Thursday, December 31, 2009

Resolutions were meant to challenge your dreams come true...

Wow! A new year! I will! I won’t! I must! I can’t! I should! I better not! New Year resolutions are never simple and let’s be honest, the only time a true change toward the horizon takes place is when it’s too late.

I don’t want to be your buzz kill but there are a lot of people banking on your resolutions. Financial advisors claim to have the future figured out, your hairstylist has designed the perfect cut that will erase the age off your face, big gyms with fancy names promise special training and your children guarantee they’ll never ask for money again.

Growing up in south Billings near Optimist Park I spent every year wanting only one thing—to live in a house I wasn’t embarrassed of. Between zero and eighteen I had no clue what it meant to keep up, I just assumed big beautiful homes were part of the process and for some reason the UPS man hadn’t delivered mine yet. So I spent every New Year’s Eve with the radio cranked listening to Casey Kasum’s yearend American Top 40 countdown hiding the ugly walls my parents refused to paint.

But was it truly what I wanted?

At first it was wild life animals like lions and birds ripped from Weekly Readers and other magazines at the dentist office then I grew into a period of never turning on the lights which went away really fast after stubbing my toe on the metal bed my Grandfather brought over from Germany. Then it hit me…I swiped an idea from the TV show WKRP in Cincinnati and the Hollywood flick FM—at the ripe old age of 9 I wanted to be in radio while standing on the worlds biggest stages singing songs I wrote…if I was going to be a rock star…I needed rock star posters!

One problem…I lived in Montana, the biggest thing we had going for us was Charlie Pride, Canadian Curling, Evil Knievel, Brett Hart before the WWF and about thirty chickens in the backyard. The only stage available was a large wooden step leading into my sister’s bedroom and the well weathered haystack in Ranchester, Wyoming that came with miles and miles of long grass that clapped incredibly loud when the wind blew.

The posters were given two jobs—make my bedroom look like a rich kid living near Zimmerman’s Trail and keep my dreams of being live on a rock star stage alive until I was old enough to get a car—then I’d be able to drive and drive until one suddenly appeared on the highway of dreams.

My first rock star poster was Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. I had no clue who they were—I won the darn thing at the Yellowstone County Fair. They had long hair; they had to be rock stars! Once stapled to the wall, it became instantly clear…I can’t have rock star posters in my bedroom and still be listening to Dolly Parton and Porter Wagner. Time to make a change in my listening habits and that meant quite possibly hurting my mother’s feelings. She didn’t like Country Music; she had a passion for Western Music and along comes her kid vowing to make a difference by ushering in something called Rock n Roll.

I couldn’t do it!

Not until the day I turned Beth from KISS over and heard Detroit Rock City. Within two weeks Led Zep was down and every wall including the ceiling featured Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Ace and Peter. Now my bedroom radio station had rock star attitude. Gone were my 8-track tapes of John Denver, Buck Owens, Donna Fargo, Stonewall Jackson singing Me and You and A Dog Named Boo and yes home state favorite because he was from Great Falls…Charlie Pride no longer kissed his angel good morning.

The paint on my walls came from a band that made it perfect for others who also wanted to hide what life had given them. And then I saw them in concert at the Metra, the tickets cost a bank robbing six bucks. It was loud, in your face, featured fire and bright lights, taking from me something I’ve never been able to get back…childhood innocence.

I told Gene Simmons that when we sat behind the stage at the Charlotte Coliseum in 1985…not a streak of paint on his face, he laughed, sat back on the amplifier case and started asking me questions about growing up in Montana. It was then I learned how important his show in Billings was to him—to be the best you had to play everywhere and be everything to all your fans and that meant hauling your equipment into a Podunk town like Billings.

They were out to prove to the world what a little paint can do.

Now that I’m 47 and KISS is trapped in chapters of books you can’t erase—each year I walk alone into a room searching for something that still seems to be missing. So often you want to give up. The idea of pulling off another collection of resolutions sounds completely 1977 but somewhere inside, the mind continues to travel by way of thinking and that journey is where trouble begins.

I can’t be the only one who picks up their resume of accomplishments and sees a blank empty page.

Last weekend I caught Ryan Seacrest counting down the biggest hits of the year—while his radio scripts read, “At number one is Poker Face from Lady GaGa.” My ears heard a totally different story, “How many slots on the charts am I away from finally capturing my childhood dream? Or is it time to let go and walk the way of England Dan and John Ford Coley, Stryper and Cinderella?”

