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 reality of it 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’m gonna be straight, 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 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 right? (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 properly executed 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 run with it, 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 sometimes how 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 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, a comeback year.

Happy New Year.

FOOTSTOOLS RATTLETRAPS AND ROCK STARS (my personal take on personal achievement)

So here we are in the midst of yet another holiday season. It's hard to believe that nine years have passed since my wife Cathy bought me a drum kit for Christmas. Nine years since I brought it home, set it up, and eagerly picked up where I'd left off some twenty years before. What's most noticeably different about this, my third time around, is the kit itself. It's an electronic set, a Roland V Series, the only acoustic pieces are the hi hat and cowbell which were part of an earlier set I had in the eighties. Oh and instead of being ditched out in the garage with the rakes and shovels this baby's set up in the spare bedroom, stylishly flanked on three sides by an album and CD collection I've been procuring since puberty. From The Beatles to The Blasters, from Johnny Cash to Jethro Tull, these are some of the biggest baddest and most successful names in the music biz. These guys are my idols, my heroes, and it wasn't all that long ago that they were everything, and the only thing I ever wanted to be.

I was thirteen years old when I started collecting the vinyl. Back then my folks went grocery shopping every Friday after work and packed in with the week's rations was the TV Guide. Now this wasn't the second rate version that came with the Sunday paper, this was the small screen aficionados handbook, the boob tube bible. For thirty-five cents you not only got a complete and thorough listing of all thirteen channels (whoopee) but page after page of insightful stories, features, and previews. Plus, in addition to all that, an irresistible, "Buy 1 get 6 free" offer from the good folks at Columbia Music Club. That's right boys and girls. For the way low introductory price of just $11.99 (plus shipping and handling) you could get a total of seven records or tapes shipped directly to your door. At thirteen and with nothin more than a paper route to fund my new found obsession this was clearly too good a deal to pass up.

Originally the way it worked was you would tear out the perforated insert from the pages of the magazine, painstakingly pencil in the corresponding numbers of your selections, and then send it off via U.S. Mail. However this Neanderthal type process steadily evolved over the years. One of the biggest advancements came with the innovative lick-em-stick-em stamp format. Now, instead of going through the trouble of marking down your selections by hand, you'd simply adhere the preprinted stamps directly onto the page. It was quite effective really, albeit lickin those stamps could get a little messy and if ya got em on crooked and then tried to straighten em out they did have a tendency to rip on ya.

I still remember anxiously awaiting my inaugural shipment. Everyday after school I'd storm into the house to see if my package had arrived, and when it finally did I tore into it with a blistering vengeance. Leaving a trail of plastic wrap in my wake I bee lined it for my sister's room where at the tail end of a Tom Cruise Fruit of the Loom style slide across the hardwood I dropped to my knees directly in front of her ultra modern all-in-one Panasonic hi-fi stereo. First on the turntable was Bachman Turner Overdrive's Not Fragile. Next was David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, then Foghat's Fool for the City, and so on and so forth. All I can recall thinkin was, "man, this stuff don't sound nothin like my brother's Neil Diamond records."

And so it went for weeks on end sitting at the edge of my sister's bed with the headphones on and the needle cued up, one good spin after another, song after song, record after record, memorizing the lyrics and liner notes, droolinn over the photos and artwork. I soaked it all up like a sponge I tell ya, and all the while rarely missin a beat, tappin my toes slappin my thighs into a rosy shade of red. Then, I got an idea. With a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer I poked a small hole into all four corners of the Not Fragile album cover, tied it face up to an old padded footstool with some twine, bought a pair of unmarked sticks and viola, insta-drum. Needless to say I beat on that thing like a belly club happy street cop for months. Until the following Christmas that is, when I got my first "real" drum kit, straight outta the pages of the Sears catalog.

As I'd mentioned it's a spare bedroom, approximately 10x10 in size. I recently spruced the place up a bit with some new blinds and a fresh coat of "Dreamy Space." Trust me I had no idea this particular light blue shade of interior satin was called that when I picked it out at the local Homey D's, but with a name like that it could've been baby shit brown and I still would've had em mix me up a gallon. In addition to the drums and the virtual wall-to-wall record collection, a mishmash stereo, a fake ficus I took a shine to at a yard sale, and a rockin chair I bought for Cathy when she was pregnant with our son Tim twenty-two years ago tend to fill out the remainder of the room quite nicely. Like I said it's a relatively small space, and aside from Rudy, a once frail and frightened seven-ounce baby kitten Cathy heroically rescued last year, it's my space.

