a blank slate. It’s a place to identify our shortcomings and promise ourselves that we’ll do better.
Will most of those resolutions fall short? Inevitably most of them will but as we stand in the doorway that’s not what matters most.
It is the willingness to try that defines us on this fulcrum and gives us the hope that the next year will be better than the last.
2014 was not an especially notable year for events. The Erie Times-News pointed to ongoing gun violence as the top story of the year. Indeed that is a terrible blight on our society that is devastating to the families involved, but looking at a terrible but chronic problem as a top story suggests that the year was marked more by ongoing battles rather than new ones with no singular events standing out.
On a personal note 2014 will be forever known as the Year We Left the News Business. After 32 years it’s time for a second chapter and it is my sincere hope that I find a place where my accumulated knowledge and energy can leave a mark. It is in that hope that 2015 holds the most excitement for me.
So take a moment to stand back and take a look around at the incredible journey that brings all of us to this place at this time.
We wish you peace for this holiday and to quote Mr. Lennon one last time:
“And so Merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year
We hope it’s a good one
Without any fear”
You can imagine that in my thirty plus years of being a reporter that I have seen my share of bureaucracies. Faced with taking an action that the system wishes to avoid, a tried-and-true tactic is to send an avalanche of paperwork at the request. At the very least it delays the inevitable and annoys the daylights of the person bringing the offending request in the first place.
You can imagine that a reporter asking for information from a government or agency runs into that tactic often and usually in triplicate. I’ve dealt with it for decades.
But just this week I have been the focus of what might be the most widespread use of cascading paper I have ever seen. And it’s no Merry Christmas to me.
It started after the passing of my father. One of the things he left behind was a small life insurance policy where I am the beneficiary. The thought was it would protect my family when they were young and we could use what cash value was there when the time came.
So I started the process of getting the ownership of the policy changed, a necessary step in cashing out. That was eight months ago and counting.
I’m sorely tempted to name the large and well-known company but unfortunately I made a promise to myself years ago to never use this space as a sword of petty vengeance. All I will say is that it was NOT Erie Insurance.
Anyway, I have filled out the same form three times so far and sent in not one but two death certificates to prove that my Dad has indeed move on.
I swore my last attempt was perfect. Everything signed, witnessed and filled out with all the right letters crossed and dotted.
And yet, just this week, three separate letters from the insurance giant showing up on the same day. The first said that the form did not come with an attached copy of my Dad’s will. The second said, “Sorry, but you can’t have a policy where the owner and the beneficiary is the same person.”
And the third, and this is what raises the term “bureaucratic nightmare” to new heights, was a letter saying that they couldn’t find the policy in question. That came with a huge questionnaire to fill out to help them in this department’s quest to get up to speed.
Three letters arriving on the same day Christmas Week finding three different ways to keep me from cashing out one small policy in this big huge world.
You’ll excuse me if I don’t think the letters came from Three Wise Men. Or even honest men. Looks like my present for an attorney will be a little extra business.
Can we find agreement on how to deal with extracting information from detainees in the future? I doubt it, since we can’t even agree on what to call it.
It was William Shakespeare who first explored the differences between reality and our descriptions of that reality.
Wouldn’t a rose, he reasoned through his love-struck Juliet, smell as sweet even if you called it by any other name?
While I understand Bill’s point that a rose is a rose even if you call it a pickle, the logic shortchanges the power that words have in not only altering the perception of a reality but also in providing clues as to what the speaker thinks about it.
This week the 24-7 news cycle gab fests have been pouring through a Senate report, released by Democrats before they cede power that outlines practices used by American forces in the years following September 11th to gain information on what else might have been coming.
The details are graphic and at times gruesome and for many rise to the level of torture. They argue that we are supposed to be the good guys and it’s hard to condemn acts of violence we see around the world yet perform the same under a national security blanket.
Also in the mix: the question of labelling torture as inhumane while continuing unmanned drone strikes aimed at “high value” targets. Smart bombs aren’t as precise as we would love to believe. Innocent people get killed. Some call that “collateral damage.”
Supporters of America’s tactics never use the T-word. They have come to call the practices “enhanced interrogation techniques” or EIT’s.
It sounds much more civilized, doesn’t it? But as the Bard reminds us, reality is what reality is.
We’re being assured that many of these practices are no longer being used in the West but who knows the steps some will take when a legitimate threat is revealed or executed.
But it’s clear that no real consensus can be reached until we are all on the same page, a place where a rose to some means a rose to all.