WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM?

So…as Ingzig continues to blaze a slow but steady trail from total obscurity toward becoming a national treasure there are a few unanswered questions still hanging in the balance, questions I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to answer. One such question in particular, one I’m courteously reminded of every time I peel back the cover of an entrepreneurial/small business publication, is what is the benefit that your company provides for your customers? Or as it’s sometimes put, what problem does your product and/or service solve?

Believe it or not I’ve been poundin my noggin against the wall for years now tryin to get to the bottom of this brain twister, and honestly I’ve just about come to the point of callin it quits. I’m thinkin I might be better off to just stop thinkin about it all together and instead take my chances that the answer will one day somehow show up on my doorstep a la Ed McMahon. The thing is it’s so damn hard to ignore, it’s like a friggin rock in my shoe, constantly nagging away wherever I go. Thus I reluctantly keep pounding away, seeking, searching, wondering, how would John and Bert interpret this relatively simple “Business 101” question?       

Brothers John and Bert Jacobs are the co-founders of New England-based Life Is Good (www.lifeisgood.com), a casual clothing company that in1994 started out with about four dozen t-shirts being peddled outta the back of a van and has since gone on to become an enormously successful company. “It seems an absurd idea,” wrote one reporter, “that one could build a $50 million business on the right thing to do; on ‘celebrating optimism’, but that’s exactly what John and Bert have done.” 

 “From the beginning our mission has been to have a greater positive impact on American culture than any other clothing company in the history of the country,” say John and Bert.

Well now wait a minute, what happened to providing benefits? What about solving problems? And what’s this nonsense about making a positive impact? Did I miss something in the all-you’ll-ever-need-to-know manual for building a small business? Or, could it be that unlike some businesses, (i.e., computer software companies that help you with everything from desktop publishing to home banking, or automotive supply stores that can fix you up with a new battery or a fresh set of tires to get you back on the road) Life Is Good’s products don’t offer such “clear cut” solutions? It very well may be, after all, their product line consists mainly of items such as t-shirts, dog toys and beach towels. I mean really, how beneficial can that be? How many problems can you honestly expect to solve with personalized coffee mugs and water bottles?

So does this mean LIF’s products are inferior or valueless, no not at all. It simply means they don’t offer the same “built in” benefit as some other products and services.

I recently read an article in Entrepreneur Magazine about a women’s swimwear company called Calavera. They’ve only been around now for a couple of years but are already doing quite well. Their claim to fame is an innovative line of bikinis designed especially with the female surfer in mind. Their motto: “Bikinis that stay on no matter how rough the surf.” Now I don’t surf, nor have I ever dealt with the misfortunes of an ill-fitting bikini, still it’s not hard for even someone like myself to see the intrinsic value and/or benefit these bikinis provide. Will they impact the world of women’s surfing unlike anything ever before, it’s hard to say, but they clearly address a reoccurring problem and I’m sure will go on selling well as long as they effectively (and fashionably) solve that problem, and continue to offer that “right-outta-the-box” benefit.

So, are there products and services available that you can purchase with your Visa or MasterCard that are beneficial and have the potential to solve problems? Of course there are, and by all means if you feel they can help you achieve what you wanna achieve I strongly recommend you dig into your wallet and make that purchase. Just remember, there’ll come a time when you have to dig a helluva lot deeper than that.     

Its hard to believe that nearly 40 years have passed since a couple of buddies and I were rippin it up at Claude Osteen’s motorcycle park in Pomona CA on our stripped down enduros when in rolls this dropped El Camino with a shiny new ‘73 Honda Elsinore 125 in back. Now not only was this guy toutin the trickest 125 out there at the time but he was also decked out in all the latest gear. Bottom line, this dude had it goin on, until he actually got on and took a few laps around the track anyway. Forgive me if I come off sounding a bit cocky, but the dude sucked—big time. And of course being the bad asses we were we could hardly mount our motor scooters fast enough to go shoot some serious roost in this poser’s face, providing we didn’t run outta duct tape and bailing wire that is.

So again, are there beneficial products and services available on the market? Yes. However, optimism isn’t one of em, nor is experience, dedication, commitment or practice. And if you happen to be one of the millions of Americans who are currently looking for something more these complimentary qualities can often prove to be far more beneficial than anything you could ever possibly purchase over the counter, and over time, solve a virtual laundry list of problems. 

With that said I think the question here isn’t so much what benefit do we provide? Or what problem do our products and/or services solve? It’s what’s your problem? What issues and concerns or hurdles and obstacles are you currently facing? And of course what can you do that will benefit you the most toward resolving those issues and concerns and overcoming those hurdles and obstacles? 

Life Is Good sells t-shirts, not optimism, and if you’re someone who regularly sees the glass as half empty rather than half full don’t expect that by putting on an LIG tee the flood gates will suddenly open up and fill your fatalistic heart with an ocean of good cheer. That of course, would be absurd.

What’s equally absurd is to think that a company such as LIG can’t be as successful as any other, or to be the slightest bit surprised by the improbable fact that it is. Do Life Is Good’s products make you or your life better? I’m sure many would say that’s debatable. But the fact is over the years Life Is Good has done a world of good. Both through their products and their ongoing festivals and fundraisers LIG has made a huge difference in thousands of people’s lives by raising millions of dollars for charity. 

Ya know, it’s kind of ironic, because as you may know drumming has had quite an impact on me throughout my life. In fact, it’s the original inspiration for Ingzig. And I’ve heard it said that here in North America people communicate through t-shirts, buttons and bumper stickers the way some cultures use drums. And when ya think about it, that’s pretty much what Life Is Good is doing. They’re communicating. And judging by the company’s incredible success, it’s obvious that people like what they’re hearing.

In the end, optimism, like Everyday Earnest Effort, is a relatively simple thing. Yet it’s certainly something we can all benefit from. And I for one have absolutely no problems with that whatsoever. See ya next time, till then, keeep it up.

