Friendly Reminder

Just in case any of you forgot, let me remind everyone. Unless you are either a clown or a bear, no self respecting adult should ever, and I repeat, EVER ride a unicycle....ever.

-the management

Guest Lecturer

That sounds funny, "Guest Lecturer". I was invited to my alma mater to give a presentation to the second year design students in their professional development class, and I just did that presentation yesterday. Their professor called and asked me if I'd do this back in September, but naturally I waited until this past Monday to begin working on my powerpoint.

I didn't have a title and I didn't know what I was supposed to speak on really, so I basically figured, ok, I've got an audience of 60+ students to connect with, a third of whom may actually be interested and a quarter of whom I'll really affect. So really I was speaking to like 4 kids, but that's cool.

My main objective was to do marketing for my company. Seems that none of the students ever want to stay local at internship time, so this was my way to at least convince them how great we are and how valuable of a potential work experience we could be for them. First though, was my time to get 2 minutes of fame by a bunch of inexperienced 20 year olds. So like anyone, I talked about myself. All the wonderful stuff I've designed, all the great places I've worked and all the many magazines and 1 museum that have shown my work. Looking back, it probably seemed really dated, like if I showed like a portable cd player or a black and white crt tv. Oooohhhh, high tech....not!

Once that and my company pitch were done, I got into the good stuff which is my pontificating on what do design students really need to know while in school and especially when interviewing and ultimately in the workplace. Basically I tried to teach them in 40 minutes what they will never learn in 5 years at the University. I'm guessing if kids are anything like I would have been at 19 or 20, they probably saw me as some old, blowhard, with amazing fashion sense ('did you see how amazing his ass looked in those well tailored jeans?') that they were required to listed to in oreder to pass their class.

Techincal difficulties aside, I think overall it went really well. I had a few students come up to me afterwards and ask more questions and showed genuine interest in my firm. I really enjoyed doing it too and hope that when they get into that first job they have some a-ha moment (not like "take on me" a-ha) where one of my points hits them in the face and they think, 'huh, that guy wasn't totally full of shit'. Anyway, I tried to do my part for the students, the profession and for me (by ogling pretty college girls) and at the end of the day, all I can hope for is that I was at least better than listening to their professor or getting stoned to death in the quad.

I Need More Time

Why is it that the older we get, time seems to go faster? Well, I see time sort of like water. In a wide, deep river water moves lazily towrads wherever it's going. Now you throw some rocks in and maybe cut the depth and see how that water starts turning into rapids. Well my friends, that's the story of my life. I only have 24 hours a day to work, live and sleep. The more activities I throw in, the quicker time moves past me, to the point of not being able to do any of them. Before I know it, I have capsized in my class 5 life.

I work a lot. I am not a work-a-holic, but I really invest myself in my work, and I've sort of created a life of seemingly seamless work-life integration. This leaves little room for much else. On an average day I will wake up at 6:30am, shower, dress and go to work. I will stay at work until 5:30 or 6pm then go home. Once I get home my wife and I will stare blankly at the fridge trying to figure out what to eat for dinner. After we eat I have basically 2-3 hours to budget the balance of my personal time before bed. So, everynight I have to make really difficult choices. I want to paint, study French, read, watch some television, write on my blog, hang out with my wife, see a friend....and the list goes on and on.

I have come to a sad realization that anymore I have to pick and choose which 1 - 2 things I want to spend time bettering myself with everynight. I have also come to realize that working is the culprit in chewing up my valuable time. I mean, I could just sleep less and not eat, but sadly those are necessities. Therefore it seems that it is work that's where I am spending too much time. If I could do like at restaurants and say work half the time for 2/3 the pay, that would be perfect. Seems that half my day I'm just sort of waiting around for things to happen anyway. My good friend Matteo had the right idea. He quit his job, packed all his stuff into storage and moved to Paris. He's got all the free time in the world. We agree that we dont understand how so many people dont seem to know what to do with themselves without the structure of a job in their daily lives. Myself, I have never been bored in my life.

Jobs

You know, I've never been sold on the idea of working. Dont get me wrong, I'm a gainfully employed professional and I have had a lot of success in my career thus far, but could I give it up in a minute? Try me.

When I was young my parents weren't concerned with me working as they wanted me to focus on my studies. As the years and summers came and went my friends had been getting summer jobs and I did not. I didn't have many needs financially and not because we were rich - quite to the contrary - I just lived with less and efficiently managed my allowance. Well, one summer - I must have been about 16 or so - I was in my favorite store browising and got to talking to the owner. I shopped there frequently so she knew I had an affinity for her products. Anyway, one day as we got to talking, she ended up offering me a job, which I happily took.

Excitedly I went home and told my parents that I was finally going to be working. "Doing what?" they asked. "Well..", I started, "I will be working as a salesperson at my favorite store, the vintage clothes shop up the street. "Perfect!" they exulted. Finally, he'll be making some money and doing something he likes. "Well...", I started again "not exactly...". "What do you mean, not exactly?!?" they inquired. "Well...you see, I wont actually be getting paid. I mean I will, just not in actual money." They stared at me puzzled. I continued "no, it's really cool actually, I'll be getting paid in store credit! That way I can get all the cool free clothes I want!"

