Millennials and Minimalism

Much has been made of late about a lifestyle choice popular among millennials called, minimalism. It’s basically the polar opposite of conspicuous consumption, a repudiation of the consumer culture that has grown up in the West over the past 75 years or so. It’s a rejection of the collecting of things for the greater goal of experiences. Instead of buying a traditional house and a nice car, why not live in a tiny house and take the bus, or better yet, ride a bike into work? Then, unencumbered with debt service, you can make that two week trip to Tahiti this summer, or run with the bulls in Pamplona. 

Of course, the decision to go minimalist might not be the morally superior choice of a new enlightened generation. It might be the de facto choice thrust on a generation drowning in college debt, and ill equipped to deal with that economic straight jacket. Be that as it may, when I read stories about how the economic choices being made by millennials are “destroying industries” I laugh out loud at the economic stupidity of such a claim. The choices that each generation makes are just that...choices, and if an industry can’t survive those choices, it will die off. It has always and forever been so. Millennials didn’t invent this. If they aren’t in to buying paper napkins, so what? The big shots in the paper napkin game better figure it out or they will go the way of the horse drawn carriage. Grow a pair!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah...minimalism. Ok,  I’m not sure these millennials have thought the tiny house thing through. I mean, what happens when they have kids? Suppose their parents want to visit? What does the wife do when her husband visits the bathroom after a night of jambalaya and beans? The practical effects of living in such a small, compact space can have a profound impact on human relationships. The western notion of personal space took centuries to develop, and can’t be so whimsically discarded without consequences. However, it’s my considered opinion that a tiny house is more morally defensible than a McMansion. What’s the deal with the people of my generation and their obsession of building three, four, sometimes five houses in one lifetime, often, building the biggest one after the kids have grown up and moved out?

Pam and I have been married for nearly 34 years. In all of that time we have lived in only three different places. The first year of our marriage we rented a two bedroom apartment. Year two, we moved in to a starter home, a three bedroom house which we occupied for twelve years and into which we introduced our two children. Finally, 21 years ago, we had our present house built, a mere mile up the road from our old one. It has five bedrooms, and a garage, and was a thousand square feet bigger than our old house. That’s it. Three addresses in 34 years. Why haven’t we built something bigger? Why haven’t we moved out into the countryside and thrown up a large estate type place? For that matter, how come my car is ten years old? Why don’t I buy a new one every two or three years like many of my buddies? The honest answer is...I have no idea. I guess it boils down to a simple answer...I like my old house....and...my old car runs great. Or maybe I’m cheap.

My point is, although I don’t buy all of the minimalist shtick, I don’t reject it out of hand either. I think these kids have something to teach the rest of us about priorities, and what exactly makes up the essence of a good life. Maybe a looser grasp on material possessions is an ingredient of that good life?

My Take on the Zuckerberg Show

I was asked yesterday what I thought about the Mark Zuckerberg testimony, specifically what my preferred outcome would be for it all. I had no answer, primarily because I didn’t think I had enough information about so complex a subject to even know what a preferred outcome would be. Since I was able to watch an hour of his testimony while on a treadmill at the gym, I am now an expert and can answer without hesitation. Here’s my takeaway...

1. It was pretty darned funny watching a bunch of 70-80 year olds asking Mark Zuckerberg about the Facebook. How many of them have ever spent two seconds on Facebook? Zero.

2. Ironically, the people who are making the most fun of the senator’s ignorance about social media are the same folks who want these same senators to craft regulations of social media. What could possibly go wrong?

3. As I watched each senator take their turn with the Z-man I couldn’t help but think...every single Democrat Senator on this committee has received large campaign contributions from either Zuckerman himself or Facebook...and every single Republican Senator on this committee probably owns Facebook stock!

4. I’m told that Zuckerberg spent hours and hours prepping for his appearance before the senators. He needn’t have bothered. In the hour that I was watching, I never heard a single tough question, and rarely an intelligent one. Nobody laid a glove on him. Maybe it will be different on day two, but I doubt it. See #3 above.

5. While I am open to some sort of reasonable regulation, I am also aware that one of the reasons that the internet has so exploded as a medium is precisely because of the lack of the sort of stifling regulations that most other industries are burdened with...the type of regulation that results in the pages and pages of disclaimers and weasel language found in most terms of service agreements. It was hilarious yesterday when Lindsey Graham held up the ridiculously long printout of Facebook’s terms of service while calling for government regulation of Facebook. What, in God’s name does senator Graham think produced that long printout?? Ha!