THE PERFECT ALTERNATIVE

On the left a photo of a ripened russet potato under which it reads, the potato. On the right a single serving of fries pictured neatly in a bright red container embossed with a pair of golden arches. Below that, the word, perfected. 

If ya haven’t yet guessed it’s an advertisement for McDonald’s. In this particular case a roadside billboard strategically placed just a few hundred yards from one of the chains more than 30,000 fast food restaurants worldwide. And while it failed to leave me salivating for a No.2 Extra Value Meal, it did get me to thinkin.  

Like you I’ve probably polished off a small truckload of Mickey D fries over my lifetime, and yea they’re pretty darn tasty, but perfect? Eh. In fact, I’d venture to say that to an ardent potato farmer the global food service retail giant has got its potato protocol bass ackwards, and that in his eyes, a perfect potato is one that remains rustic and raw rather than processed and packaged.

Then again, a basket of In N Out’s famous animal fries might sound like the perfect late night carbohydrate to a pack of hungry thrash metal heads on the heels of an Anthrax reunion concert. For my wife it’s a cleanly scrubbed spud lightly basted in olive oil baked at 450° for forty-five minutes and then generously smothered in all the fixins. Personally, I fancy mashed, by hand, the way Mom used to make em. And of course let’s not forget those spirited souls out there who I’m sure would defiantly contend that potato perfection simply cannot exist without the laboratory aid of a fully functional distiller. 

My point: Perfection is personal. It’s highly subjective and therefore strangely and uniquely different for each and every one of us. I mean let’s say you and I did happen to agree that Mickey D dishes up the perfect serving of potato paradise, chances are we’d still squabble over whether it’s an extra pinch of salt or a heavy-duty dousing of ketchup that makes em…well, even more perfect. See what I mean? Wait a minute. More perfect? That can’t be…

Or can it?

In just a few short weeks the 2012 Summer Olympic Games will get under way in London, England. Athletes from around the globe will gather to compete in their respective events. The common goal: to bring home the gold. For some that means layin down the fastest lap. For others it’s lifting the greatest amount of weight. And still for others it’s all about that, “perfect 10.” Unless of course you’re a gymnast, because last I heard the longstanding international symbol of excellence had been officially retired from gymnastics in exchange for an entirely new scoring system, one that, if I’m not mistaken, resets the bar somewhere around 16 or 17.

Confused? I’ll say.

I mean when’s the last time you heard someone utter, “On a scale from one to 17”? It’s 10. It’s always been 10. Whether you’re judging an Olympic event or a drunken backyard belly flop contest, 10 is top dog, the cream of the crop; the “pinnacle of perfection.” It’s the best of the best, and you simply can’t do or get any better than that.

Or can you?

Snapple, makers of quality teas and fruit drinks, has long touted their products as being, “Made from the best stuff on earth,” and yet in a recent TV add they announced that, “The best stuff just got better.” Well I’ll be, I guess the best can be better. I guess maybe there really is no such thing as perfection. Damn, now they tell me.  

Actually, to be “perfectly” honest, I’ve been acutely aware of this bit of gospel truth for quite some time. You see, as an aspiring perfectionist myself (keyword aspiring) I’ve spent most of my adult life struggling with this anal addiction, and while I’ve ultimately caved into the idea that there’s no such thing as utter perfection (subjective or otherwise) I continue to harbor an uncontrollable urge to ignore the obvious, and with nominal success I might add. Why? Because as any true-blue perfectionist will tell ya there’s always (keyword always) room for improvement, and nowhere (keyword nowhere) have I found this to be more so than on the long arduous journey toward self-improvement, a journey on which I personally have made many a mistake. A journey that over the years has kicked my ass, drowned my spirit, and put my head into a tailspin more times than I can count. Yet one that’s also taught me an invaluable lesson or two along the way, such as, sometimes (keyword sometimes), rather than, “goin for the gold” if you will, get out there and do some good. In other words, instead of constantly chasing perfection or making the goal to be the best you can be, just make it a point to go out there and have a good day.

Now now, hold on my fiery-eyed Perfecticon, before you start hurling evil cyber missiles my way let me explain. First of all, when I say, “rather than ‘goin for the gold,’” I mean it purely as a metaphor. Believe me, I appreciate mammoth ambition and the insane kinda commitment that goes along with it as much as the next guy. And regardless whether or not it’s achievable, perfection remains at the top of my list of honorable virtues. But the truth is a little good goes a long way, and for many of us it just might be that perfect little something that gets us through yet another far from perfect day.

And secondly, when I say, “Have a good day,” I’m not referring to some, “Starbucks just added a brand new flavor of Frappuccino to their menu,” sorta good. I’m not talkin some superficial candy-coated, “Have a good day Honey,” kinda day. I’m talkin about a good f**kin day, one that turns an otherwise average day (the most common among us 9 to 5er’s) into an above average day; one that on a scale from 1 to (hell feel free to insert any number you like here) ranks right up there with the best of em. Not perfect, not the best ever, but good. G.O.O.D. Good.

Still not buyin it, still on the edge of your chair in all out attack mode ready to fire off a blistering round of virtual nasty bombs? Well then think about this: When’s the last time you had a perfect day? When’s the last time you had a great day, a glorious day, a fantastic, awesome, or outta this world day? Well, as much as I hate to say it, “I thought so,” and that my stickler friend is what’s so cool about a “good” day. Unlike its killer counterparts you can have one damn near everyday. 

But hey, don’t let the notion of mediocrity fool ya, just because a good day can land at your feet at any given moment doesn’t mean it’s just gonna drop in uninvited. You’ve gotta make it happen. (We said go out there and do some good remember). Which of course shouldn’t be a problem considering there’s like a bazillion ways to do it. Just a few good moves here or a couple of good choices there and viola', that routine run-of-the-mill dime-a-dozen day is suddenly lookin pretty damn good.

