My Animal House Office and the Nature of Friendship

For some reason I've been thinking a lot about the nature of friendship lately. I'm not even sure why.  Maybe it's because the older I get the more important it is to me. Maybe it's because I'm becoming aware of how rare it is. I am 54 years old and I know a lot of people, I have a boatload of acquaintances, but fewer friends, and even fewer close friends. Why is that?

Part of it is time, or more precisely, the lack of time. It takes time to build solid friendships. My best friend is a guy I grew up with. We were inseparable from roughly age 15 until 25. Then we got busy with our lives which started to travel on different paths so we don't spend a lot of time with each other now. But he's still my best friend. So, time isn't the only thing.

When I think about it, my wife is clearly my real best friend. But she doesn't count because she sorta HAS to like me. It's all a part of the "love and cherish" thing. The biggest reason that Pam and I are such good friends is because of the wealth of shared experiences. You have children with someone, raise them together, spend literally days in a car with someone for 28 years, then you either end up violent enemies or the best of friends. Luckily for me, after all of that, we're still pals.

Three of my best friends are the guys I work with. We're business partners. We see each other every day and have for the better part of 25 years. Our office is like a laboratory for human dysfunction. It's the Cooperstown of verbal invective, the place where mutual respect and decorum go to die. When strangers come and experience the glee with which we constantly toss around insults and put downs, they try their best not to look shocked. From snarky remarks about each others' personal appearance, to open ridicule of each others' intelligence, no subject is off limits. Make an honest mistake 17 years ago at a company meeting in Vancouver B.C., and you can be certain that it will be thrown in your face at any time at the slightest provocation. Miss a short putt on the 18th green to cost your team the match, well you might as well turn in your man card for six months. The trash-talking, non-stop smack down zone that is our office is the middle-aged version of being smacked on the ass by a wet towel in the locker room in high school. If you make a huge sale, you're the luckiest, most over-paid hack in the history of commerce. If you fall into a slump it's because you're a lazy, whining, soft democrat welfare queen looking for a handout. There exists nowhere on this planet a work environment with less concern for positive affirmation and self-esteem than my office. To many of you reading this I'm sure it sounds positively brutish. Some of you might even be tempted to notify OSHA to report this horrifying behavior. And, what does this have to do with friendship anyway?

Here's the thing. It's the not the job of friends to be rubber stamps for every stupid idea that comes into your head. Friendship is about having the freedom and standing to tell each other the truth. For all of the abuse we heap on each other, I know in my heart that everyone of the guys at my office have my back. Who do I want in my fox hole, who do I want in my corner in a fight? The smiley-faced back slapper who is constantly telling me how great I am...or the guy who knows every mistake I've ever made and can and will recite them back to me at a moments' notice and despite that, would run through a wall for me? No, if there's a crisis at 2 o'clock in the morning, I'm not calling Mr. happy face..I'm calling Doug Greenwood, Bland Weaver, or Lynwood Atkinson.

Oh, and by the way...on the off chance that either of you guys actually read this blog...you're still a bunch of pathetic morons.

Vacation Dilemma

Ever notice how worthless you become at work the last few days before vacation? Even though there's lots to do to prepare for being gone for 11 days, I'm finding it difficult to summon the necessary enthusiasm needed. Every item on my "to-do" list becomes an occasion for a raging debate inside my head that goes something like this..."Is it really critical that I take care of this now? I mean, will the world cease spinning on it's axis if I wait until I get back to do this?"

I could either be setting up annual review appointments with clients for the week I return, OR, I could be on the interwebs checking out where I'm going to be playing golf next Wednesday. Talk about your tough decisions, devising a strategy for dealing with a Greek exit from the Euro, or deciding which shows to see..Le Grand Cirque, the Legends Concert, or The Blue Man Group? I could either finish up this life insurance paperwork on my desk, or work out the details of which type of meat I'll grill for dinner the first night. Everyone knows how absolutely crucial it is to set the proper tone for a fun and frolicking vacation by nailing the first night's dinner. Seriously, is it even possible to over think dinner number one? I think not!