It’s a new decade; I have a new heart…batteries not required. I refuse to call it a night until I hold what’s been calling my name since the day Mom was told, “It’s a little boy.”

Find your music with me! If it's not in 2010 we gotta keep trying in 2011 and 12. It's there! I can feel it!

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Don't make me call the cops! I won't wait until your father gets home!

Dad always preached, “What you do at the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve is what you’ll spend the next year doing and doing and doing.”

That’s why he elected to whisk Mom off her feet and take her dancing—his statement has to be true, he never missed an opportunity to shake a leg in the kitchen, at Kmart blue light specials or camping along side Montana lakes and streams.

The top five things you need to be doing when 2010 arrives:

Sport a pair of clean undies. Not too tight nor too big or the next fifty two weeks will be spent picking your seat and I’m not talking about concerts and movies
Rather than painstakingly tossing down a swig of face twisting champagne bite into an apple or orange—January is the heartbeat of flu season so you might as well get a shot of vitamin C before forking out billions on sniffs, hurls and bloated eyes. Hangovers last a day or two—I’m convinced the government gives you the flu to keep their medical financial re-election campaign support in business.
Be extremely careful on what you’re thinking when the clock is ticking—if the boss has you bogged down and or a neighbor hasn’t returned your American Idol microphone or garden rake, how you act, react and step into the new season of 365 new days to blaze could be blanketed with a fresh coat of gloat or a nice sized chip firmly glued to your shoulder.
Step away from the food! If the bells are tolling and you’re strolling through endless amounts of Swedish meatballs…the opposite end of that journey is an open door for added weight.
Do everything humanly possible to land an over the board wet smacker on the lips of the one you care for. But do it with your eyes open! If the eyes are the window to the soul then make a solid guarantee with he or she that you’ll be there everyday and every night even when the food is burnt, tastes like dirt and the coffee has been in the slightly green cup for two days but wow it’s got impact.

ABC has Ryan Seacrest hosting Dick Clarks New Years Rockin Eve, Green Day will be with Carson Daly on NBC, CNN will be on terrorist alert while the banks we bailed out continue to invent newer reasons to deduct dollars from your Checking account. The good news is Big Brother isn’t watching you…someone addicted to Youtube is and whatever you do on New Years Eve will probably be seen by the rest of the world via The Ellen Show.

I’ve never been one to break out a pen and paper and go all out Nostradamus—what we want out of life usually doesn’t happen and having to read about it twelve months later is more depressing than listening to your sister remind you to participate more with the family.

I do put a lot of ink into the veins of a once living tree by way of reflecting—a preacher man once told me at Billings Baptist Temple that before you’re accepted into Heaven your entire life will be played back like a movie. I write everyday because of a burning desire for you to read the book first. The ultimate stab would be movie critics Sean O’Connell, Lawrence Topman and Matt Brunson giving this thing I called life one out of five stars.

If balloons are popping and you jump at the stroke of midnight…your 2010 will be spent slowly looking around corners fearing something that probably doesn’t exist. If it’s in your blood to take chances or you arrive at a party extremely late—enough said, move to California tomorrow where that sort of behavior is accepted. If you quickly run to the computer to search Craigs list for a job, every single day belonging to the new year will be an attempt at locating something to keep you busy and the bills paid…even if you find a job you’ll spend down time searching for something bigger and better.

I always make sure the gas tank is full before cruising into a brand new year—I’d hate to be the person at the pump at midnight knowing the next fifty two weeks will be spent trying to fill something up knowing you’ll never be able to explain where it went. If caught using a credit card you’ll be connected to money to you don’t have always wanting more and willing to easily sign everything away. If working at midnight, expect to be giving your life away the rest of the year.

Now you know why so many people go to bed extremely early on New Years Eve! Then again, is that healthy? Imagine all the missed opportunities that’ll unfold in the day’s ahead because they checked out early so growth wasn’t experienced.

So…what can the average person do to keep from being taken over by the N Y E curse?

Be happy! Be you! Be upbeat but not over the top. Think positive! Don’t walk into a room thinking you own it…share the space. Look into the eyes of the most beautiful person you know realizing the entire next year will be spent being introduced to other unforgettable creations such as a simple idea created by the self you’ve become and for some reason you believe in it and that’s all that’s required to achieving success.