So here we sit, Rudy and I, gazing out an upstairs window on a Saturday morning tryin desperately to finish this post. Across the street I can see Mike loadin up the ten speeds for what I'm guessin is gonna be a meandering ride somewhere down Long Beach way. Mike and his wife Terri are great folks, in fact we've been neighbors for, well, long before any of us had kids, and their eldest boy Shaun is playin in the NFL. Man, it's hard to imagine, seems like only yesterday we were goin to his little league games over at Highlander Park.

If I recall Shaun didn't start playin football until later in school, however, it didn't take long to get himself established and become recognized as one of the top in his class, being named The L.A. Times Defensive Player of the Year while attending Los Altos High. From there he went on to USC where he made All-American and was Nominated for the coveted Lombardi Trophy before being picked up by the Detroit Lions in the second round of the 2005 draft. He currently plays nose tackle for the Houston Texans, a playoff bound team for the first time in franchise history.

But before we go on, I'd like to take ya back for a moment if I may to those USC years. Because here's a guy mind you who's earned nothin short of mega celeb status while still in high school, garnering nearly every athletic award and accolade imaginable. Now, as a Trojan, he's considered one of the top defensive players in the entire friggin nation, and yet here he is pullin up to the house in a beat up old Dodge Caravan. I mean honestly how cool is that? And trust me I ain't stretchin it a bit when I tell ya this thing was a total heap. Fact is the only salvageable part on that entire rattletrap was probably the shop rag the dude was using as a makeshift gas cap. Of course that all quickly changed when he made the pros and pulled up in a brand spankin new Cadillac Escalade. But happily Shaun didn't. (Change). Even today with all the allures of stardom he's still the good ol boy he's always been, and I for one wish him nothing but continued success.

Directly over my right shoulder beyond the stationary bike is a pint sized library of books, CD's, and DVD's on personal achievement. Written by some of the most well respected names in the industry these guys are in their own right some of the best in the business. And although they're not my idols, while I may not wanna grow up to be just like them, over the past few years they've certainly taught me a thing or two. In fact, maybe if I'd read some of this stuff twenty years ago I wouldn't have stopped drummin, or any other number of things for that matter, including ridin the stationary bike.

The downer is when I start to consider the wealth of info compiled by these advice-giving gurus I can't help but think what the hell am I doin jumpin into the ring with these heavyweights? Who do I think I am puttin in my two cents? And where if at all does Ingzig fit into all this? Although not overly concerned about the whole thing I do ask myself these questions from time to time, and in turn have spent untold hours tryin to better wrap my head around my competition. While I must tell you that I haven't uncovered the definitive answer as of yet, I do know this.

Ingzig is not a movement or revolution. It's not a hell bent crusade or campaign for colossal change. It's not about resisting or defying the status quo for the mere sake of resisting or defying the status quo. It's not "More than a lifestyle" or "A way of life." Nor is it about "Finding a voice within the brand." It's not a well laid out plan with instructional software and a time limited money back guarantee. And it doesn't require or much less demand a deafening public address system of any shape or form, hand held or otherwise.

It's been nine years since I started playin again, and in addition to a few new riffs what I've learned is that reaching a goal or realizing a dream begins with making yourself a promise. And success, while worthy of the grandest stage, is generally achieved when no one's watching or listening, when no one's around to pump you up, cheer you on, or give you that all-encouraging pat on the back.

Nine years and aside from one attention deficient alley cat who pops in every now and then to take cars of some personal business I've never had an audience. No praise or applause for a job well done; no one knockin down my door for an unused pair of autographed sticks. And that's okay, because for me that isn't what it's about these days. Hell even my longtime heroes have lost some of their luster lately, not because I no longer look up to em, but because I no longer look at em as rock stars. These days, dare I say it? They're simply fellow artists and musicians who are earnestly committed to honing their craft.

Ya know it's funny, when I see Shaun single-handedly shut down a running play behind the line of scrimmage in front of millions of fans on national television I don't see a larger than life persona or some gridiron gladiator. I see a wide-eyed little kid roundin for home at Highlander Park, a beat up old Dodge Caravan, and someone who, much like you and I, had himself a heart full of hopes and dreams, and then simply chose to make good on em by bustin his *^&@# ass!