Since I'm in the trusted Financial Advisor business, every year at vacation time the most difficult decision is this...what kind of message to leave on my answering machine. For one thing, there are very specific rules for phone messages in my line of work. You can't just say any old thing. For example, you must always remind clients that they cannot leave trade instructions on the machine since they cannot be honored in that fashion etc, etc.. You also can't do any advertising in your message. You can't say something like..."Thanks for calling, and remember to ask me about the hot new Detroit Municipal Bonds paying a very high octane 18%"...or ..."Thanks for calling, and remember, only uncivilized people buy gold." But what about the all important message that informs clients that you will not be in the office until Wednesday the 6th of June? What happens if news breaks that Mitt Romney is dropping out of the Presidential race to pursue a relationship with Ralph Nadar, the love of his life? The stock market is down 500 points on the blockbuster news and my panicked clients call and hear....what, exactly?? " Hello, today is Saturday, May the 26th and I will be in Myrtle Beach with the wife and kids until Wednesday morning the 6th of June. In addition, I will NOT be checking this phone for any messages since the primary purpose of being on vacation is to get as far away from my office as possible. Matter of fact, as we speak, I'm most likely doing some body surfing or hitting the golf ball, and you guys are the furthest thing from my mind, so leave me a message and I will call you back when I get back in town, and not one minute sooner."

No, that message won't work. But, the thing is, I really want to be away when I'm away. My life is forever tethered to the global stock markets in all of their insane volatility. My vacation weeks are not immune from some catastrophic event that might cause them to gyrate in frightening ways. I remember one week when I was in Maine and couldn't have made a call to Richmond even if I had wanted to. The markets were down big every single day of my vacation, or so I was informed by the intrepid newspaper of record in those parts, the Rumford Falls Times. When I got back in town, I dreaded the deluge of phone messages I was sure were waiting for me.  There was only one, a client had called to inform me that I had left my pen on her kitchen table. Sweetheart was going to put it in the mail. It was laying there with my other mail. It was then that I decided that I wasn't going to spend any more vacation time worrying about stuff I had no control over anyway. I will leave a tidy message, optimistic and energetic, but reminding the world that I will not be checking the machine every 5 minutes. I'll be on vacation. It's about relaxation...you can look it up.

Blazing Saddles..cutting edge social commentary

The other night I was channel surfing and ran across arguably one of the most intense and penetrating examinations of the human condition ever filmed. I am referring, of course, to the 1974 Mel Brooks classic...Blazing Saddles. It had it all, a veritable Sociological and Psychological feast, leaving no stone of our existence unturned. The films plot illustrates the breathtaking sweep of 20th century pathologies...a corrupt political boss and an incompetent and degenerate governor, seeking to destroy the town of Rock Ridge to make way for a railroad, conspire together to send the town a black sheriff, counting on the natural racism of the town's citizens and hoping that the resulting race riots will do the destroying for them. Sherrif Bart, befriended by Jim, a washed-up gun-slinger, confounds the devious strategy by winning the town's respect and uniting them with the exploited railroad workers and against the evil Hedley LaMarr. Along the way we are treated to countless memorable scenes, from farting cowboys to a German barroom singer, Lili Von Shtupp, who with a hilarious lisp says, "Oh, a wose...a wed wose. How womantic!"

The trouble with Blazing Saddles is that it could never in a million years be made today. It offends...practically everyone. It lampoons every demographic imaginable from rednecks, to gays. It uses the "n" word prodigiously with stunning effect.

http://youtu.be/upvZdVK913I

Let's see, in that one scene Brooks manages to desecrate the Holy Bible, play up the classic fear of black sexuality, and illustrate the ignorance of country people, all in 3 and a half minutes! For my generation, the line, "Excuse me while I whip this out" became a staple of locker room humor for at least ten years. Other tag lines from this film that lived long and productive lives were, "Where the white women at?" and " Badges? We don't need no stinkin' badges!"