6. The biggest factor that has contributed to Facebook’s troubles is the fact that they have a virtual monopoly. They bought what was shaping up to be their biggest competitor (Instagram). Like many insanely rich and unchallenged Masters of the Universe types, the naked pursuit of riches has dwarfed all other concerns for Mr. Zuckerberg and others like him.

7. Color me cynical, but my trick knee tells me if the clever manipulation and exploitation of Facebook and other social media had resulted in the election of Hillary Clinton instead of Donald Trump, I’m pretty sure that Mark Zuckerberg would have spent yesterday bumming around the office in Menlo Park in his jeans and T-shirt.

So, what would be my desired outcome in this mess? One thing that leaps to mind would be a more concise, readable and understandable terms of service agreement for Facebook users, along with a requirement to opt in to allow companies access to personal info instead of having to opt out. Other than that, I’m not sure what else wouldn’t be worse than the disease. Allowing the government to become censor of content sounds like a horrible idea to me, not to mention vaguely Chinese.

That’s about the extent of my knowledge of and interest in the travails of social media titans.

My Most Embarassing Moment. Ever.

Several months ago, in this space, I posted a picture of my office chair and asked the question...Is it my imagination, or is this chair leaning to the left? In the months since, it’s port side tilt has become even more pronounced, to the point where the question no longer has to be asked. My office chair most definitely has...much like Silicon Valley...a left-leaning problem. Well, yesterday morning, which was my first day back in the office after a week at the beach, my issues with the chair became the source of perhaps the single most embarrassing moment in my 36 year in business.

Luckily, one of my cooler clients, who has a better than average sense of humor, was on the other side of the desk from me when it happened. I can think of a couple dozen clients who would have been horrified by what unfolded at approximately 9:15 am Monday morning, April 9th, in the year of our Lord, 2018. One minute I was sitting securely at my desk in my formerly reliable, if poorly aligned chair, busily filling out some paperwork. Suddenly, I needed something that was sitting on the credenza behind me and to my left. As I have done at least a thousand times before, in one graceful and practiced move, I swiveled to my left and attempted to scoot myself, along with my chair, on it’s spinning wheels towards the stack of papers that required my attention. Only, something went very, very wrong.

What follows seemed to happen in slow motion, just like in the movies. There was an instant of clear recognition where I was acutely aware of what was about to befall me, yet, there wasn’t one single solitary thing I could do about it. At that point I was in the inescapable grip of gravity. There was nothing left to do but brace for impact, and the damage which might be done to my body, but would most definitely be done to my ego. For, somewhere underneath me, a wheel of my accursed chair got hung up on something, impeding forward progress below. Unfortunately, above...momentum had already worked its magic, and since I was leaning in the same direction as the aforementioned tilt, the results were predictable. I could feel myself reaching the point of no return. I remember thinking...I think I’m going to flip over in this chair...

In what seemed like thirty seconds, but only probably took a fraction of that, I found myself flat on my backside, legs pointed skyward, my chair freakishly sprawled out in an unnatural configuration. The kind expression for this condition is head over heels. Me being me, I prefer the less elegant, but much more descriptive phrase...ass over teakettle. My client rose to his feet, asking, Are you Ok?? I bounced up quickly, trying vainly to pretend nothing had happened. My client then made the sterling observation of the hour...Doug, I think you probably ought to replace that chair.

As of this hour, a brand new Serta executive chair has been purchased. When I told my assistant this story, instead of tender concern for my well being, all I got was a burst of hysterical laughter. Later, when I shared my story with my wife, I got stifled giggles, complete with uncontrollable body shaking. In other words, no sympathy, no kind-hearted empathetic understanding of my profound embarrassment...just belly laughs. Not that I can blame them. Although it was no fun as a participant, I imagine it must have been quite hilarious to witness from a safe distance.

So, I thought I might as well share my humiliation with the world...

Watching The Masters

Although my enthusiasm level for the game of golf has waned quite a bit over the past two decades, one thing has been constant...I still watch The Masters. Actually, there are still three golf tournaments that I care to watch on television, the British Open, the United States Open, and The Masters. But, if I were only allowed one of the three, it would always be...The Masters. The reasons for this are many, not the least of which being the fact that Augusta National is perhaps the most stunningly beautiful real estate in the entire world...