Walk don’t run and please don’t get caught standing around at the strike of twelve. 2010 will then become the year everyone passed you by. If with a group of people, walk through the room shaking hands like you mean it—it’ll set you up for an incredible year of new beginnings without fear of other people. Don’t just hug your cats, dogs and birds, physically pick each one of them up and let them know how much you love them, word will get around the squirrel neighborhood that deep inside you love everything that's alive so the animal planet will embrace your presence.

If you’re currently freaked out and can’t believe I’d waste so much time sharing such bologna—that’s ok, just don’t come running to me next year wondering why something doesn’t feel right because the first thing I’ll do is bring up New Years Eve.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

What's that Lassie? You have Swine Flu?

Wow! Just in time for Christmas…a New York dog has picked up Swine Flu from his pet human.

I feel guilty enough when they don’t get treats every five minutes. Dogs have a way of making it look like it’s your fault for not convincing the squirrel to come a little bit closer to sniff its tail. And if you’ve got guests over, it’s a legal license for the fuzzy creatures to sit directly across from you spouting off an attitude far worse than Oprah shouting, “Talk to the hand!”

I love dogs! Just wish they had a cat way of looking at life, “I knew what the human was when I picked them out…I’m not wasting my time.”

Birds tend to scream and I mean lay it on you louder than KISS and Ted Nugent at a battle of the bands concert. Miss Addy (short for attitude) tells me when its time for bed. Her screeching reaches a level of performance that picks me up from the sofa and tosses me under thirty five thick blankets of cover. The doves coo all night…when they suddenly stop, I instantly wake up thinking something’s wrong while Ernie the green bird destroys the idea of having a peaceful day unless he’s creatively become part of it.

This is Gods way of getting back at the way the eight of us wreaked havoc on my mother’s parade. Many times I see my sister in one of the dogs, a total trouble maker destine to make so much noise it drives her brothers to the brink of insanity.

I believe pets are given the lives we once lived…except this time around we locate a more gentle way of delivering toys to the evil bigger brothers. When I look at MJ…I see my artist self. He wants nothing to do with anyone except for his current thought that’ll make its way onto a canvas or into a book for later reading by someone he’ll never meet.

And like a truly weird freak of nature not a night goes by that I don’t wake up six or seven times to touch each of their bodies to see if they’re warm and comfy. 99% of the time each dog has their own section of the blankets and rule the school when it comes to laying claim to pillow ownership. If the tooth fairy were to visit they’d find Harold under that feather collector.

And what do humans have to show for this incredible amount of unstoppable unconditional love? We’re giving the makers of the almighty bark Swine Flu. Holy cow! Do you know how many times I’ve been to Urgent Care begging the doctors to check me out for the sickness? They take cover the very second my car pulls into the driveway. Now I have to worry about my dogs?

The problem with this situation is simple: doctors have no problem looking you straight into the crazy vein and saying, “You’ve got to stop.” A veterinarian loves to waste your money. They have no problem running to the bank to score you another loan. They’re in the business to put you out of business and there’s nothing you can do about it…its inhumane not to think your dog isn’t going to get Swine Flu.

The Super Bowl has come to the world of veterinarians—it’s their time to make a lot of money and not a one of them will stop you at the door because if your dog doesn’t have Swine Flu you still need a blood check up, teeth cleaning, anal glands squeezed, heart monitored, flea dip and the vets mother needs new tennis shoes to jog in after Christmas.

Dog Swine Flu is nothing more than the pet version of Cash for Clunkers. You’re about to fork out or slide across their magic machine every cent you thought you saved all in the name of loving those babies. Its time for me to get a sixth part time job.

You’d think the government would crack down on the veterinarians calling their practices witchcraft and a prime location for bate and switch, “I know you came in because you’re little puppy isn’t sleeping…we’ll need to keep him overnight to count his blood cells and see if they match his brain cells combined with the multiplication of booty calls he’s going to get if left outside at night."

The government can’t do anything because they too are pet owners and the man behind the curtain has the power to make sure the pet doesn’t get what’s properly lawmakers buckle at the knees and never take on what really counts.

Our weakest muscle isn’t a dollar but rather the eyes of a puppy or kitten. I’d sell my soul to the devil if it meant my fuzzy monkey could be saved. Wait! I can’t write that! If there was a veterinarian here right now they’d have the proper equipment to erase my comment from your brain while checking your snot maker for diseases connected to pooper scouper-itis-oh-toe-sis...then charge you $500.22.