Even Mel Brooks seemed to know he was over-doing it with the slurs. Once Hedley Lamars' plan to poison Rock Ridge with a black sheriff begins to fail he turns to plan B which is to recruit a notorious band of outlaws and turn them loose on the poor town to pillage it into submission. Lamar's speech is a thing of beauty, and the last group of bad guys is simply perfect:

"I want rustlers, cut-throats, murderers, bounty hunters, desperadoes, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits,dimwits, vipers, snipers, Indian agents, Mexican bandits,muggers, buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswogglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train robbers, bank robbers, ass-kickers, shit-kickers....and Methodists."

Later in that speech, Brooks even manages to rip himself when he has Hedley say, "Men, you are about to embark on a great crusade to stamp out runaway decency in the world. Now, you men will only be risking your lives, whilst I will be risking an almost certain Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor."

Great stuff.

To Run Or Not To Run

It's Saturday morning, and the wind is calm, the sky is clear, with not even a suggestion of humidity. In short, I can find no reliable excuse not to go for a run. In addition, the fact that I have failed to go for a run all week despite similarly perfect conditions, makes it all the more imperative that I get this done. Yet I sit here drinking coffee, in my pajamas, staring at the beautiful morning struggling vainly to summon sufficient resolve. I do battle with my conscience thusly...

Why do I have to run? Exercise is actually quite dangerous. How many times have I read stories about some runner collapsing from a heart attack or being hit by a car? And what exactly is to be gained by the sweat and pain of a three mile run? What, will it add 7 days to my lifespan? I'm sure I'll be thrilled with another week of Leave It To Beaver reruns at the nursing home in 2048. Yeah, but it IS good for me in the here and now what with the release of endorphins and what-not. It does relieve stress, I guess. But it's just ....running. When I was two, running was the most awesome thing in the world. In fact I would bolt off in chaotic spasms of glee at the slightest provocation, often resulting in hilarious face-plants, to the delight of all...or so I'm told. When I was a teenager running was great competition. I would challenge anyone, anywhere to a sprint. Who was fastest, THAT was the question. Running was about the race, and back then, who didn't love a race?? Now, running is a dreary business. It is a chore, a tacit admission that one "needs exercise". I run to mitigate the ill-effects of ominous sounding ailments...hyper-tension, heart disease. But the very act of running opens me up to all manner of disastrous possibilities. I could turn an ankle, become distracted and run into a light-pole, be run down from behind by some intoxicated teenager behind the wheel of his Dad's SUV, become disoriented by all those endorphins and get lost, winding up in a bad section of Wyndham. The more I think about it, this running business opens up the Dunnevant brand up to a sizable and disturbing level of risk that I'm not sure is appropriate, given how many people are counting on me. I have to think about THEM, this exercise thing can't be all about me!

But, if I don't run...I will start to put on weight. The middle will get soft, and soon it will start looking like the lower-middle. Before long, I'll have a double-chin, then when people who I haven't seen in a while run in to me they will whisper to their friends after I leave..."Wow, Dunnevant really let himself go. What a shame." Finally. I've finally stumbled upon an emotion strong enough to get my sorry ass motivated...vanity!

The Last Concert . . . A Tribute to Sherri Matthews

Tonight I will attend the last chorus concert at Godwin High School directed by Sherri Matthews. After a long and historically successful tenure as Choral Director, Sherri is stepping down at the end of the school year to pursue yet another high stress, cut-throat job... in church music.  So tonight will be her last concert, and I will be there with Pam and my two kids, both of whom were her former students. My nephew Ryan will be singing in a couple of the choirs. There's a picture of the empty auditorium on Facebook that shows over half the seats with saved markers on them. Four of them better be mine.