My parents weren't overjoyed, but I did work there that summer and ended up with quite an arsenal of shark-skin suits, fedoras and mohair cardigans (BTW, that was during my mod phase). Some days that still sounds like a pretty sweet gig.

Limnos

I've been going to Limnos since I was 11 months old. I learned to walk there. I learned to fish there. I had my first crush there. I've been to baptisms, weddings and funerals there. It is more home to me than any place on earth.

For those that dont know where it is, Limnos is a medium sized island in the northern Aegean sea, about 3 islands down from the mainland of Greece and deangerously close to the western shores of Turkey. When most folks think of Greek islands they think of Myknonos and Santorini. They dont know that's what they're thinking of, but the white and blue buildings of the cycladic and dodecanese islands are prettier on postcards than what is more common I guess.

Limnos does have a pretty storied history though. It was a key launching point for naval battles ranging from some small war against a little town called Troy to berthing large warships during WWI. There is also a large Genoan castle in the main town of Myrina which dates back to the 14th century. Granted you wont find the magestic ruins of Athens, Rhodes or Crete here, which makes me guess that Limnos must have been a rarely visited gem back during the Golden Age too.

By first impression Limnos would look non-descript, barren and boring by tourism standards. Limnos is not touristy, although it is becoming more and more visited or should I say, discovered. Limnos doesn't have villages of neatly stacked, pristine white buildings, massive cliffs, black sand beaches, miles of olive groves or world renown nightclubs or boutiques. Limnos is genuine. It is arid. It is rocky. It lacks much vegetation. You'll not find a drunken northern European roaming the streets at 3am. You wont be kept awake by the incessant 'bmp-pss, bmp-pss, bmp-pss' of discoteques.

Limnos does have gorgeous beaches like Keros Beach and Evgati. It has amazing restaurants like Mantella. It has great nightlife with clubs like Karagiozis. It has breathtaking sunsets over Mt. Athos (100 miles away) and sunrises over Turkey. Myrina, the capital and home to about 8000 people has more life than many cities of millions that I've been to. I've been going there for more years than I can remember and somehow on every trip I seem to see or experience something new. It's quaint, it's quiet, it's unspoiled and it's mine.

With that, I decided to sum up in images what Limnos is to me and what it has meant to me over 35 years. My Limnos.

Coming home

I'll briefly acknowledge the fact that I have been really slacking in blog posts for the last 2 weeks. Sorry to all my many fans. I'll be good.

My wife has been out of town for a few days and tonight I went to the airport to pick her up. I really love airports, so when I go, I usually try to get there early and just soak in the experience. I could actually write post after post about airports, and maybe that can be sort of a fall back for when I'm feeling tapped out of topics.

Anyway, one of my favorite things to do at airports, ours in particular, is to watch people exit the secured area and come up that long escalator to the baggage claim area. That's where you'll see the fat old men holding up signs with things like "Mr. Davison" or "RPI Printing". You'll see kids straining to see gramma and grampa or mum and dad. You'll see Joe husband returning from his business trip, sometimes with family there to greet him, sometimes not. These days you might have a family awaiting the return of one of their sons in uniform returning from military service in Iraq. Kids coming back from chaperoned school trips. And the common business guy flying from one strange town to another,never sure where he is or why he is.

What I like in all of those scenarios is the common element amongst really all of these folks. Everyone always looks happy. Except for the poor business bastard. Whether they're coming home from holiday, business or war, they always seem happy to arrive where they are. I'm guessing it's not so much for the place, but for the people waiting for them at the top of the escalator.

Simple

It's ironic to me that as a designer and artist my taste in art, food, products, clothes, holidays, etc - as far as what's most appealing to me - are usually very simple and yet my life is quite complex. I love Brancusi. I love a nice plate of cheese with a crusty baguette. I love a young Oregon Pinot Noir. I love the flowing lines of a 1970 Volvo P1800. I love the look of a classic Saville Row suit. I love to fly to a new destination with no plans and just wander the streets taking it all in. I am happy to sit at a bench by the sea reading, writing or thinking.

Why is it that in today's world we feel the need to overprocess and overpackage everything to try to make it bigger, better or faster? Most parts of the world that are considered progressive or have strong economies, usually do so at the expense of their qualities of life and by trivializing simplcity and "express"-ing your joy. Conversely, countries that value life, family and a slower pace are often deemed lazy or unproductive. Try to explain the concept of a 10 minute power nap or a drive-thru Starbucks to a Greek and they might crack in pieces like a statue of Apollo.

I guess the most pervasive and influential countries and economies are what dominate cultures and dictate lifestyles. Certainly there are conveniences that come as a result of the making of a maniacal "work first, rest when you're dead" culture. I'm quick to order things online and love the feel of a new pair of shoes, but I often think of selling all my stuff and moving to a remote part of the world where life moves a bit slower but with more humility and grace.

B-Day +1

While I am older today than yesterday, I am not old enough to have been a part of anything significantly historical. I suppose that history or at least the context of how each of us thinks about it is very much dependent on if we were around to witness it or not. Many people remember where they were when President Kennedy was assasinated, where they were when man first walked on the moon or listening to the radio broadcast of the signing of the Magna Carta. I'm guessing that if we had roamed the earth 75 million years ago, then dinosaurs would have just seem like a normal thing we used to have around, like passenger pigeons and dodo birds.