Don’t get me wrong…I love a great veterinarian. I just haven’t met the one who truly cares for pets more than their pocket. I’ve been behind the scenes and know what they’re charging which is usually connected to the unheard of technology required to make sure your dogs and cats live two years longer than nature intended. They have no problem sliding that piece of paper over to you while holding out their hand…but if you ask for something it’s as if you’ve just insulted the Queen of England and within ten minutes your head will be chopped off and delivered to the dogs waiting impatiently in the car. So it becomes proper to bite your lip so hard your nose caves in.

Know what you’re doing and do your research on dog Swine Flu. You don’t have to keep using the same doctor whose rent is past due and the kids are complaining about not getting a fifth house in Florida. The average person is in big trouble from this day forward and we are helpless in knowing how to properly diagnose doggy Swine Flu. Sell the car now. Build up the bank account and get ready to dump it into the lap of people whose only job in life is to love pets not rip off their human parents.

The children you had through natural birth have every right to be jealous…the only thing they hear is, “Get up, wipe off your jeans and get back in school.” While the dogs get to loaf around the house smoking giant cigars and eating leftover chicken from last nights dinner party.

If you’re a veterinarian or work with or near one and today’s writing has upset you…then help me get the word out about Swine Flu without charging the average person $125 an hour to say nothing more than, “They don’t have it.” Give me the signs, signals and everything else connected and start loving pets more than the creator him or herself.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

I can't hear you!

Did curiosity truly kill the cat? When it comes to snooping around, cats have their day but do they take it farther than an inquisitive puppy? My Chinese Crested can’t keep his nose out of anything. You learn to live by the Sami rule…what’s mine is always going to be his first, second and last.

Humans are no different, hourly we draw invisible lines around a single core of energy laying claim to everything it might bring. Bury your heart in Native American history and you’ll quickly revolt any action presented by those forcing you into acts of trust. In fact you’ll probably walk away from James Cameron’s new movie Avatar demanding support for the original owners of Turtle Island. (Native American term for America.)

Face Book and Twitter are the new frontier. Discovering America was nothing more than gaining access to a clique—you were part of a special breed of leaders who blazed a trail that others would one day follow. The web is no different! One problem, if you abide by the rules of my martial arts mentor Nathan Richie, nobody should be allowed to skip rope on your playground unless you know them. It provides a clean, safe and more enjoyable environment.

I get it but if Social Networking is about fulfilling the needs of a curious cat and a hairless dog named Sami…shouldn’t the parameters of the rules change?

Being part of a group is the absolute most important part of some people’s days—it’s a place of acceptance while serving the key human need of feeling wanted or needed. Sadly, there’s always a hacker blowing in the wind waiting to dine on the availability of your vulnerability.

What’s lead 350 million keyboardists and screen watchers to this constantly growing atmosphere? Reality… The realms of our daily sport to be human keeps people from being human. At no other time in history have the communication lines been this open and yet maybe 10% can physically have face to face words or take on each others visions like good old fashioned criticism was designed to accomplish. We disconnect by eliminating names from Face Book , Yahoo Messenger and Twitter. Just like that, the digital divorce is finalized and no lawyer was called in to mediate the parties involved.

Secret meetings are held everyday. Nothing kills a human faster than closed off paths that which assumption has purposefully placed on wet grass to trip a passerby. Once word has been released of a secret gathering or these days…a text message that reads, “If you are receiving this you are to report to this meeting at yankity yank time, ” you have begun the process of defeating your goals of achieving their full potential.

It’s none of your business until it begins to sink into the soul that’s learned to trust…only to learn it’s still none of your business. Humans would perform at a higher level of performance if our addiction to being king of the hill would include those barely touching the ladder of success. Why do most wars begin? Leadership skills are no longer worth investing in.

I once had a radio boss who ironed the future out by calmly saying, “The world is blank, blank, blank and because we depend on what the world is doing, there’s going to be incredible changes and it might include you.”

Some employees called it Corporate American terrorism. I saw it as truth. It didn’t make me work harder. I found myself working smarter, building several paths that served as a network of nets that would catch me when the people more powerful than the Almighty said, “You’ve gotta go.”