My exposure to Godwin Chorus and Sherri only goes back to Kaitlin's freshman year, 2001.  Before then, I thought all high school chorus programs consisted of 25 or so kids looking for an easy "A," half of whom were tone deaf.  My image of chorus teachers conjured up a cross between Mr. Whipple and Aunt Bea.  But soon, I began to hear stories about this crazy Diet Dr.Pepper-swilling woman at Godwin who made music fun, demanded excellence from her students, and was a little scary.  All Kaitlin would say was that, "Ms. Matthews is really demanding, Dad . . . but we really sound good!"  The winter concert that year, my first of many, was beyond description.  Instead of 25 kids, there were hundreds . . . and six different choirs. There were barber shop and beauty shop groups, all-girl choirs, mixed choirs, a show choir, and a kind of "all-star" group called "Madrigals."  I sat there in my cramped, uncomfortable seat in a standing room only auditorium, amazed at the talent, poise and passion of the students and the commanding presence of their director.  She WAS a little scary, and she meant business brother.  The kids knew it and so did everyone in the house. The richness of the music that came out of those kids was astonishing. The best part was that they were having fun and brimming with confidence as they sang.  Real confidence, the kind that can only come from real accomplishment.  Sherri wasn't running a feel-good program where everyone gets a trophy for  showing up.  She was educating a large group of young people about the beauty of music that deserved one's best effort, the proper expression of which took hard work.  I was hooked.

Soon it began, the six years of Pam's work with Choral Boosters (the fund-raising juggernaut of Short Pump), my years wielding the clip-board at concerts explaining to angry parents and grandparents why, "No, you can't sit there, because that seat is reserved for our Platinum Club members!"  There were state and regional competitions, most of which we rocked, and spring trips all over the east coast from Orlando to New York. There were a series of unflattering choir dresses, ill-fitting tuxedos and six end of the year awards dinners.  But mostly . . . there was the music.  I would sit there in the darkness, oddly fighting back tears as I listened.

Tonight I will listen again.  Kaitlin will be there.  When she went off to college she eagerly joined  the Cedarville woman's choir that was led by a very talented and wonderful woman.  After one year Kaitlin dropped out.  When I asked why she said, "Dad, the director was very nice and we sounded good, but just about the time we got close to getting a song  right, she would stop and say, "Good enough."  Ms. M NEVER said, "Good enough."  Patrick will also be there. He is on the road as I write this, making the 9 hour drive from Nashville to be here. It was Sherri who provided the leadership and example that encouraged Patrick to pursue a life in music.  Tonight, Madrigals will perform one of his arrangements. The chances of me having a huge knot in my throat are approximately 100%.

So thank you, Sherri, for being the type of educator who nobody forgets.  Thanks for introducing the beauty of music to an entire generation of Henrico county students.  Thanks for being tough, demanding, and yes . . . scary.  Thanks for ruining Kaitlin's college choir experience.  Oh, and see ya at church Sunday!

Does Money Buy Happiness, Mr. Pujols?

I can give you 240 million reasons why I shouldn't feel sorry for Albert Pujols. After ten fabulous seasons in St. Louis where he established himself as the best player in baseball, Albert signed a free-agent contract with the Los Angeles Angels. Ever since he showed up in Hollywood he has been in an epic slump which currently finds him hitting a paltry .197. He has hit one home run in his first 37 games. There are currently several pitchers with higher batting averages than Albert. He is pressing. His butt-cheeks are so tight he could crack walnuts back there. The fans are starting to murmur. He never, ever smiles on the field anymore. He looks like a lost man.

His old team is doing great. The Cardinals offered Albert big money to stay with them, to be a Cardinal for life. He could have replaced Stan Musial in the hearts of the best and most loyal baseball fans on the planet. Albert said "Thanks, but no thanks". Now the Cardinals have some rookie playing first base who they are paying the league minimum, and he's chugging along pretty well, and the team is in first place. Meanwhile Albert looks miserable both at the plate, in the field and in the dugout. But he's cashing ridiculously large checks, so that's something.