Oh, and unlike all those full-flavored not-so-good-for-ya’s we talked about in the opener, good days are extremely healthy and big time beneficial to your overall well being. So go ahead, feel free to overly indulge. No really, it’s “perfectly” all right, because when it comes to a good day there’s no such thing as too much of a good thing. See ya next time, till then, keeep it up.

BUT I"M TIDE. T.I.D.E. TIDE.

After nearly 29 years of marital bliss (and 5 years of dating prior to that) it still amazes me to watch my wife Cathy do her thing, or should I say—things.

Now before we travel down this road I’d like to make what I consider a pair of fairly reasonable assumptions, and that is on the whole we tend to have more on our proverbial plates these days then ever before, and that some people are simply far better equipped to handle it all than others.

Cathy, in all her gung ho glory, is without question one of these people, she is—a multi-tasking maestro. However, it’s not so much her adroit ability to tackle umpteen things at once that amazes me, it’s the exuberant energy with which she does it, as well as, her uncanny capacity to refocus and/or redirect that energy in an instant. How’s she do it? I wish I knew, but like I say, there’s definitely a buzzing energy about her, and I’m not talkin some caffeine crazed power surge, but a rapid-fire rhythm that’s every bit as merry and melodic as a Richard Rodgers’ show tune. In fact on a number of occasions I swear I’ve heard her hummin the chorus of Oh What A Beautiful Mornin while busily goin about her business.    

Me, I’m cut from a different cloth. Unlike Cathy I just don’t have the firepower to run on all canisters the entire day. After gettin up at four in the mornin and spendin the better part of the day behind the wheel I normally start flirtin with fatigue somewhere around the three o’clock hour. But it’s not so much physical exhaustion as it is psychological brain fade. In either case it’s highly counterproductive. Because its here, in the dragging hours immediately following my day gig that I can make some of the worst decisions of the day.

Although for wildly different reasons it sorta reminds me of my after school days circa freshman sophomore year in high school; everyday I’d come home to an uninhabited house with solid intentions of doin something constructive, but instead would wind up slouched in front of the TV spoonin Spagettio’s outta the can with a few unindustrious buddies whose idea of an uber productive day was determining who’s hotter Ginger or Mary Ann.

These days, however, if I choose to “slouch” off, I’ve got no one but myself to blame. Because not only have my comatose classmates long since gone on to bigger and better things (one can only hope right?) but I too have generously matured over the past thirty-five years. In other words, I’m old enough to *&*$%^ know better.

So why then is it that I insist Cathy keep a can of Spagettio’s in the pantry at all times? What is it about that ill-postured position that after all this time continues to remain so agonizingly inviting? And who the hell’s behind that William Shatner-like voice which keeps muttering,  “relax, chill out, it’s been a long ass day you deserve some R&R? Who is that? And why is it so $&^% difficult to shut him up? I mean come on; seriously, I ain’t got time for this shit. I’ve got things to do. 

It was Vince Lombardi who emphatically told his players, “You’ve got to keep yourself in prime physical condition, because fatigue makes cowards of us all.” Now initially coward may sound a bit harsh, but no more so really than weakling, wimp, quitter, deserter, or chicken-hearted invertebrate. So go ahead, pick your poison, or better yet check all of the above, because the truth is they’re all sown from the same seed.

Here at Ingzig® we talk a lot about Everyday Earnest Effort™, and if you’ve ever thumbed through the pages of a self-help manual I’m sure that along with a comprehensive list of actionable nouns was an equally impressive showering of strategies, techniques and how to instructions. These are often what the experts refer to as the principles and/or laws of personal achievement and development. On the surface, “these laws,” as Russel Simmons puts it, “are fairly simple, but it’s still a struggle to follow them.” And trust me, when you’re tired; when you’re juice tank’s runnin on fumes, that struggle can quickly turn into a full-blown battle, or worse—a lost cause.

This past Cinco De Mayo weekend four friends and I rode our dirt bikes 200 miles across the Mojave Desert, from Barstow California to Boulder City Nevada and into Lake Mead National Recreation Area. Now while most of us had ridden sections of the mapped-out area before none of us had ever gone the entire distance from start to finish in one fell swoop. The week prior to the ride I personally spent a considerable amount of time prepping my bike and readying my gear, makin sure everything was snug and up to snuff. Weeks before that I started gettin myself geared up; I got plenty of rest, drank lots of fluids (little or no beer), and put the pedals to the metal on the stationary bike. Well, guess what?  It paid off big time. I felt good the entire ride; my body was hydrated, my eyes were clear, and my mind unflinchingly sharp and alert, all of which comes in handy when you’re pinned in fourth gear on a dusty single track that’s riddled with unforgiving sand wash crossings only an experienced camel jockey could appreciate.  

Long story short, after a front tube change worthy of a NASCAR review (or an America’s Funniest Home Videos submission depending on who ya ask), a skillfully averted upper body injury from an air born gas can (we’ll unofficially file this one under Unsolved Mysteries material), and a beautifully choreographed sequence of side-splitting get-offs from the W twins on orange and red (yea you know who you are) we made it.

The girls, who were always just a phone call away in the event that we needed some assistance, welcomed us with open arms on the now “Halleluiah!” not-so-distant shores of stunning Lake Mead. After a deserving round of toasts we showered up, tossed some carne asada on the grill and played a heated round of rock paper scissors for the last iced down MGD in the cooler before finally settling in to watch the Supercross Finals from nearby Las Vegas. It was there while watchin Ryan Dungey and friends scale the jumps and slam the whoops that Winston, the red rider, and clearly the worse for wear out of our five-man squad, announced “Man! Them dudes gotta be in some serious shape.” It was then as I chip-dipped into the homemade salsa one more last time that I offhandedly said to myself, “No shit Sherlock, what’s yer point?” 