It’s like a father telling his child, “If you cross the street there’s going to be consequences.” You failed to listen then spent the rest of your life hating him for something you brought on yourself. The business world and all things connected to what brings us pleasure and or growth is no different. The latest of nets has become the net. A World Wide Web of communication that shelters your ambition while giving you total power of two tiny buttons called Enter to accept and Delete to de-magnetize the connection.

What’s the difference between Howard Hughes and project American 2010?

Mr. Hughes was obviously before his time—he was a hermit before being a loner was cool. He survived through massive amounts of criticism without chicken pecking on the truest of best friends the foot in a half keyboard zip lined to another box linked to a boxed in screen shot out to a world of other boxed up beings. Why then are wedding bands round if being in a box is where we find incredible shapes of happiness? Maybe Christopher Columbus should’ve discovered a flat world—our national bird would be the Rubik’s Cube.

In Avatar the keepers of the planet were warned to leave their place of comfort because a much bigger and more powerful decision maker was set in his way of bringing a difference no matter what the cost—an act of war proceeded. Even if they had met the end result would’ve been the same but at least they knew of the consequences.

As a new decade begins to blossom like a bright red rose on a damp Carolina morning you can’t look into each day crying wolf so each step taken is guided by separatism—we’ve separated from the masses to create more masses leaving behind the greatest gift given to humans…verbal communication. Not written but words delivered by a mouth meant to speak not just eat.

It’s time to start knocking on closed door, asking why your participation wasn’t required in every effort to move forward. The moment has arrived when the slightest of speakers is given a voice because what they hold could be the needle in a haystack. The fear of losing your position shouldn’t dominate your destination; you knew what life was when you picked it up. Making waves is your job because it’s obvious a calm lake front got us nowhere.

It’s human to communicate. It’s also human to shut out. Top secret means nothing in a world where every neighbor on the block is locked onto the same vision…survival. Anyone can write words of wisdom on computer screens the size of Christmas but do you live it? Make it a point to become who you become while on the web. It’s time to lead or begin looking for the next box to stuff your dreams into. Never forget the golden rule of the perfectly square box…what you place inside is nothing but junk to those who find it after you’re gone.

Monday, December 21, 2009

I'm not insane! I'm an advocate for those who are hypochondriacs!

I don’t know where and when in my life it physically took over but as of last night its power has returned dominating the walls of my within like a violent earthquake shaking the state of California.

Being an open and admitted hypochondriac has its payoffs—when you’re right, the image staring back at you in the mirror shakes its head up and down like a stern parent witnessing its child perform an act of something finally being listened to and acted upon without there being consequences.

Face it…five months ago today I didn’t heed the warning signs of cardiac arrest—it took four days of painful throat throbbing to convince me to hit the Urgent Care to ask doctors about possibly having strep throat. Nobody was more shocked about the aftermath than me. Assuming I had beaten my hypochondriac beast, it didn’t seem important enough to drop a scheduled three hour lecture at a university to chase down the purpose behind an unusual stress in the vocal maker.

Nor was I paranoid by the body’s decision to lapse into long deep sleeps before Tae Kwon Do or nearly passing out while driving home from class…calling Master Harris on the phone to talk to me until I regained the strength to start the car. According to the rivers that run through my valley…it wasn’t anything more than exhaustion which can be beat with a positive attitude. I was out to be beat my addiction to being a hypochondriac and that meant not listening to “me” period.

I’ll never forget the Tae Kwon Do class where I could barely do three pushups. We’re talking about a guy whose 2nd and 3rd degree tests were based on shattering bricks from a pushup position, a man who does 100 or more pushups a day and that night I couldn’t do three. I was exhausted right? The weaker I got in class the more I wanted to hide, so I went against school rules and stood behind the class so people couldn’t watch me melting…never once realizing…I really was.

It’s that one time you’re right that changes the entire sunset.

I’ve spent the past five months studying cardio nightmares, how to survive just as much prevent situations that rob the system of what keeps it pumped up and moving forward. I’ve written hundreds of pages based on learning and identifying the multitude of languages your mind, body and soul invent daily in its effort to communicate with a self aimed at the horizon but has no clue how to get there.

If you ignore it, “You know the consequences.”