I'm 35 as of yesterday and I have been on this planet during events like the fall of the Berlin wall, the fall of the Khmer Rouge, the Challenger disaster, Watergate, September 11 and more. While all pretty remarkable and oftentimes infamous pieces of history, they seem like normal parts of my life, a part of me sort of like a relative you acknowledge but dont like.

I oftentimes wish I had been around during say 1930 to 1969. I would have lived through a couple of wars, amazing technological advancements and some fantastic periods of art. I sometimes like to think that when I was born in 1972, that WW2 ended just 27 years prior, which in that context doesn't seem too long before.

Relatedly, yet not, I've always kind of liked how after D-Day they called the days D-Day +1, D-Day +2, etc. Not sure when they decided that they should stop that. Today then is B-Day +1 for me. Today I see the world through the eyes of an older, wiser man. If only I had today's wisdom yesterday when I was gorging myself on all of the sweet delicios treats made for me by my many friends and family. Today I not only feel a bit older and wiser, but I also have a stomach ache, I'm lethargic, I'm slightly hungover and I cant seem to stand up straight. Could it be my new age or is it merely the result of too much chocolate coursing through my body? I suppose we'll find out on B-Day +2.

iReturn

This almost feels like an entry into the diary of a man who's been stranded on an island for several months. Like Tom Hanks kind of in CastAway (actually, I've always loved that subtle play on words in the way they wrote the title). I have been on an island I guess, Long Island (which if you read more below you'll see just how fond of it I am). I have been stranded too amidst loads of meetings, proposals and genuinely time consuming nonsense (but not the good kind).

I was flying back from Boston the other night and in my delirium of changing flights, delays due to weather and lack of sleep, I was both antsy and bored. I must say, I do love my ipod to get me through pretty much any mind-numbing occasion, and this being one of them, I thought I'd spend some time going through all the layers of the menu. I dont think I'd ever done that before.

Well, one of the options happens to be language choice. Hmmm, I thought to myself. I wonder if they have Greek? I scrolled down and there it was, ellivika (I dont have greek on this keyboard). Curiosity got the better of me and I selected Greek as my new default interface language. Magically all the menus, options and details are translated and written in Greek. How cool! Greek is my first language, so naturally I am comfortable looking at things this way. But after a while of reading the annoying translations (you've got to realize that Greek being thousands of years old, doesn't have actual Greek words for like "playlist")I wanted to go back to good ole English....

I cant seem to be able to figure out how to do that.

Math

If math is considered the universal language, then I would have to say that I am illiterate. I spent 6 hours yesterday at an adult remedial mathematics class in preparation for taking the graduate entrance exam for entering an MBA program. I'm not used to not being good at things. Even just comprehending concepts at times seems like a victory when it comes to science (I am a designer afterall). This class though, while starting out decent, covering the fundamental refreshers of algebra and geometry, but naturally as the class progressed, it became far more complex. By the end of the class we were working on some sort of deductive mathematics that apparently I just couldn't compute. Sadly I didn't even need to, all I had to do was decide if there was enough information provided for it to be theoretically solved. I missed 13 out of 13.

I realize that this was the first time I've had to use that part of my brain in 20+ years, but I cant help but feel discouraged. What on earth have I gotten my self into!

Wings

I got my first passport when I was a baby. Must have been just barely over a year old. Actually now that makes me wonder, at that age, how long is a passport good for? Anyway, I would guess that I've flown someplace every year of my life and it's only increased in amount over the years due to my insatiable wanderlust. I'm sort of an addict if you will. I'm hooked on cultures and constantly jonesing for a fix.

When I was a child, I'd fly with my parents and brother, which if you've read any of my other posts you can imagine the luxurious travels of 2 grad students and their kids. Needless to say we sat in the back of low budget airlines, keeping watch over the goats and chickens. I still get a kick at how normal it was to allow smoking on a plane, and how by the end of an 8 hour flight you'd hardly be able to see the exits or the lavatories. Comforts aside, my favorite part of the flying experience was chatting up the cute stewardesses (that's what they were called back then) with my boyish charm and getting not only to vist the pilots in the cockpit, but would undoubtedly return to my seat with those fabulous wings pins.

I realize that many people consider travel a luxury and when I'd say 'yeah, I'll be in Greece all summer', that would earn the 'oooooohhhh, that sounds amazing!' response. In my eyes it was just normal. I was going back to Greece to spend the summer with my family. Ironically, I was jealous of the kids that got to go spend a week at some crappy summer camp, rowing around a muddy pond and fishing or whatever. I guess I took the trips for granted. What I also took for granted was the exposure to different cultures, art, languages, food and lifestyles, that remain foreign to many. Being raised by grad student parents, we always had people of all ethnicities coming through our student housing, so again, this all seemed normal to me.

Now that I am older and I hear people say things like 'passport, what do I need that for?' or 'oh, we're waiting to travel once the kids are grown up', I just cringe. The impressions that this type of immersive exposure can create or do to shape not only you but your child and their impression of you, is just priceless. I emplore everyone I know to get a passport, get on a plane and just go. The eye-opening that happens is unquantifiable and the transormation that occurs to your psyche is irreplacable.