And for me I think that's what personal achievement is essentially all about. The books, the CD's, the keynote speeches and the PBS specials, it's all good. But in the end it's not the polished presentations that impress me the most. It's not the professional advice that's had the greatest impact. It's the personal stories. And if you could peek over my right shoulder right about now you'd see that those are the pages that tend to be flagged with sticky notes. Because time after time that's the kinda stuff that gets me teary eyed.

So where exactly does Ingzig fit into all this? I'm not sure. Will anyone ever lay eyes on these long-winded words of wisdom? It's hard to say. But again, I do know this: I'm not gonna stop doin what I'm doin. I'm gonna continue bustin my *@^%# ass. Because nine years ago I made myself a promise...one I personally plan to keep. See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.

Go Texans.

WE HAVE A WINNER

A few weeks ago my wife Cathy and I spent the weekend at Fantasy Springs hotel and casino located in not-so-near-by Indio CA. It's a bit of a drive for us but one we gladly endure every so often for a couple of reasons 1) Cathy likes to gamble, and 2) Cathy likes to gamble.

The 100 mile jaunt on Interstate 10 typically kicks off right after work on Friday afternoon, ETA, approximately 7:00/7:30pm, ATM, ASAP...sharp!

After makin quick work of check in and a non-nutritional bit to eat, it's a, "see ya hun have fun call ya later" dash down the main escalator past the revolving Wheel of Fortune in hopes of snaggin lucky number 3-001, a generous but somewhat temperamental keno machine with whom Cathy's had a love hate relationship for over a decade.

My own approach to the evening on the other hand is considerably different. It begins with a slow and meandering stroll, one that raises the inevitable question, "What the hell do I do now?" That is of course unless the Kings are playin, in which case I've got a decision to make. Do I shuffle upstairs and spend Friday night alone in a barren hotel room quietly watchin the game? Or, do I belly up to the bar, put in my request for one of the dozen or so flat screens to the bartender, and if granted prepare to defend my affinity for hockey to a pack of diehard WWF fans who think Lord Stanley is an up and coming hip hop artist currently opening for Justin Bieber?

Not to worry, because as it turns out the Kings are off tonight. And it's probably for the best really, because today (like most days) I got up at 4am, and if all goes as planned it's gonna be another early git up tomorrow as well.

It does (go as planned) and at 6am I'm easin down the road with J.J. Cale on the airwaves and a topped off YZ450F in back. As I make my way south on highway 86 first light begins to reveal itself through the low-lying fog that blankets the Salton Sea, a massive inland body of water that half a century ago was aptly coined the "French Riviera of California." Today, however, the abandoned remains of this former tourist hot spot are little more than an eerie reminder of a bygone era. Coming into view just a few miles further south and to the west is the outlying landscape of Ocotillo Wells, a popular state vehicle recreation area that boasts over 40,000 acres of knobby-friendly terrain.

With a twist of the throttle I'm carvin my way down a well defined single-track that takes me deep into the badlands. Surrounded by an unending maze of washes and ridges I maintain a steady clip while gettin a little more settled in the saddle. But from the moment I open her up I know this ain't gonna be just another "that was fun" sorta ride. Bearing down on the foot pegs my 200lb frame feels especially light and agile this particular morning and the blue bike is responding favorably to my every white-knuckled whim. From the gnarliest up hills to the tightest and trickiest sand sections we confidently pick our lines and impressively find our groove. From one end of this sublime dust bowl to the other man and machine become one, and together, we proceed to masterfully tear it up.

Northbound back on 86 the postmeridian sun has transformed the fog-laden Salton Sea into a shimmering layer of glass that stretches openly across the Imperial Valley. I give Cathy a call to assure her that all is well, that all body parts are intact and fully functional. Moderately relieved she shares with me the "really" good news: she's on a roll, 'ol number 3-001 is loosening up. Elated, I pop in The Black Album and polish off a sequence of textbook Lars Ulrich impersonations before pullin into Del Taco for a couple of chicken softies.