Secondly, I had the privilege to attend a Saturday round in 2004, the year of Phil Mickelson’s first victory. I arrived at 8:00 am and walked the entire course...twice, not leaving until dusk. It was possibly my happiest day as a human being on this earth. I drank beer from a green plastic cup. I ate several pimento cheese sandwiches wrapped in green paper. I spent a small fortune in the gift shop. I spent a glorious hour in the stands between the 15th green and the 16th tee box. I stood, three patrons from the ropes on the 18th green as Mickelson hit his chip to within two feet of the flagstick. I couldn’t have been more than 15 feet from the man. It was sublime.

I say all of this because of a minor kerfuffle which has sprung up overnight between the members of Augusta National and the manufacturers of Bud Lite. The old rich men who run the club are a famously unfunny bunch when it comes to golf etiquette and patron deportment. I recall vividly seeing the Bobby Jones rules of patron behavior close to the entrance back in 2004. The rules were specific and unyielding. There would be no running, no celebratory cheering for poor shots, and absolutely, positively no cell phones and cameras. Violators would be greeted by swift punishment which would include not only immediately dismissal from the property, but a lifetime ban from ever returning. If I ever doubted them, I didn’t after witnessing a poor slob pull out his cell phone to take a call as we walked across the 9th fairway. He hadn’t been on his phone thirty seconds before a yellow-jacketed official interrupted his conversation with a stern rebuke and an escort to the front gate!

So, apparently, the Masters rule makers had issued a warning that any patron heard yelling the newly ascendant Bud Lite catchphrase, Dilly Dilly...would be dealt with harshly. The marketing gurus at Bud Lite, sensing an opportunity, quickly issued this very funny reply...

Although I come down firmly on the side of the old rich dudes that run Augusta National on this one, I have to admit that the Bud Lite people earned major props for their hilarious response!!

I’m no absolutist when it comes to this sort of thing. I personally think that golfers can be a temperamental, sanctimonious bunch of whiners. Allowing fans to heckle them seems totally reasonable to me...most of the time. But people...this is The Masters we’re talking about. This is the tournament started by the venerable Bobby Freaking Jones. He won major championships wearing cuff-linked dress shirts and a bow tie, for crying out loud. That’s back when people had manners! If the Masters people want to attempt to inforce traditional 19th century manners on a crowd of 21st century barbarians, then I say, more power to them. So, at least this week, there will be no You da man, or Get in the hole screams from drunk fans. No one will be allowed to squeal with delight whenever Rory Mcllroy hooks his tee shot into the pines. There will be no chants of USA!! USA!! if Patrick Reed birdies the 12th. This is The Masters, where golfers and patrons alike will be expected to behave like its 1918 again.

Not such a bad thing, in my humble opinion.

A Relaxing Week

It’s a delightful 64 degrees here in Myrtle Beach at 7:30 in the morning. By the time we get on the road, it will be 70. Five hours later, when we pull into beautiful downtown Short Pump, I’m told to expect 40 degrees with a hard drizzle, to be followed by snow overnight. And just like that...our vacation is over.

No complaints from me though. I’ve had a wonderful week. We’ve had not one drop of rain, and although it’s been a bit windy and cooler than we would have preferred, there’s been abundant sunshine and the relentless sound of the surf...a marvelous combination. Here are some highlights from our week:

A FaceTime date with my son and his fiancée where the talk was all about wedding plans. The two of them seem to have things well in hand. There are a few complications to iron out, but by and large the kids are doing quite well. They seemed excited and expectant, not overwhelmed.

My birthday celebration was quite fun. My wife showered me with practically a brand new wardrobe. I believe the quote was something  like...Just because you’ve turned 60 doesn’t mean you have to look 60. So, I am now resplendent in several new outfits that I am assured make me look younger!

Got to spend a couple of days with my daughter. She gave me some presents and an incredibly moving birthday card/postcard which I have previously written about. It was nice to hear her laughter and listen to her voice for 48 hours.

I walked on at the closest golf course I could find...Possum Trot...and was immediately teamed with two flat-bellied 20 somethings who were waiting for me on the first tee without so much as a practice swing. I hadn’t swung a golf club in anger since the previous September in Maine. To my great surprise and satisfaction, I hit the ball very well, kept up with the kids with a respectable 85, despite putting like a blind epileptic. 

So, this turning 60 business hasn’t been as bad as advertised. I’ve still mostly got my wits about me, I feel good, and thanks to my fashionable wife...I now look good! 