I still have that collection of wings that I amassed as a kid and I was truly heartbroken when the airlines got so tight that they stopped handing them out anymore. I thought about starting a collection of barf bags at that point, but it just didn't have the same feel.

At 35, I've hit 4 of the 7 continents, so in my opinion, I've still not seen much. With that said, just getting out of your "world" and seeing just one place that makes you feel like you're the stranger, is like no high you'll ever have. At that point, leaving the place you are becomes irrelevant. You've given your soul wings.

Rites of Spring

Today was our first perfect spring day of the year. I woke up late to a bright sun, opened the windows for some fresh air, did some exercises and set out to begin the first of many groomings of my yard.

I spent most of Saturday emptying my garage just to gain access to my lawnmower which this morning, after months of hibernation, started on the first pull with the glee of a child on the first day of school. I pushed play on my ipod and spent the better part of the next 3 hours cutting grass, edging, raking, sweeping and fertilizing. I also managed to get my first bit of color from the daytime sun. A nice feeling after months of goosepimples and chattering teeth.

This evening, my wife and I and our dear friends, took a stroll up the street to have ice cream. In the warm months, this is an almost nightly ritual. The strolls tend to be similar. We'll talk about the happenings of the day, we'll likely run into one or more other neighbors on similar quests for dairy delights. We'll usually order the same flavors, from preferably our favorite "barrista" Molly, and sit for a while enjoying or treats, before the walk back. This year, with our friends moving to Paris, I imagine I will savor the walks even more than the ice cream.

Along with taking in the sights and the fresh spring air, we also get quite a bit of joy from people watching. Especially crazy people. Our neighborhood has its share of outcasts which are such a part of the area they may as well be trees or lampposts. One of these such characters is known as Dog-Man. He's a slightly disheveled man in his fifties I'm guessing, he always wears some sort of suit and tie and seems like he has somewhere to be, but I don't think he actually does. Sometimes you'll see him at the market or maybe at the library or he may just be looking at the kiosk outside of the ice cream shop. Usually though he's just walking around. He used to have a small dog as his angry little companion, but he doesn't seem to anymore. Maybe we should rename him Dogless-Man.

There was a new crazy guy on the walk home tonight. He was sitting on the sidewalk by the bus stop wearing a hat and a smile and a had a bag with his belongings next to him. He mumbled something, which I thought was something about needing a light. None of us smoke, so we couldn't help. The further from him we got, the louder he seemed to be getting. After a good 100 meters from him we looked back to find that he had actually started following us, but on the opposite of the street. He was still yelling, but incoherently. We wondered if maybe he was not in fact crazy, but was on a wireless headset and speaking on his mobile. When my wife then eloquently said "yeah, the cel phone in his head!". At that we agreed that yeah, he was probably just crazy. We finally arrived at our street and our home and the crazy man had continued on down the street yelling at whomever was within hearing distance. Godspeed!

Some might be frightened by such an occurrence, but I was sort of excited to have a new crazy guy in the neighborhood. I suppose I shouldn't get to carried away, but I figure if I see him let's say 2 more times, then I'll get to name him too.

Secret Identity

Some time ago, a friend of mine and I began having what we have dubbed, "man-bag club" meetings. We're both 30/40 something males. We're neat, stylish, educated, well traveled and have well paying jobs. We also like carrying a man-bag, you know for your ipod, books, moleskin journal, sunglasses, etc. We also happen to be married (no, not to eachother) but rather than play golf or go fishing to get out of the house and talk (read-compare notes), we go to a coffee shop near by, have a latte, share an oatmeal cookie and hang for an hour or so.

These conversations usually seem to revolve around 3 main topics: 1. what are we doing with our lives, 2. guy stuff (use your imagination) 3. our wives. By the time an hour has gone by, as if by clockwork, one of the wives calls and asks us to bring them home a latte on our way back home. We read that as 'hurry up and quit bitching about us and come home!'.

Another topic that seems to be an underlying theme is the idea of a "plan B". Maybe we've watched the Bourne Identity movies too many times, but the idea of having some back-up plan, some extra cash, a different passport and keys to a flat in Paris all stashed in some Swiss account (the #s of which are mysteriously tattooed on your wrist), when the proverbial "shit goes down", sounds like something that would just be good to have. You know, just in case.

Naturally, we dont plan on leaving our wives and starting over again (although that sounds appealing too from time to time when the shit goes down at home). What we've done though is sort of get at the heart of what "plan B" really means. That we've determined, is personal empowerment and control of your destiny. We've turned "plan B" into a lifestyle or at least a solid mindset.

Now, the reasoning is this. By convincing yourself that at any given moment, if "the shit goes down", whether during a crap period at work, during a fight at home or whenever something gets you down, you could comfortably say "fuck this!", split and start over. Just having that ace in your back pocket can really change how you think about things. You can be more of a risk taker, you can say or ask that one thing you may have been afraid to. You have empowered yourself to be right or wrong, or just be. Be yourself and let yourself out. It's kind of like in that movie Office Space when the main character stopped caring about consequences at work and just did his thing, he was immediately crowned the guy that was "a real straight shooter with upper-management written all over him!". It works.