My point is that no matter what your hopes and dreams look like, chances are you’re gonna have to fight to keep em alive. And that’s gonna take some energy, lots and lots of energy. Because we’re not talkin some 200 mile joy ride that begins and ends within a matter of a few hours, or a handful of hurdles that as a rule can be tamed with a handful of throttle and a little bit of body english. We’re talkin an open-ended journey that’s gonna put you face to face with obstacles that’ll make the ugliest of rocky sections look as buttery smooth as a baking sheet. Of course regardless of the length or landscape the cool thing about getting around any obstacle is that it gets ya pumped up and poppin with energy—albeit, excitable energy.

Remember Julie the depressed and overweight divorced mother of two whom with the recommendation of Dr. Robert Maurer marched in place in front of her television each day for one minute? Remember how eager and enthusiastic she was upon her follow-up visit, asking the Dr., What else can I do in one minute a day? That’s a classic example of excitable energy. But you might also recall that while Dr. Maurer was too very excited and pleased with Julie’s “brightened spirit,” he clearly acknowledged that sixty seconds of low-intensity exercise would in fact do very little for her long-term aerobic capacity.

Now with that said I’m gonna make yet another matter-of-fact assumption, and that is despite the amount of physical exercise I get; no matter how many miles I churn out on that stationary bike, when it comes to unleashed energy I doubt I’ll ever be able to hold a candle to Cathy. I could pedal to China and back and probably still not have the get-up-and-go that she has. That’s a given. However, like oomph-impaired Julie who eventually went on to meet the American Medical Association’s guidelines for cardiovascular exercise, I too know there’s things I can do—and must do—to put a little extra wind in my sails.

Imagine if you will comin home from a long hard day at work and still havin some extra spring in your step. Imagine if you can all of the things you could suddenly achieve and accomplish. Now that’s exciting. Now that’s assuming of course you do have some hopes and dreams. That’s assuming of course you’re not just some coward who’s willing to sit idly by and watch those hopes and dreams drift away. Of course you do, of course you’re not, and of course you won’t. Because I know…you know better. See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.

P.S. This month’s title comes courtesy of the late great blues artist Katie Webster via the Ivory Joe Hunter R&B classic Since I Met You Baby on BB King's collaboration CD Blues Summit.

Oh and for the record…Mary Ann gets my vote. 

A CLEAR CUT VIOLATION OF COOL

Ya know I’ve been called a lot a things in my lifetime, mostly good. Yet the one single distinction I’ve heard more often that any other, is cool. And ya know what? I’m cool with that.

Now I’m not talkin “The Fonz” kinda cool. Nor am I referring to the polar opposite of warm. I’m talkin about that ubiquitous superlative that can say as much about one’s character as it can about the latest greatest smart phone app.    

If you’ve been following this blog for any length of time you may have noticed that I don’t talk much about my day job. And that’s because a typical workday for me is far from cool. Let me sum a one up for ya: Traffic sucked. I got cut off, flipped off, and ripped off. Translation: Some yahoo nearly takes my front bumper with him in a last ditch effort to head off as many people as possible before wedging into a coveted opening the size of a breath mint. Countless others shamelessly flash me the bird on the grounds that I’m not about to let em follow suit. And on the tails of all that I feel the cold barrel of a gas pump nozzle in the crook of my back along with a faint voice in my head whispering, “ put the bulk of the money you just toiled for today into this fuel tank and I’ll let ya live to slave another day.”

Okay, so my attitude toward my vocation is a tad dispirited, but the fact is I still take a lotta pride in what I do. For nearly 25 years now I’ve been gainfully self-employed behind the wheel of a semi crisscrossing the Southern California landscape with 80,000 pounds of sand and gravel strapped to my back. And while it’s been a heavy load to bear at times I’ll still gladly go the extra mile whenever petitioned to do so, and nine times outta ten I’ll do it with a smile on my face, despite the growing number of not-so-cool commuters out there determined to make it far more difficult than actually need be.

Case in point: A few years back I was headin west bound on Arrow Highway in the city of Claremont, a relatively small college community at the southern base of the San Gabriel Mountains. Coming up to a red light in the right hand lane I notice a pair of cars parked curbside. On the sidewalk are two well-dressed women in deep discussion. Apparently there’d been a collision. I carefully roll by and come to a full stop at the intersection just a few yards ahead. Curiously I glance out my right hand mirror to get a second look but then quickly turn my attention back ahead. The traffic light turns green and as I inch forward I immediately feel a slight jerking sensation. Hmmm? I look out my driver side mirror. Nothing. I look out my passenger side mirror and, What the *^%#$?! Are you kiddin me?! It seems that while I was waiting for the light to turn green one of the aforementioned women got in her car left open the driver side door and as I pulled away my trailer axle ripped the impeding door right off its hinges.

Once cleanly through the intersection I edge to the right and lumber toward the scene where everyone’s standing in a state of disbelief, no one more so of course then the poor gal who’s on the losing end of all this. And who can blame her? After all, what began as a minor fender bender is now a full-fledged mangled mess. And honestly, I feel like shit, but hey, it wasn’t my fault, and upon further evaluation the disgruntled owner of the car compliantly agrees. Three days later I receive a formal letter from her insurance company sighting me as the guilty party. Not cool.        

A short time thereafter I’m in the town of Upland merging onto the westbound 210. The forecasted rain is comin down in buckets making the road especially slick. The on ramp to the freeway is one of those spiral numbers that loops ya around a full 360 degrees. At the top it’s two lanes but then it gradually funnels into one just before spilling out into traffic. I’m on the inside lane, she’s on my left a couple of car lengths back but gaining fast. Needless to say we run out of real estate, the two lanes come together and at this point she has no choice but to back off. Unfortunately it’s too little too late. Her only options now are 60 mph traffic to the left and a slow churning (but no doubt equally intimidating) set of oversized trailer tires to her right.