Once back at the casino I instinctively find Cathy in the same spot as when I left earlier this mornin. Did I forget to mention that she is notorious for pullin all-nighters? Did I mention that last night was no exception? In any case I'm headed for the showers. Clean and clothed, I swing open the double doors and step out onto the balcony to ponder my next move. A full gainer off the top rail and into the bowtie shaped pool four floors down is what initially comes to mind, but I opt instead to settle into an overstuffed chair in the far corner of the room where I begin transcribing a backlog of thoughts I've been luggin around in my head since last Tuesday. The next thing I know Nancy friggin Grace is slammin some two bit small town investigator for his buffoon-like incompetence, Cathy's propped up on the bed meticulously counting her "blessings," and I've got less than 20 minutes to shake off any false notions that these aching bones of mine may not make it downstairs in time for our 6:30 dinner reservation.

"Good evening, can I start you off with something to drink or maybe an appetizer?"
Yea, how bout a shot of Sauza and a travel size bottle of Ibuprofen?

Just kidding, dinner was great, as was the company. As for the remainder of the evening, well, let's just say it was anything but unpredictable. Before our waitress can so much as utter the word Tiramisu it's a, "see ya hun have fun call ya later" dash down the escalator past the...well you know the logistics. But this time I too have to high tail it outta there, cause I got a date with the Rock Yard.

A small outdoor venue that consistently attracts some of the finest cover bands you could ever hope to see and hear, the Rock Yard is a welcomed departure from the deep-pocketed high jinks goin on back inside. As always I waste no time securing my spot along the table-lined walkway directly behind the drum kit. Not only does this give me an up close and personal view of all things technical, it also allows me to pan out across the crowd, almost as if I were on stage myself. What? We're at "Fantasy" Springs remember?

Tonight's show is the second to last of this season's summer series. and on tap is a tribute to San Francisco super group Journey. As the crowd continues to scuffle onto the grassy infield the band kicks things off with a solid rendition of La Do Da, followed by a non-stop string of oldies that take me back to 1977, to the L.A. Forum, where just a few months earlier that same year Cathy and I went on our very first date.

Once again the musicianship tonight is top notch. The drummer, a tall lanky kid who resembles Steve Perry more than Ansley Dunbar or Steve Smith, keeps perfect time every time. His rolls and fills are flawless and tasteful. He's clearly done this a few bazillion times before. As I periodically glance out into the crowd I can't help but notice a guy who is unabashedly beating to his own drum. Talk about two left feet, this dude's got the meter and measure of a dash mounted bobble doll barrelin down a pothole plagued Louisiana back road. Sadly, as he makes his way to the edge of the stage I realize he has Down syndrome, as well as, an ear-to-ear grin that is every bit as infectious as the pulsating music beneath my feet.

I'm tellin ya, this guy is havin a ball, hell he's even got a couple of hotties hangin all over him, and whenever an unsolicited pair of gyrating hips get fired his way he giddily (albeit awkwardly) returns the favor. The singer, obviously overcome with envy, hops off the stage to make it a foursome, and all the while I find myself incessantly peering around the impeding floor toms tryin to get a better look. Ahh, the raw and untamed power of three simple cords and a mega watt PA system. Long live Rock n Roll.


Driving home Sunday morning I quietly reflect on the past couple of days while Cathy peacefully "rests her eyes." Honestly, with her level of energy I'm surprised she gets any sleep at all, even after an all-nighter. Nonetheless I'm happy she had a fun filled weekend and walked away with a few bucks in her pocket. As for me, I definitely feel as though I cashed in as well. It's beyond rare when things come together the way they did on yesterday's ride, and for a few days anyway, I feel like I'm a richer man for it.

Last night the Rock Yard rocked, the band kicked ass, the drummer was clearly on his game and I was once again shrewdly reminded of what a few years of unwavering dedication can do.

As for our dear friend in the front row, I can only say that it was an absolute pleasure to have been in your company. You are in every sense of the word, a true winner. Not only did I thoroughly enjoy watchin you unwittingly steal the show, but your unbridled zest for life made me quickly recognize (even after a couple of near perfect days such as these) that in the long run it's about much more than just gettin in a groove or on a roll every now and then. It's about finding your own unique and personal rhythm, even if it is a little...offbeat. See ya soon, till then, keeep it up.

WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE STREET?

Hmmm? To get to the other side you foul. Duh!

A riddle is called a riddle for a reason, it's puzzling, perplexing, and generally requires a good bit of thought and ingenuity to solve. Yet part of a riddles charm is that the answer tends to be ridiculously obvious.