Actually, what makes you think that this in fact isn't my secret identity?

Art...the aftermath

I recently had an art opening for an exhibit of my paintings. I arranged the show last September, and at the time, a late March opening seemed so far into the future. That was good though, it left enough time for me to amass the 16 or so pieces I'd need to fill the space, but was a reasonable amount of time that wouldn't have me slaving away at something that is supposed to be fun. And it was.

Starting in September of '06, I began sketching and writing, which is typically how I start my artwork. By December, my studio ready to go, several rough ideas for paintings, I had at it, holing myself away for a couple of hours here and there, blissfully painting away. Some days were more productive than others, which is to be expected. Some paintings were better than others too, but again, to be expected.

I kept painting and somewhere around early March I realized that I had to stop , sort through my work to select the pieces I wanted to show, and begin framing. So I did that, and framed and framed and cut myself, then framed some more. Typical really. Then as the opening neared, I took half a day off to set up, sent out postcards and emails to invite guests and helped prep for my "final friday". Then it was here, opening night, the usual wine and cheese and music and lots of friends, some family and some strangers. The place was quite full, I sold a few pieces and then just like that, it was over.

I've been reflecting on things since the opening a week and a half ago and I think I see a pattern. My normal job has several similarities to the artistic creative process, except for 2 things. 1, we're paid far more and 2, we have far less say in the desired outcome(the key reason for my love of painting is that no one tells me what to do nor how to do it). We speak to clients about projects, write proposals, strategize the path, design, review, test, design some more, and after weeks or months we deliver. Project complete.

What happens then is that you're sort of left there in a daze, wondering what's next? I've just spent the last several weeks of my lfe fully immersed into a project, everyday knowing what needed to be done next, then just like that it's finished. What do I do now?

I seem to experience that at work and at home and it makes me think how accurate a certain saying is, the one that goes...'it's not the destination, it's the journey'. Whoever wrote that was one insightful individual. The journey is always the best part. Even if it sucks, it's the best because it's usually the most memorable.

Take going on holiday as an example. You and your mates pile into a van for some crazy road trip with absolutely no plans of where you're going or staying. Not a worry to be had. Ultimately you'll end up somewhere that's ok, you'll drink, eat, sleep, maybe meet some girls, and then you'll pack the van back up and be on your way home. Years later you'll reminisce about how during that trip Jason had the worst gas and stank up the whole van, or when Tony got really slap-happy and was screaming the lyrics to Mr. Roboto, while also doing the robot. Even flat tires or accidentally running off the road and crashing the car can be nostalgic. It's because the journey is really the best part.

In contrast, Tuesday I was driving through northern Indiana to and from Chicago. If anyone has ever been to this god-forsaken region of the world, you know that it is quite possibly the worst 2.5 hours of your life you'll ever pass. It's long, flat and has no interesting scenery. To top it off you not only have redneck Indianans in their massive pick-up trucks and SUVs barelling up your boot, and the random stench of shit from the occasional pig farm, but there is also a stretch of something like 30 miles, where the trees in the median between the north and south highway lanes get really odd and creepy looking. Like something horrible happened here and the trees were the only witnesses, but cant have catharsis because they cant speak. They're kind of like what I imagine the trees in Chernobyl might look like. Just sort of off, you know?

In hindsight, the whole "enjoy the journey" bit doesn't really seem to apply to northern Indiana, but it does to most everything else you'd ever do. Especially any creative effort. The emotional experience of creating is unmatched and as I went down to my studio the other night to grab a bottle of wine I looked around at my own "aftermath" and it just looks so sad. I think I need to start a new journey.

Adam

Several months ago, after incessant prodding from my subordinates, I joined the virtual friendship database of Myspace. I'd like to think that my team wants to know the inner me like the private and tortured Tom Hanks' character in Saving Private Ryan, and the deep curiousity of his troops as to what made him tick. Maybe not.

Anyway, I joined and at first it seemed sort of cool to have my own poor man's website, where I'd post all my movie reviews, rants about all the many things in the world I find so wrong and maybe I'd even be contacted by some long lost friend. It went kind of like that I suppose, but it was a bit more like a fishing trip. You know, you have all these grandiose ideas of what it will be like, what you'll catch how great the weather will be. You get your gear together, you make some sandwiches, pack the car you get some bait on the way and head to the lake.

Once there you find the perfect spot, settle in, bait your line or lines and wait. And wait some more. All the while your beers getting warm and flat in the afternoon sun and your sandwich looking more appetizing to the flies circling overhead than to you. You get uncomfortable and begin to get sunburned. Then you get a call on your mobile from your wife nagging you about how you've been gone all day and when are you coming home. Not too unwelcome actually, and you turn to your mate and say "hey, yeah, the bird, she, um ,needs me to get back and uh, well you know....what a nag!'

But I digress. Anyway, after going searching for everyone in my outlook contacts, friends, family, old girlfriends naturally, I made my way through any old classmates going as far back as my memory would allow, which was basically through University. One old friend found me, but he is now a drugged out junkie and doesn't look so good. Sucks for him.