Safely stopped on the shoulder and with traffic rushing by I cautiously make my way over to the silvery sedan. I can see some damage to the right front side of the vehicle but my first concern of course is to make sure no one’s injured. It wasn’t a terribly hard hit but then again ya just never know. With the rain violently ricocheting off my shoulders I tap on the driver side window, it sluggishly descends, yet before I can express my saintly concern this fire eyed broad (who’s no spring chicken by the way) lashes out with a “What the ^%#% are you doin you son of a *&%^# are you #^$&* blind you cut me off you &^%$# I’m callin the cops,” welcome that someone might only expect from the mouth of a trash talkin twenty-something. Again…not cool. 

Oh well, these things happen, they’re called accidents. But believe me, the following was no accident. And truthfully, I still can’t believe it’s happening.

Last month I was billed to deliver a load of topsoil to UCLA. When I arrive on campus I blindly hoof it from one nondescript building to the next in search of Art my contact person. Finally, some forty minutes later I’m back in the truck being escorted to the assigned jobsite. I leave my trailer behind because Art says there’s no room to park it anywhere at the site itself. He proposes I leave it nearby the fuel/service area, which I do, even though I’m somewhat reluctant based on the fact that it’s a no parking zone. It’s clearly a low traffic area and there’s plenty of room to safely pass if needed, nonetheless I question it, but Art assures me it’ll be fine. So I strategically place a safety cone at the rear of the trailer and off we go. Once on the jobsite Art dutifully signs my ticket and instructs me to bring the remainder of the material in the trailer box back to the same location before speeding off in his lil electric cart. Okay Art. My pleasure Art. No problem Art. That is until I get back to my trailer and discover a parking citation affixed to it.  

Now I’m sure you know just how frustrating it can be when things don’t work out or go as planned. I’m sure many a time you’ve felt as though you’ve done your very best yet for whatever reason it wasn’t quite good enough, and that sometimes no matter what you do or how hard you try it seems like you’re constantly and continually being confronted by one thing after another. It’s tough I know, but it’s also, as I like to say, “All part of the process.” It’s another thing, however, when someone intentionally, needlessly, and senselessly counters your best efforts for no good reason whatsoever.

Now in all fairness to the issuing officer, he or she had every enforceable right to site me (and then scurry off like some lily-livered ticket touter). There’s no question that my trailer was in violation of section 21113A of the CVC 2A. However, I feel that in this case a citation was totally unnecessary. Completely uncalled for. And if nothing else, definitely not cool. Because 1) unlike in the previous two examples, here there’s no physical damage, no emotional strain or hardship; nothing at stake, nothing to gain or recoup. No one—and I mean no one—was in anyway shape or form being adversely affected by my being there. And 2) I was there that day at the request of UCLA, on their behalf, doing my job, and anyone—and I mean anyone—with half a &^$#@ brain could see that.  

Over the years I’ve gotten a lot better at desensitizing myself from peoples inconsiderate and often incomprehensible antics on the road. I’ve knuckled under if you will to the cold hard truth that no matter how cordial or courteous I am behind the wheel of this motoring monster my good intentions are forever destined and doomed to be tolerated at best, and that at the end of a taxing day I should hardly expect a pat on the back. But this, this was nothing short of a slap in the face. And you can bet I’m takin it as such.

I filed an appeal, however, it was promptly denied. So I appealed a second time, and am currently awaiting my moment of truth before the esteemed Citation Review Committee.

But here’s the thing. Here’s the irony of it all: The amount of time and energy being wasted on this trifling ordeal is absolutely ridiculous. It’s petty, it’s pitiful, and it all comes down to a simple err in judgment, or shall I say, a fundamental question of character.

Oh well, shit happens, right? It’s called life. And the bottom line is it’s not always fair, nor is everyone cool.

But no worries, life goes on, and like all the others this charade will too soon be behind me. And if history prevails I’ll once again walk away with my smile intact, not to mention…the last laugh. How ridiculously cool would that be? See ya soon. Till then, keeep it up.

WATERING THE ELEPHANTS (Gettin Down and Dirty)

“I’m the kid who has a habit of dreaming, and it gets me in trouble sometimes too. But the truth is, I could no more stop dreaming, than I could make them all come true”…from The Kid, by Art Garfunkel.

Wow! Talk about hittin home. I’m not sure who Buddy Mondlock was thinkin about when he wrote that song but I do know this; it could very well have been me.

Fact is just yesterday I was headin down the interstate staring out over the hood of my 379 Peterbilt daydreamin about somethin or another. And although it sometimes seems like just yesterday it’s been over 40 years since I was dispatched to the dreaded red bench for aimlessly gazin out one of the double hung windows of Mrs. Lupton’s third grade class during a spelling bee. 

So ya see I was…er…am that kid who has a habit of dreaming. And sure it’s got me in a bit of trouble a time or two. But quite frankly, that’s not what’s troubling me. 

Like any seasoned dreamatologist I tend to think about things…a lot! And I’ve often wondered which of these is the lesser of two evils, 1) being an avid dreamer like myself, or 2) being someone who, for whatever reason, rarely if ever dreams at all.

Allow me to explain.

First, let me quickly point out that of the two options the last-mentioned is definitely not for me. Be it in peaceful slumber or in the midst of another trying day I could never imagine what it would be like to never imagine what it could be like. Then again, pragmatism apparently has its advantages, because I know lots of people whose feet rarely if ever leave the ground and they seem perfectly happy and content.      

Nonetheless, it’s not for me. I was born to dream. Dreamin is a vital and vibrant part of my genetic code. In fact, of all my indispensable talents dreamin is definitely what I do best. And while I’m pleased to report that it hasn’t got me into any real trouble over the years I must candidly confess that it has caused me a considerable amount of undue pain and suffering. Why? Because for the better part of half a century now I’ve had a helluva time makin them dreams come true.

But hey, I ain’t belly achin, I’m not here lookin for no pity party. FYI, not a $^@% day goes by that I don’t wish things were different. But I am where I am today for a reason; I’m here…because I haven’t been watering the elephants.

In the opening verse of The Kid, Artie takes us on the journey of a young boy who runs off with the circus to pursue his dream of walkin atop the high wire. But instead finds himself knee deep in a foul-scented mishmash of sawdust and elephant manure.   