Remember the Riddler from the sixties television series Batman? How bout from the more recent film Batman Forever? If so, surely you recall that silly green outfit he wore, ya know, the one "riddled" with question marks. So tell me, ya ever get to feelin that way when it comes to your hopes and dreams? Blanketed with questions I mean? Questions like, "How the *^$&# am I gonna do this or how the *@^&% am I supposed to do that? Well, mull no more, because the answer to these and other prodding questions is literally (and metaphorically) right at you feet.

That's right. While your hopes and dreams are definitely and distinctly your own, and while the path you take toward realizing those hopes and dreams will certainly be no different, in actuality there's only one way down any given path. And that my frazzled friend, is one incremental step at a time. Bam! Questions answered. Riddle solved. Where's my easy button?

Oops, hold on a minute, I think I might be gettin ahead of myself here. Because as I recall the title of this post isn't "how" did the chicken cross the street, but rather, "why" did the chicken cross the street? And for good reason I might add: therein lies the real riddle.

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzche once said, "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." In other words, instead of gettin too hung up on how to do something, it sounds like what we should really be asking ourselves is, "Why am I doin it?"

"Every year in the U.S. we have dozens of major marathons that attract people of all ages and from all walks of life," writes Charles A. Coonradt in his best-selling book Scorekeeping for Success. "And out of the hundreds of thousands who compete only one can hold the men's record and only one can hold the women's record. Only one! So why is it that running marathon's remains such a popular sport? What could possibly be the appeal of a sport in which 99.9 percent of all participants don't stand a fighting chance of finishing first?"

"The answer," says Coonradt, "is that marathons allow everyone to win. Everyone entered may not be able to finish first, but everyone who enters the competition can in fact win. And that's because marathons provide us with an opportunity to tap into man's oldest yardstick of accomplishment: simply being better than we've been before - even if it's by a second."

Make no mistake, running a marathon requires a superabundance of know how. There's any number of strategies, tactics and techniques that one must consider. But in all fairness it goes much deeper than that. Unlike a relatively short jaunt across the street, a marathon takes you down a long and difficult road that's notoriously riddled with hurdles and obstacles that are every bit as mental as they are physical, and at some point or another you inevitably start asking yourself why the #$&*@ am I doin this? And quite frankly, unless you've got a rock solid rebuttal, chances are you're gonna toss in the towel long before you ever begin to hit your stride.

But (and this is a ginormous but) if you can repeatedly answer this discerning question with ironclad conviction (oh and trust me it'll rear its ugly head again and again) then the odds of you someday realizing your hopes and dreams will increase astronomically.

Ya see here's the thing, asking yourself "why" can prove to be profoundly introspective. Why? Because it's personal not practical. Emotionally it strikes a chord, and the more you delve and discover the more you realize, it's also what fuels the fire.

So whether you're hoofin it across the street (short term task) or runnin a long and laborious marathon (lifelong ambition) try and do your best not to dwell too heavily on the how, but instead, learn to focus ever so intently on the why. Because when you can bravely answer that, then you'll surely have solved one of man's most mystifying riddles. Now, the obvious question is, "how" bad do you want it? See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.

P.S. For the record domestic chickens aren't capable of long distance flight. Therefore if ya rule out transcendental meditation and/or divine intervention one can only conclude that when it came to venturing across the street our foul-feathered friend's only real option was to (yup, you guessed it) do it one cluckin step at a time. Damn, where the heck's that easy button?

MAY I HAVE MY ATTENTION PLEASE?

This tongue-in-cheek title comes courtesy of columnist Hugh O'Neill, and I thank him kindly for it. Because as you may recall, we last talked about our thoughts and the profound effect they can have on our everyday lives. What we didn't discuss, however, is what it takes to effectively assemble those thoughts. Or what might best be described as, the cost of paying attention.

It was Ralph Waldo Emerson who said, "There are many things of which a wise man may wish to be ignorant." Here (in no particular order) are a few of my own personal favorites.

Must see TV (yea right)
Late breaking news and headlines (i.e. car chases and sex scandals)
Saturday morning rituals that are anything but enriching
Stock market volatility
Octomom's growing pains
Gadget Mania (user friendly my ass)
Keeping up with the Kardashians
CNN
TMZ
Compulsive rubbernecking
Quick Fixes and Short Cuts (even though they may be all the rage)

These are just some examples of the kinds of things I try to shun or ignore. Bear in mind however that it's all a matter of choice. The trick of course is to choose; to filter out some of those swindling "time bandits" that can so often rob us of far bigger and better things. Now this doesn't mean ya gotta go bury your head in the sand, not at all, just get your mind outta the clutter.