I did finally find someone, an old classmate from design school named Adam. He and I began University together and the way it worked was that for the first year the entire class is megred as one. Then during the second year, it's split in half and then you alternate work and school until the last year. Adam and I met that first year and became friends, mainly through our common interest of cycling. We got on well that first year and kept in touch during our off quarters. The last year of design school, the groups are combined as one, though much smaller now having weeded out half the class over the course of time. We graduated, got jobs in seperate parts of the country and kept in touch via email from time to time, then eventually lost track of one another. Until I found him on Myspace.

At first I didn't think anything of it. I dont actually read people's pages, I could give a shit what sign people are or what they and Jenny did last weekend or whatever. It was obviously Adam from his picture. He was standing by a pool shirtless and smiling. Odd choice, but maybe he was single. Anyway. I hit request friend and contacted him. I noticed he logged on that day, so I figured him a regular visitor.

A day went by, then 2 then a week and no response from Adam. No acceptance. What's with that i thought? I went back to his page and to my disappointment, he had still been logging on regularly, so why had he not okayed my request? I thought we were mates! I sent another request.

I began checking daily to see if he'd logged in, which he did...regularly! As I was finiding myself visiting his page often, I decided to finally read some. The first thing I noticed was all the friends that left comments were men. That's cool I figured, he's still playing the field with his mates. The comments were like, "hey Adam, I had a great time last weekend. let's do it again!" or "wow, you're an amazing dancer" or "I love how you look in that swimsuit". Now, I've been known to throw less than manly compliments to my mates, but these, well, didn't sit right. There was something off about this.

His profile read about him being single and looking for that right person. Normal stuff. Until I got to the end of the "about me" section. It said something like..."I want to be a part of YOUR team." What team is that?

Again, another week went by and I had been again denied. I just couldn't understand. Accept me, dammit! I only have my wife, my mate Chris and Tom as friends for fuck's sake. Pick me! I went back and sent another request.

I read more and more. I looked at all the pictures. I read all the comments. I clicked to the pages of his mates. And like that scene at the end of The Sixth Sense, I suddenly saw the truth. Adam was gay! I was Bruce Willis, my head spinning, searching for fleeting moments in my head and in my past that could connect the dots back to this new revelation. Adam was gay and we never knew it. What were the clues? He never had a girlfriend. He was neat. He was friendly. The signs were there I suppose, he just didn't seem gay really.

I deduced that that was the reason then why he hadn't approved me as a friend. I had blown his cover, and could potentially out him to all of his former classmates, or at least to the handful I've actually kept in touch with in the last 15 years. I decided that I would go back to his page and tell him something like..."Hey Adam, it's me Simon. How are you? You look great! Hey, by the way, I see you're gay now, and hey mate, that's totally cool. I love gays! You're 'the only gay in the village ' right? Like Daffyd?!? Right?...cool". That's sort of what I would have said.

I gathered the courage and went back to his page. It was no longer! I searched again. Maybe I spelled it wrong. Where is he? I fear I may have spooked him away.

Haley Joel Osment, where are you!

The little things...

Life, by nature, has it's ups and downs. At the current pace of the world it seems that people dont make the time to stop and appreciate the little things in life. Myself I tend to work a very long workweek, but make sure to take a bit of time everyday to unwind, but that is more of a "macro" activity.

There was a film done by a husband and wife team of designers, Charles and Ray Eames, called the Powers of 10. The film is all visual and it starts at the vantage point of the universe, zooming slowly by powers of 10 (hence the name), to the galaxy, then the solar system, then the earth, etc working it's way through to the cellular structure of a leaf and ultimately ending at a universe scene sort of like the opening.

I like this sort of "micro" view of the world. I use this micro level of observation to find opportunities throughout the day to get tiny pieces of happiness, as fuel for healthy living. So, with that, here's a brief list of things I get micro-joys from:

songs that incorporate whistling
tiny, round stones
well manicured grass
shiny things
serendipitous correspondence
level blinds
crusty french bread
the foam swirls on my latte
well constructed sleeves
the pleasing "click" sound on a shampoo bottle cap
the legs of wine in a glass
the smell of vinyl inflatables
rubberbands
purring
brush strokes
lawn gnomes
the popping sounds of an open fire
magnets
sparkling water
walking through leaves
old couples
flashlights
unread magazines
very small video screens
grid systems
maple helicopters
escapee balloons
round things
getting into a freshly made bed
the 2 dimples on a woman's lower back
a perfect snowflake that lands on me
well chosen fonts
the color of mimolette
the aroma of freshly baked cookies
finding pennies

Wine, Cheese and Falconry

I am intrigued by all things at the extreme high end of opulence. Anything ranging from the attainable interests in fine food & drink and travel to the more inaccesible levels of wealth that allow for personal jets, private islands, 100+ foot yachts, obscure breeds of dogs and cats and the like. Who are these people that look through the Robb Report as casually as they would peruse a Boot's circular? In this world a helicopter is just a whirlybird, a convenient mode of transport. Money is not an object to be bothered by, just an instrument in a transaction, often times never even seen or exchanged. The activities and hobbies at this stratospheric height are often so obscure that the average bloke would likely not know the difference between rocking the casbah and snorting blow off of a prostitutes bare breasts. Intriguing.