Now at first this might sound like a bad dream—a stinkin nightmare if you will, and maybe so, after all the kid’s obviously got bigger dreams. Yet when ya think about it even though this provisional romp through the potty pen wasn’t part of the original plan it did manage to get our junior stargazer one step closer to his piece of the pie in the sky. And that I’m sure you’d have to agree is a good thing.

“Art is never finished,” said Leonardo Da Vinci, “only abandoned.” And the same I think could oftentimes be said about dreams. Because as a whole (myself included) I think we as creative creatures share an inescapable tendency to paint the perfect picture; to formulate in our minds eye that idealistic vision or idea of what we see possible. And of course once we conceive it we can’t help but be infatuated by it. Yet when it comes time to break ground we indubitably begin to question it, and when the answer doesn’t instantly appear, or as is much more often the case, turns out not to be the one we’re looking for, then that idealistic vision starts to fade, that “big” idea loses it’s luster, and before ya know it, the dream gets ditched.

    

Personally I’ve never dreamed of runnin away with the circus, let alone of walkin on a high wire. But I can’t tell ya how many times I’ve had the pleasure of bein on stage behind the drum kit playin to a sold out crowd. Or how often I’ve gone bar to bar over the finish line jump with one of my motocross heroes. Those are a few of my dreams, a couple of the biggies that I let slip away. But I can still dream. And believe me...I do. And I for one would never encourage anyone to do otherwise. However, if you’d like to save yourself years of needless pain and suffering I strongly suggest that you support your idealistic dreams and visions with an honest to goodness down to earth realistic mission. Go ahead, set your sights, and by all means set em high, but then do what any hopeful (and/or successful) tightrope artist would do; take it one small step at a time. Honestly, ya ever seen it done any other way? Okay, but even on a bike or a unicycle they’re like movin reeally reeally slow.

  

Just remember, it was Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, who said, “Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.” And the simple truth is…dreams aren’t doable.

Fortunately, actions are. Still, keep in mind that no matter how well plotted or planned those actions might be they’re bound to land you in some unfamiliar territory, out of the blue places that you probably never would've dreamed of, or much less bargained for for that matter. But then that’s just the reality of it. I mean who’d a thought runnin off with the circus with the illustrious dream of performing a death-defying walk across the high wire hundreds of feet above a spellbound audience would land our boy flat footed in a pile of, well, ya know? But then who knows, one day that so called stinkin nightmare could very well turn out to be the answer to all his dreams.

In the end I guess the moral of this story is that compared to a high wire, which generally tends to gravitate toward the straight and narrow (no pun intended), the road which ambles up to it will much more likely be a long and winding one littered with any number of unforeseeable twists and turns, dips and detours, and of course, the occasional pie patch. But fret not, because with a little sweat on your brow, a slight ache in your back, and a moderate dusting of shit on your sneakers, you can negotiate it. You can and will finally begin to make some of those illusive pipe dreams come true.

Oh and one last thing; that gawd awful odor lingering underfoot, get used to it. That my former castle-building friend, is the sweet smell of success.

See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.

…yea I’m the kid who has a habit of dreaming, and over the years I’ve paid a pretty hefty price. But the truth is, I could never stop dreaming, nor could I ever make them all come true. But I’m tryin dammit, because one would sure be nice.  

BLAH BLAH BLOG

First, a few quick disclaimers: 1) I’m a hockey fan, however, I’m not an NHL Network subscriber. Why? Because like I say, I’m a fan, not a fanatic. 2) I like knockin back a couple of cold ones as much as the next guy, but I intentionally don’t do it as much as I’d like. Why? Because I don’t necessarily wanna be like the next guy, and 3) I’m kinda diggin this whole social media thing, but I’m not about to post somethin every single day based on some perceived industry standard. Why not? Because every now and then I like to go out and have a couple of cold ones and watch a hockey game.

Here’s my beef.

In the February issue of Success Magazine, publisher Darren Hardy spoke with marketing maestro Seth Godin. Mr. Godin is the author of thirteen international best sellers and has been touted, “America’s
Greatest Marketer” by American Way Magazine. “His blog,” says Darren Hardy, “is perhaps the most popular ever written by any single mortal on God’s green earth.” Midway into the interview Godin points out the “remarkable” fact that he’s posted a blog (almost) everyday for the past seven years. And when asked what’s the one step that we, the small businessperson, should take toward becoming an effective and influential marketer in the 21st century, his straightaway response is, “Start a blog and blog every single day.” “You don’t have to tell anybody,” he says, “You just have to write something every single day about your work and why it’s interesting. And if you can’t come up with a reason why your work is interesting, do different work.”

Now I’m all for consistency, for working diligently at that which you care emphatically about. In fact, it’s this type of unflinching persistence that is the very foundation of Ingzig. It’s also a personal promise I made to myself several years back, and as I’ve stated time and time again, one that’s helped change my life for the better. Yet in all honesty I just don’t see the need—or the value—in sharing this with the rest of us on God’s green earth every single day, because frankly, it’s just not that interesting. Nevertheless, in spite of Mr. Godin’s off-the-cuff remark, I have absolutely no intentions of doing “different” work.

Clay Collins is a world-renowned Internet marketer who grew up on his grandparents’ citrus farm in rural southern California. At the age of 15 he started his first software company and has been practicing entrepreneurship ever since. What I learned from my grandfather was that not all things look glamorous from the outside. And that a lifetime of improving and perfecting something as simple as growing citrus trees could truly be an art that affects numerous lives. For 70 years my grandfather focused on one thing, and that was to get better and better at growing trees. For 70 years he was beautifully obsessed with growing the best citrus trees that he possibly could. Yet my grandfather didn’t have to write manifestos on growing trees. He didn’t have to tell his story to others about why he did what he did, or artificially infuse his work with meaning. And he certainly didn’t have to start a social movement about it on twitter.