If They Only Knew

I’m aware that it is presently fashionable to bitterly complain about Facebook, with it’s predatory trading of our privacy for profit and all that. But I would like to pause a minute to praise them for something. Through their platform, I have been able to keep up with scores of young men who otherwise would have drifted out of my life years ago. I am referring to the many boys I taught in Sunday school 10-15 years ago, boys who are now, magically, fully grown men. I see the pictures of them holding their new born infants. I see the pictures of little ones in Easter finery squinting into the bright morning sun, and remember how impossible it was to get those pictures right on those chaotic mornings in what seems now like a hundred years ago. I see pictures of them playing with their children in parks, at the beach, with the grandparents. I want to tell them how lucky they are, how they should savor every moment, not wish any of it away. The fact is that I’m so incredibly proud of them all. 

But in our new, idealized social media world, pictures can be deceiving, often this deception is actually the point. We all want to put only our best foot forward. But, every once in a while I will see a photograph that rings true, whether intentional or not. I see the forced smile of the dad, the exhaustion in his eyes, the worry lines starting to form. These are the pictures that I cherish, because they bring back the heavy weight of hard memory, the great season of self doubt that defines what being a father is all about. Look closely in the eyes of that dad with his little leaguer and you will see a man wondering how in God’s name he is ever going to be able to put his kids through college. The only human emotion more powerful than the love he feels for his children is the fear that he will end up failing them.

Yesterday, my daughter arrived here in Myrtle Beach to spend a couple of days with us. She brought me a couple of cool presents. Then she handed me this birthday card, which was actually a postcard. I flipped it over read her words and they astonished me...

I know this isn’t your typical birthday card, but when I saw the picture on the front, I thought to myself, “This is exactly how I’ve always imagined my dad!” ...strong, capable, heroic, someone who routinely saves the day. I saw you this way when I was a little girl, and I still see you this way (maybe even more so) now that I’m 30 and you’re 60...

Speaking of heroic, it took quite a heroic performance to get through a public reading of such a card without an embarrassing gush of tears. As I read it, I thought...if she only knew. If she only knew how terrifying it all was, how many times I felt like a complete failure. If she had any idea how racked with self doubt I was, how inadequate I felt, she would never have chosen a card with Atlas bearing the weight of the world, more appropriate would have been a card featuring the ancient King Sisyphus, pushing a giant boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down again.

But then it hit me. The fact that my little girl viewed me as heroic was no small thing. Perhaps, it was half the battle. Maybe, the simple fact of projecting strength and competence was just as important as actually being strong and competent. Maybe that’s part of being a father, communicating to your children that you have things well in hand, even...and especially, when you don’t!

So, a word to all of you incredible young men out there raising your beautiful children, and you all know who you are...godspeed. You have a monumental task ahead of you, and your little ones are watching you. No matter how difficult the job gets, they are worth every sacrifice. I see you. I know the burdens. I remember the hardships. No matter what the smiling pictures say, I know what keeps you up at night. But, you too will prevail. One day, before you know what happened, that adorable little girl, that precocious little boy will hand you a birthday card that will bring it all back. And you will shake your head and think...if they only knew.

Advice From the Dog

You wake up on the 21,536th day of your life looking for reassurance from the roaring surf of the Atlantic Ocean at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Instead you gaze out from your balcony into a Dickensian fog bank so thick you can hardly find the end of the dunes. Is this the famous disorientation of old age that I have been warned about by friend and foe alike? I will leave this to the reader to decide.

My sister gave me something for my birthday that I truly love...

I have always believed in the wisdom of dogs, always considered their instincts more reliable than most humans. My dearly beloved second Golden Retreiver, Molly, possessed the most incorruptible spirit of any living thing I have ever known. She had a working vocabulary of more words than your average Congressman, and a heart as packed full of love and devotion as Mother Theresa’s. My present Golden, Lucy, isn’t nearly as linguistically fluent, and comes with more personality quirks and emotional scar tissue than Donald Trump’s therapist, but still has the power to warm my heart with a thousand daily graces that only dog lovers would understand.

So, this coffee mug seems like a perfect suggestion for the second 60 years of my life:

Ask for what you want—loudly if necessary.

Go after what you want.

Unleash your talents. 

Learn new tricks often.

But, the best “Advice From the Dog” found on this mug is on the back...

I plan on doing a lot of this...