Earlier today I was driving through a rough section north of town where I saw a large bird in the middle of the street straight in front of me. This bird as I got closer appeared quite large and seemed to have something in it's talons. I was about 10 feet away when it flew off with a puff of feathers in its wake, at which point I realized this was in fact a falcon with a city pigeon in it's grasp. I was quite surpised to see such a site in an urban setting of this nature.

This experience did however, like many things do, send my mind into a daydream where I was pondering one of my other interests, Falconry. I particularly like those tiny little hats. Anyway, I have these pictures in my head of stately settings in the English countryside, wearing the appropriately garish garb and sporting a massive rawhide sleeve upon which the most noble of raptors, the Peregrine Falcon, is perched. I envision a hunt where I, with my most direct and yet borderline telepathic commands, send this regal beast into the evening sky, bound on its quest to do my bidding and bring me some sort of meat in the shape of a rabbit or other unidentified fowl. While this hunt is taking place my mates and I would be sipping 60 year old bordeauxs and discussing some merger or acquisition or maybe just about chicks.

This brought me square back to the dead pigeon being carried through the grey March sky in the present. I wondered, how did this come to be? Could this really just be a most unlikely sighting that I was a witness to or was there something else behind this? I recalled an article I read several months back which was about an issue plaguing the inhabitants of several larger, lower income cities. It seems that locals of these environs are beginning to feed on the local fauna (read pigeons, squirrels and raccoons). These animals, being free (like you dont have to pay for them) and seemingly harmless to what are often immigrants from far off lands, are actually quite deadly, being full of the toxins and diseases that an urban environment can create.

So again, my mind adrift, I had this funny vision of the Urban Falconer. I pictured a squatter getting on in years, say about 60, who over time had caught and somehow trained a Falcon. Perhaps he came from an aristocratic family in Eton, attended boarding schools and the like, but decided to forego university and instead chose to follow a different path...a young lady. Maybe this was an unreciprocated love, perhaps she was a kept woman, only to be loved from afar evetually driving the young squire mad. Our mate, let's call him Giles, roamed the darkest corners of London eating and sleeping where he could,emotionally spiraling downward until he reached the point of no return.

Having grown accustomed to this living situation, Giles was forced to rely on his instincts and a modified version of his upbringing's teachings. He eventually stumbled upon a wounded young Falcon when searching through some brush beneath a tree in Leicester Square. Having a faint recollection of his Falconry lessons as a young lad, he held on to this young fowl and eventually nursed it to health. Giles finally had a new, loyal companion and a yearning desire to train this rare bird. I pictured the pair in Regent's Park, practicing their hunting techniques on unsuspecting rodents. Eventually Giles's training of the bird would be complete. No longer would he have to beg for a few quid for some chips or a pint of lager. The Falcon would bring him fresh prey, which he'd eat with some old cheese and a cheap bottle of wine, recounting the splendor of days long past. Regal indeed.

Of course this could have just been a random Falcon that had simply made it's way into city limits through the push of the everexpanding suburbs and forced to dine on the local feathered vermin. I suppose it's a good thing I actually had my eyes on the road at that moment, otherwise I likely would have run over both the Faclon and it's catch, seeing just the explosion of down in my mirror as I passed. A less than regal end to say the least.

Intro to the "Plan B" lifestyle

I was inspired by my best mate, Cricket McGraith, to switch my allegiances to this wonderfully literate venue I've dubbed "myspace for grown-ups". I've thus begun my blog journal which is essentially a living chronicle of everyday (almost) happenings and thoughts, with an undercurrent of the "Plan B" lifestyle. Being that this is a new blog, many of you (probably not many actually) may be wondering, 'tell me Simon, what is this "Plan B" you speak of and how may I follow the ways of your teachings?'.

There comes a time in a man's life when he begins to question everything he's done, what he's doing and what does it all mean. This usually hits around 33. I've read that this is some sort of cosmic "coming of age" year, with Jesus's crucifixion and Hitler's rise as 2 famous examples. Not two names you'd often say in the same sentence, huh? Anyway, I think this came early for me, more like 25 or so. In fact, as 33 came and went, I find I'm still there. I think I'm getting clarity however as to what I'm doing and why. It doesn't necessarily fix it, but I dont obsess about it either.

So, back to Cricket. He and I have been friends for a couple of years and we spend many sunday afternoons holding "meetings", drinking coffee and comparing notes on life's idiosyncracies. What we've deduced is that the way we live and the paths we're on are essentially necessary. Unless you're born rich, you win the lotto or have that million dollar idea and slave away to bring it to life, most of us go to college and then get jobs to earn a living. If you're lucky you'll like your job, maybe even find it rewarding. The reality though is that the reward you'd rather have, no matter how much you love what you do, is enough money to never have to work again.

With that said, we all need a back up plan to keep us going. You know, for when "the shit goes down". That's what Plan B is all about. Having a back up plan. The spare apartment in Amsterdam, a new name, the passport and the swiss bank account with some cash socked away. It may be a Bourne Identity type of dream, or you may actually follow through. That's the beauty of it, you dont actually have to do any of it, you just have to have the plan. The plan gives you a type of confidence you may have never thought you had. Say, you have a shitty day at work or you get in a fight with a loved one, what do you do? Sulk? Hell no! You think to yourself..."fuck this crap, if I wanted to I could leave all this shit behind and start from scratch".

