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.