AM/PM (the popular convenience store chain) has a slogan: Too Much Good Stuff, and the way I see it that's exactly what we're dealing with here. This round-the-clock barrage of infotainment we're being hammered with these days, this dizzying deluge of sensory overload isn't so much a bad thing as it is waaaaay too much of a good thing. Of course as it turns out that's also what makes it so damn debilitating. What I mean by that is not only does all this "good stuff" make it increasingly difficult to stay focused and on task, but (and here's the kicker) it makes it far too easy not to as well. It's a %$@&*^ double edged sword I tell ya.

Martha Beck, author of Finding Your Own North Star, says that the inner voice of our true self is so small and slight that virtually any distraction can drown it out, especially when we're just beginning to hear it. Without a doubt there are more things vying for our attention these days than ever before. The question is, are you ready to take back your inherent right to pay attention and begin listening to that inner voice? Are you willing to give it a sincere and "concentrated" effort? Are you personally prepared to engage in a one-on-one battle with these modern day weapons of mass distraction? If so, your best line of defense is to quietly disengage, and to consider for a nanosecond not only what all these things can do for ya, but also, what they keep ya from doin.

"The ability to focus one's attention is one of the sharpest tools a man can have," says O'Neill, and I for one fully concur. So don't be surprised if I can't tell ya who got kicked off the island last week, or if I come across a bit dumbfounded when it comes to smart phones and the like. Rag mags, ipods and long-winded post game shows, hey, call me ignorant, it's okay really. Better that than thoughtless. See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.

WHO'D A THOUGHT

When asked how he discovered the law of gravity, Sir Isaac Newton casually replied, "By thinking about it all the time."

Now I may be steppin out on a bit of a limb here but I'd bet that Newton's rather uninspiring reply could also easily have been that of Einstein if asked how he discovered his theory of relativity. Or that of Darwin when questioned about the theory of evolution. Be it the case or not, my point is that whatever it is that you'd like to someday achieve or accomplish, whatever you're interests or ambitions might be, it's important that you think about em, and think about em often.

Here at Ingzig we talk a lot about effort, a term that generally implies some sort of physical task or toil. But I'm here to tell ya that Everyday Earnest Effort is every bit as much about mental prowess as it is about physical fortitude.

French novelist and poet Antoine de Saint-Exupery once said, "You give birth to that on which you fix your mind," and I for one most definitely agree. However, I'd also like to point out that although I'm not against it, when it comes to personal "achievement," I personally don't place too much merit on practices such as creative visualization, a mental technique that uses one's imagination to allegedly "attract" high levels of success and prosperity. Why? Well, because I for one have blissfully envisioned Ingzig being a well established company for years now. I've seen the sandstone colored building that boastfully bears our name. I've worked alongside like-minded people who enthusiastically share our ideals and have hung out with the good folks who help support our efforts by proudly wearin our wares. Trust me, I have many times over been to the events and expos where our logo is poised within arms reach of the big boys and have repeatedly watched our Keeep It Up motto zoom past me on the 405 fwy. These colorful images are as clear as a bell, and in no way am I embarrassed or ashamed to tell ya that I hold each one of em very dear to my heart. But the bottom line is, they're just images.

The same could be said about drummin. In the sense that I can visualize or imagine myself layin down a sick solo all I want. But if fundamentally I suck, it just ain't gonna happen. The way I see it, perceiving it is one thing. Achieving it, is another.

"Well now wait a minute Pat, it sounds to me like you're contradicting yourself." No, I'm simply sayin that it takes a bit o' both, insight, as well as, execution. For instance, I think about these posts each and everyday, literally, without exception. I carry a digital recorder with me at all times so when somethin good does pop into the ol noggin I can get it down on tape pronto. But I also take the time to put it all down on paper, where I then painstakingly edit, organize, write, and rewrite. And when that's done, I start the entire process over again until I eventually come up with somethin that I feel is actually worthy of print. I wish I could tell ya it's all purely the result of one full-blown moment of spontaneous inspiration but it's not.

"In his personal diaries there is an oft-cited passage in which Mozart reports that an entire symphony appeared, supposedly intact, in his head. Yet no one ever seems to quote the next paragraph where he talks about how he refined the work for months," notes Jonathan Plucker, an educational psychologist at Indiana University.