Remember, no one owns you (or limits you for that matter) except yourself.

1999

The last 2 days of this past week I had been stuck in a hotel conference room in Columbus, Ohio with the 45 employees of our company for our "annual" meeting. We have 3 offices, so we try to do these all-hands company meetings once a year, but they seem to happen far less frequently. This was the first one in almost 2 years, so there was a ton to get caught up on.

The meetings start off like any meeting of this sort that you can imagine (think Wall Street meets The Office). You have several slides presented by the owners with graphs, pie charts, gantt charts and the like. Then, in case you didn't understand those charts the first time, the same data points are re-charted in a different way. Call it filler.

The next part entails our 2 departments (design and engineering) walking through several slides that give an overview of all the work done since the last time we met. Being a creative firm, there are also lots of pretty pictures and leniency when it comes to giving the presentation (as far as what I can get away with saying). Good thing too as I distinctly recall drawing a similarity between a lively brainstorm session and a meth lab bust.

When I was a kid I was really shy in front of groups of people. I remember having to sing and dance as part of Mike Fink's crew in my 5th grade production of Davey Crockett. The sight of all those parents and kids in the audience was startling. Like any kid you dont want to be the one that screws up and embarasses himself or his parents. It went fine. This sort of inhibition continued into high school when my sense of humor seemed to really sharpen. I dont know how or what eventually clicked and I realised that people weren't actually lauging AT me, they were laughing WITH me...most of the time. I guess I've always marched by my own beat and have been comfortable with myself, but have been sensitive to the criticism of others. I've gotten over that too. Funny what age and experience can do to shape us.
Anyway, while these meetings are invaluable in their special way, the preparation required of management (that'd be me and a couple others), is insane. With that in mind, the first day of these meetings is always the best for me though because a), we're halfway done and b) there will be some opportunities to hang out with people outside of work and socialize.

When I checked into the hotel, naturally I flirted with the ladies behind the counter ('cause that's how I roll). The rooms were prepaid, but they needed my card anyway for "incidentals". I involuntarily replied, "good, 'cause I'm gonna party like it's 1999 and trash the joint like a rockstar". All said mind you with the straightest of faces. The women behind the counter all gasped and looked at one another trying to figure out if I was serious. It's fun to mess with old ladies. It's particuarly funny too becasue I'm normally in bed by 10....maybe 10:30 on the weekends. A girl needs her sleep ; )

So, as the day 1 meetings drew to a close and we all left for the big company dinner, I never would have thought that I wouldn't have just come back to my room afterwards, read some stuff online, send out some emails and then get to bed early to prep for day 2. How wrong I was. Dinner ended and everyone returned to the hotel bar for a nightcap. That's when I was introduced to the "chocolatini". My drink of choice normally is the Vodka Gimlet. My 007 drink if you will. Wine is also an important part of my potable life. I dont usually go for girly drinks, but I love chocolate and I guess it looked tasty. Well, 1 turned to 3 pretty damn quick and before I knew it I was being whisked away to the first of 2 bars to continue what I had started.

I'm not exactly sure which of my co-workers accompanied me or exactly how much of an ass I made of myself, but I do know that there was dancing involved..on a table no less and I was not in bed until 3:30 am or so. As comofortable (and borderline obsessive) as I've become with being in front of crowds over the years, adding alcohol to my already extroverted personality can be a recipe for disaster. Now if only I had adopted the Gimlet when I was 10, I might have had the starring role.

Music and Lyrics...

For as long as I can remember, I was always the guy thay hated all romantic comedies, and drew the line of acceptable romantic films with Wild at Heart and Kalifornia. Not so heartwarming in the Ross & Rachel or Seth & Summer kind of way, but worked for me anyway.

Recently however (meaning over the last say 4 years) I have very slowly begun to go through some sort of a shift in my feelings towards this genre and it really frightens me. I can't say for sure which film or show it was that planted the "soft" seeds in me. It may have been the first episode of the OC, or Love Actually, maybe even Chasing Liberty. Somewhere my hardened heart has taken a liking to Hugh Grant's charm and Mandy Moore's "princess movies".

I suppose this weekend really solidified it for me that I had officially "crossed over". A couple of friends of mine (already "out"), asked if we'd like to go see the Music & Lyrics starring Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore. For the record, when I was asked if I wanted to go I looked at my wife and did that "gag me" motion and responded something like ...'well...let me see...uhhhh....I'll call you back.'

Somewhere between "no" and "are you fucking kidding me", I called back and said "sure". Mind you this was more for the chance to see our friends, but I said yes just the same. Anyway, we went, got snacks, saw the film and left. Upon leaving, we did the usual recap and critique. Hugh Grant was naturally playing his usual smug English self, always just out of reach and aloof, but with a glimpse of a softer side. Drew Barrymore played the love interest and was typically charming. Sadly, I was the only one that liked it.

My name is Simon Chase and I like romantic comedies.