And yet, I can't help but feel sorry for the guy. You're the best hitter in baseball in St. Louis for ten years. Then suddenly you're the richest man in baseball, the face of a new team with huge expectations, and you can't get the ball out of the infield. It's got to be the most frustrating experience in sports...justifying your huge new contract in front of a stadium full of working stiffs who just forked over $100 for a seat to watch you play. Great players get off to slow starts all the time in baseball. Some guys hate the cold weather in April, pitchers always have the advantage early, etc.. But it's now the middle of May. It's plenty warm. The 2012 season is nearing the quarter pole, and you're still searching for your second homer and still hitting under .200? This is getting ugly.

I've been in a performance-based business all of my life. If I don't close business, I'm a failure. I've been through my share of sales slumps in my 29 years in business. They are no fun. After a while you begin to have doubts. You begin to wonder if maybe this time it's different. Maybe this time, you're done. Maybe you'll never close another case, ever. The difference for me is I don't have a 240 million dollar contract for the next ten years, guaranteed to pay me no matter what.


Albert's agent negotiated a few perks to go along with all the money. One such perk is that Albert gets a hotel suite to stay in when his team is on the road. So he has lots of room to stretch out and watch his latest 0 for 4 performance get dissected by the talking heads on Sports Center. Does money buy happiness? Just ask Mr. Pujols. 

Observations On The Wide World Of Sports

On this Saturday before Mother's Day, a few scattered observations on the wide World of Sports:

Is there anything better than a game seven? It doesn't matter what sport...well except for soccer, having to endure the previous six in that sport would have done me in...but seriously, game seven showdowns are awesome and lately we've had tons of them. Basketball and hockey have given us some great stuff in this regard, and there is more to come. The Lakers v. Nuggets and the Capitals v. Rangers are on tap this weekend. Nice. Everything on the line, all hands on deck, loser goes home, winner takes all. Just like war except, nobody dies. Awesome!

I see where Lebron is going to win his 3rd MVP award, or is it his 4th? Yawn.. It will look great up there on his mantle along with all of his championship trophies..uh, no wait. It will look great up there with his MVP trophies from the playoffs, er..it will blend in nicely with his many MR. CLUTCH awards from..no scratch that. Well, regardless, 4 MVP trophies is pretty impressive, right?

The Texas Rangers played the Anaheim Angles last night. Josh Hamilton hit two home runs, giving him 17 for the year along with 40 RBI's and a .407 batting average...in 33 games. Albert Pujols, on the other hand, went 0 for 4 and watched his batting average drop to exactly 20 points lower than his playing weight (.197). Josh knocked in more runs in one game last week than Al has knocked in all year. Al's old team, the Cardinals? Lets see, without the great Albert, they have managed to rack up a record of 20-12, good enough for first place in the National League central. When will Baseball owners learn that one player cannot fundamentally transform a baseball team into a contender? Baseball, unlike any other team sport that I can think of, does not respond to the infusion of star power. In basketball, any team that added Michael Jordan back in the day would have instantly become a contender. In football, a dominant QB instantly alters a teams' prospects. But in baseball, no one player, even one with the gaudy talents of an Albert Pujols, or earlier an Alex Rodriguez has that kind of transformative power. He's only one of 9. He only comes to the plate 4 times a game. He doesn't pitch. But there were the Angles over the winter signing Albert Pujols up for ten years to the tune of 240 million dollars. Good luck with that, Angels. This winter it's Josh Hamilton's turn. He's a free agent. Will some team, probably the Yankees, sign a 30 year old awesome talent with a history of drug and alcohol addictions to an insanely ridiculous long term contract, then sit back and watch him hit .270 with 20 homers and 80 RBI's for a couple of season before landing either on the DL or in rehab? Yep. Sure hope it ends up being the Yankees.