"We all have our ah-ha moments, but as a rule, breakthroughs tend to take years of hard work," proclaims R. Keith Sawyer, author of Explaining Creativity. "[They] happen not in one brilliant flash, but in a chain reaction of many tiny sparks. Despite romantic myth, ideas don't magically appear in a genius' head out of nowhere, they build on what came before."

"That's *&^%# fascinating Pat, unfortunately I'm not your average genius." Fair enough, "average Joe," who by the way just so happens to average about 3000 thoughts per day. That's right. Studies show that we humans, regardless of IQ or creative flair, have approximately 3000 thoughts a day, or somewhere around 125 an hour. So...given that mind-boggling statistic ya might just wanna ask yourself, "What the hell am I thinkin?"

James Allen, author of As A Man Thinketh said, "A man cannot directly choose his circumstances, but he can choose his thoughts, and so indirectly, yet surely, shape his circumstances." Face it, everyday you and I have the opportunity to shape and reshape our lives with our thoughts. Not so much with good or happy thoughts mind you, but with deep and deliberate thoughts, attentive thoughts; thoughts that...well, just might make ya stop and think. See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.

WHAT THE CANUCK?

This past May the Boston Bruins shut out the Vancouver Canucks 4-0 in game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, making them only the fourth road team in NHL history to win a game 7.

Needless to say it was a tough loss for the favored Canucks who led the league in scoring and compiled the best record of the regular season. But even more brutal was the fact that they jumped out to an early two game lead. Yet somehow the scrappy Bruins, who had faced elimination in both the first round and the conference finals, were once again able to defy the odds and outscore their Canadian counterparts 23-8 in the series, claiming what columnist Helene Elliot describes as, "The toughest trophy to win in professional sports."

That evening as the final minutes ticked off the game clock fans found themselves filing out of Rogers Arena onto the chaotic streets of downtown Vancouver where police cars were burning and tear gas was being deployed to control the angry drunken crowd that was slinging bottles, smashing storefront windows, and setting garbage cans ablaze. The morning papers called it, "An all out riot." Canucks captain Henrik Sedin simply said, "This city and province has a lot to be proud of, it's too bad."

I'm a true-blue Kings fan, have been ever since their inaugural season in '67 when the Great Western Forum first opened its doors here in Inglewood California. Like the Canucks, the Kings have yet to earn the distinct honor of hoisting Lord Stanley's Cup, and like the Canucks, they too have come disappointingly close. It was in '93 against the Canadians, all looked promising for the Kings as they convincingly took game 1 of the finals only to have three straight heartbreaking overtime loses followed by a 4-1 defeat in game 5 crush any hopes of bringing the Cup home to L.A.

But that season the Los Angeles Kings lost more than just their best ever bid for the Cup. Our Dad who passed away a few months earlier that year was the consummate Kings fan. But more than that, he was a hockey fan; a sports fan. Born and raised in Europe he played semi pro soccer before coming here to the U.S. in '54, and although his fondness for the game never fully took hold on me, his inborn ability to play it most definitely did. Thus, from the age of eight to about fifteen I was affectionately dubbed the wunderkind, simply known throughout the soccer community as, "Number 10."

All accolades aside, however, those really were some wonderful times, because it was really during those times that my Dad, both as a coach and as a Father, shared with me not only his infinite love and lore of soccer, but instilled in me the true spirit of sport. A spirit I'm so proud to say is still very much alive and well today.

This past May that spirit, that emotional energy, filled Rogers Arena right up to the rafters. You could see it, sense it, and feel it. And whether you were a Canucks fan, a Bruins fan, or a little league baseball fan you had to love it. As for the athletes themselves I just can't imagine it gettin much better than this. I mean to suddenly be a part of something you've dreamed about and dedicated yourself to year after year after year, something so rich in history and tradition, it's gotta be the thrill of a lifetime, and quite the privilege to boot.

Sport isn't about one game, one series, or one season. Nor is it just about your team or my team. This time around the Bruins proved to be the better team, and as a result, were deservedly crowned Stanley Cup champions. But the way I see it, everyone was a winner that night in Vancouver, except of course for those Canuckleheads raising havoc in the streets. And again, it's too bad, because in sports, as in life, nobody likes a loser. See ya next time. Till then, keeep it up.