I recently finished a book entitled, What I Talk about When I Talk about Running, by Haruki Murakami. Now I’m no runner but I must confess the more I read the more difficult it was to put down, mainly because the focus wasn’t entirely on running. Described as equal parts training log, travel log, and reminiscence, this180 page memoir circumscribes a twenty-three year long journey that leaves the reader with infinitely more than just a hair-trigger desire to go out and invest in a pair of brand new Nike’s.

And ya see that’s precisely my point.

Had this been some day-to-day account on the rigors of long distance running I guarantee ya the author would’ve lost me long before the five-mile marker. Why? Because on my, “Damn! That sure was interesting” barometer, it tends to rank right up there with the everyday operations of citrus tree farming. Hell ya might as well strap me naked to an all leather recliner on a sweltering August afternoon and force me to sit through some two-bit slide show of the neighbor’s family vacation frame by @%^# frame: This is us arriving at Disney World. (click) This is us getting out of the car at Disney World. (click) This is us checking into the Disney Resort Hotel at Disney World. (click) Get the visual?

But hey, the reality is just because Junior’s stroller incident with the ill-humored Mickey Mouse impersonator isn’t all that interesting to me or the other 7 billion people on the planet don’t mean you shouldn’t go to Disney World right? Of course not, because as we’re all well aware it’s invariably these intimate and unexpected little moments that make a trip (or journey) so special, memorable, and meaningful.

Forgive me. I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, it’s just that I get a little rattled at the idea that whenever things get a bit blasé the first suggested course of action is to move on or bail out. I’m not contending the fact that if you don’t find what you do interesting you’ll have a tough time stayin with it. I’m simply pointing out that if you plan on stayin with it there’s gonna be some things that aren’t all that interesting.

It’s been said that one of the great moments in literary history came in 1936 when Ernest Hemmingway, while trout fishing, caught a carp and decided not to write about it. Now there I'd have to agree is a welcomed bit of editorial wisdom.

It’s also a befitting analogy don’t ya think? Because in a sense we’re all trout fishing, we’re all looking to land that prized fish, and in preparation—in anticipation—of baggin that bad boy we need to steadily stand at the ready. Yet make no fish bones about it, no matter how well prepared, informed, or equipped you might be, you’re bound to snag an occasional carp along the way. It’s a part of fishin, a part of the process if you will. And understandably, just as no one wants to hear some tall tale about the one that got away, no one really wants to know about the boatload of bottom feeders you tossed back into the murky depths.

Fortunately, the good news is no one needs to know. All you need to know and remember is that like Clay’s grandfather, like Haruki Murakami and Ernest Hemingway; like the millions of other folks who are quietly baiting there hooks and casting their lines you too in your own unique and spirited way are doing what needs to be done. So don’t weigh anchor just yet, don’t go paddlin off in search of bluer waters, and/or, different work. Stay with it, keep your head down, your hopes up, and if at all possible, your mouth shut. The day’ll come when you land that trophy trout, then, if ya still feel the urge to tell the world, do so loud and proud, because now there’s an odds-on chance you’ve actually got something interesting to say.

One final disclaimer: Ingzig has been a beautiful obsession of mine for a number of years now, and while I’m pleased with the progress thus far, I'm convinced it’s time to step it up, to take it to the next level. And of course we all know what that means.  Yet needless to say I’m no Seth Godin, marketing is definitely not my forte. But as always, I'm certainly willing to listen, and to learn.

However, when I write, my sole intention is to write, not to market. For me the thought of such a notion would not only discourage me from writing every single day, but inevitably altogether. It’s not that I don’t wanna be a part of the “connection revolution,” it’s just that I wanna make sure that if and when I do make a connection it’s a lasting one. 

I admit my social acumen may not be up to par. Still and all, it remains the best way I know how to keep things relatively interesting, and genuinely gratifying all at the same time. See ya soon enough. Till then, keeep it up.

 

NEW YEARS REVELATION

I can’t believe it! I can’t believe I’m about to hop on the 2012 bandwagon and pay tribute to a timeworn tradition that’s got all the legitimacy of a Robovac. To my delight I thought I had it all figured out. While the blogosphere runneth over with idle talk of rose-colored resolutions I was intent on discussing the often overlooked benefits of regimented juicing—or not. The point is I was doggedly determined to do something different, to go against the grain, to zig when everyone zagged. Yet here I am, goin with the flow—mimicking the mainstream. Well…sorta.

Personally I didn’t make any “new” New Years resolutions at the resounding strike of twelve. I seldom do. Largely because I think the remaining 364 days of the calendar year are as good a time as any to exercise a little resolve. But I especially shunned the annual custom this season because on the whole I feel pretty good about last year’s efforts. So quite frankly I thought it best to stay the course. Well…kinda.

Ya see the hitch is, although I feel I’m using my time efficiently, I’m not quite convinced that I’m using it all that effectively. In other words, I’m doin the work, yet, to steal a line from Here Comes My Girl by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, “nothin ever really seems to come from it.” Therefore, I’ve decided to do some fine-tuning.

Surely you’ve heard the age-old adage, “practice makes perfect,” right? But did you know that there’s more than one way to practice?  

Daniel Coyle, journalist and New York Times best selling author of The Talent Code   says, “When it comes to measuring practice we naturally presume that an hour long practice is twice as good as a half hour practice. This reasoning is faulty,” contends Coyle, “because it creates the false expectation that you will succeed merely by filling the allotted time. Deep practice, however, isn’t about time passing, but about the number of times you stretch yourself to the edge of your ability, make mistakes, and then fix them. This allows you, as studies show, to actually accomplish more learning in a deep ten minutes than you can in a shallow two hours.” So, for the better part of the last three weeks that’s exactly what I’ve been doin. Well…somewhat.

The fact of the matter is this, my traditional approach to drumming hasn’t changed much if at all over the years. The prescribed routine has been to play a minimum of 30 to 45 minutes a day, and while I feel I’ve done a better than adequate job of doin that it seems as though my progress as of late has been mediocre at best. So in light of Mr. Coyle’s findings I’ve cut back. I’ve curtailed my playtime and have ventured to go deep, for twenty minutes a day, everyday!

Now I do realize that it’s only been a few weeks, but I gotta tell ya, what’s developed over the course of those short few weeks has been nothin short of rejuvenating. And here’s why.

I’m right-handed. So like most righties I’m predominantly right-footed as well. And nowhere has that been more prominent than in my pitiful attempts to master the art of double bass. Come to think of it there was one other time when it was made embarrassing clear to me that I had a precarious portside; I was eleven years old and about three years into my ten-year stint as a soccer prodigy; our team had just clinched the regional title and was offered an opportunity to play an exhibition game at the Los Angeles Coliseum. Of course at that time L.A. didn’t have the likes of David Beckham to sell out an 80,000-seat arena, but it was still far and away the largest crowd any of us youngsters had ever played for. My dad, bless his heart, was coaching at the time, and if there was ever just one iota of advise that he repeatedly tried to hammer into the impenetrable little head of his fledgling son over the years it was, “If you vant to be a rrreally gute player you have to learn how to schut vit bote feet.”

Well into the match and with the score still tied at zero zero our team was awarded an opportune corner kick. It was executed perfectly. Lofted high and straight the leathery projectile was headed directly for us like a well-guided missile from right to left. On cue the readied net minder lunged off the goal line as if wearing a pair of spring-loaded loafers, yet somehow someway the ball managed to eclipse his outstretched hands and land conveniently at my feet. All I had to do was tap it into a wide-open net with (you guessed it) my left foot. Needless to say instead of scoring the potential game winning goal in front of the largest crowd of my entire career I shanked the ^%# thing just outside the far post. It was (pun intended) the shot of a lifetime, and I missed it. Vay to go Pat.

As I was sayin, the reason I’m all fired up over this remodeled approach to double bass is because it has literally transformed what I’ve always believed to be a creative process into what I’d strongly argue is now an honest to goodness art form. And it’s done so, ironically enough, by breakin that process down to a science.

I guess in a sense what you could say I’ve done is I’ve tossed aside my trusty color palette and reverted back to a much less inspiring paint by numbers format. Yet much to my surprise this back-to-basics approach has turned out to be far more inspiring than I could ever have thought possible, and way more effective than just wistfully goin through the motions and waiting to see what hits the canvas.

So what’s at the heart of this elementary brainchild? It’s a rather useful little device known as a click track or metronome. And in hindsight it’s baffling for me to think that in the nine years since I started playin again I’ve only used this bad boy maybe a dozen times or so. But then again, where’s the creativity in that? (What a dick).

Anyhow, instead of kickin things off with a flurry of fundamentals and then wingin it for the next thirty five minutes, the first thing I do now when I get behind the kit is I power up the click track and set it for 80 beats per minute. I then meticulously churn out a slow and steady sixteenth note pattern with both feet. After a credible string of reps I’ll go ahead and turn up the clicker a notch or two and start adding some ride cymbal and snare. If the mojo’s workin I’ll thank my lucky sticks and enjoy the moment, if not, I’ll promptly regroup and continue to concentrate solely on the bass. "Speakin of back-to-basics!" "Talk about goin deep!"

But hey, it’s all good, because thus far I’ve been able to keep it steady at get this, 140 bpm (bass n ride only). That’s 280 bpm per pedal, 560 combined. For me, considering my lazy left foot, that’s crazy fast. So am I fired up? You bet I am! Because in nine years of playin I’ve never done that—ever!

Ya know the experts tell us that 65% of people break their New Years resolutions after just the first month. They claim the principle reason for this discouraging statistic is the fact that most people don’t have a clear picture of what it is they want to accomplish.

On the contrary ever since I was thirteen years old I’ve pictured myself up on stage behind the drums, and I’ve known from an equally early age that to accomplish this or anything else I might have my eye on means puttin in the time and effort. But in the past few weeks I’ve rediscovered something else. I’ve had what you might call a New Years Revelation. One that’s made it quite clear that whether it’s the first month of the year or some other last time you mighta considered callin it quits, the truth is we all get stumped or stuck now and then, we all struggle with setbacks. However, sometimes, something as simple as switchin things up can be all it takes to turn things around.  

Ya know its funny how some things come full circle. Back in junior high during Mr. Deitering’s second period P.E. class it seemed like all we ever played was flag football, and as much as I would’ve liked to I just couldn’t really get into it. But the thing is I was fast, really fast, and I had a pretty decent set of hands to boot. So when the time came to divvy up the teams I’d inevitably be one of the first to get picked, more often than not by the self-assured, self-acclaimed, John “Bosco” Padres. Bosco, an eighth grade ignoramus with a locker room full of God-given talent was the schools star quarterback. And for the record, the guy *&^%# lived for this sh**. 

Now John and I had both known each other since third grade so we were equally aware of one another’s respective abilities. Thus whenever we were teamed together he’d have me do the same darn thing every damn down.

There we’d be, huddled in the mandatory half-circle receiving instruction from the battle-tested playbook of our eminent leader. “Williams,” he’d authoritatively announce, “Take it to the first down marker then switch it to the inside for a play-action pass.” “McCoy, line up tight alongside Garavito for an off tackle run up the weak side. On and on it went, one by one, play after play, detail upon friggin detail. Then, almost as an afterthought, and always just seconds before breaking into the customary “Go Team” chant, he’d pivot his head ever so slightly my way and utter, “Lange,” ‘I know I know,’ I’d retort, “Go deep.” 

Now while I openly admit that I paid little if any attention back then, today, some forty years later and a stride or two slower, those indelible words have once again come back full circle. And trust me, this time around, they’ve taken on a whooole new meaning. See ya soon. Till then, keeep it up. 

P.S. I once heard it said that a setback is a set up for a come back. With that in mind, I sincerely hope that 2012 proves to be your comeback year.

Happy New Year.