So what really happened yesterday? Were the channels connected to its delivery an out of control presentation of a single performance on a stage nicknamed hypochondriac? For four days my wife has been struck down by unexpected and totally unexplained pains on the left side of her back—ok…a pinched nerve. The blood pressure on the third day shoots near 200 and she’s become extremely dizzy unable to keep her head up. My mind was freaking out. In everything I have studied about cardiac arrest, the silent killer was knocking on the gates leading to her reasons and purpose of there being. I couldn’t convince her to seek medical help. My hypochondriac addiction was shooting into overload.

Then it happened…while watching the E Entertainment network the scroll of lettering at the bottom of the screen read, “32 year old actress Britney Murphy has passed away in Los Angeles, the cause of death cardiac arrest.”

Twenty two minutes later we were racing through the large glass doors of the nearest Urgent Care, “My wife is having a heart attack!”

Five rules you need to follow when confronted with a body crashing: Locate an Emergency Room not an Urgent Care. There was nothing they could do for her except say, “You need to go to the hospital now.” We wasted a tremendous amount of time to hear a professional tell us, “Opps we don’t do that.”

Pretty dang weird…five months to the day earlier…she was the one doing the driving and I was on the cell phone calling coworkers trying to explain that I wouldn’t be making it into work the next day…now it was my turn to play Captain Cool which meant telling a lot of jokes and I’m just not that good in that department. So I begged for a courtesy golf clap.

Rule number two: The Emergency Room doesn’t talk to you about money owed until you are placed in a room. Insurance or not…they want their chunk of the buck but only after your vital signs are taken. If you want to leave now, that’s fine but you owe us this amount of money right now.

Rule number three: Doctors and nurses in ER don’t want to hear about President Obama’s health plan and reasons behind it.

Rule number four: If the magazine you unknowingly picked up along the way through the long bright white hallways features two or more different pictures of the same person, immediately tell yourself that its going to be ok and your mind isn’t playing games, Martha Stewart has her own magazine and the items inside are extremely cheaper than the doctor spending 33.2 seconds with you.

Rule number five: No matter how stupid you might feel when the highly overpaid professionals whose handwriting you can’t read look at you and laugh at your hypochondriac way of living…you’ll get good night sleep knowing the dangerously high blood pressure and dizziness has nothing to with the ticker tocker or the waves leading toward your thinker.

Television personality and late night infomercial king Billy Mays ignored the symptoms of his heart attack. David Letterman wasted no time checking out the rhythms of the beats going wrong. The ultimate lesson learned here is I’m an advocate for hypochondria—a scout that leaves his circle of covered wagons to search what doesn’t look, feel, smell and taste right. If you have dinner with me, you’ll feel uneasy knowing I’m watching life like a hawk. It’s who I am. I’m not a germ-a-phobe but I’ll immediately think it’s the end of the world when a sliver of unexpected blue falls from the sky bringing with it the fingerprints of an innocent cloud.

Whether I was right or wrong…I listened to the song—the chorus sang, “Don’t ever ignore the signs. Doctors will still get a dime. You can be wrong all night, but that’s ok, you ain’t living life until you begin to communicate with everything that creates fright.”

I’m not asking you to steal my hypochondriac art…just never stop listening to your heart.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Jolly versus Happy who wins at Christmas?

So whatcha doing? Been busy? How are the pets? Got milk?

Seven pages shy of this years edition of holiday magic and like every chapter already presented sugarcoated are the visions of past, present and future as they race through you quicker than actor Jim Carrey changes faces in his latest 3-D attraction A Christmas Story.

“Tis the season to be jolly!” They shout at the top of their mighty lungs expecting one and all to step up and participate with what is required to be a moment of celebration be it whatever religion and or spirituality you study or set aside until your paths been challenged by objects in rear view mirrors you can’t describe.

Jolly? Who uses that word these days?

Jolly is one of those words that’s usually attached to over sized well round men who laugh and laugh and mom could never figure out a politically correct way of saying, “If your uncle keeps dipping his freshly made chocolate chip cookies in beer and whiskey he’s going to snort so loud it’ll push his tail off the edge of Mother Earth.”

Standing nose to nose with each others hands shaking feverishly like we’ve never met before, I’d still walk away from this masked something called jolly wondering, “What was supposed to come from that?”

Grandma Dobrenz used to sternly tell we wicked kids with shoes bigger than our bodies, “Jolly isn’t something you suddenly become…you have to work on it everyday. Every time I see you its gimme gimme gimme. If I give you something, that only makes you happy for the moment not jolly.” reports: Jolly
1. in good spirits; merry: In a moment he was as jolly as ever.
2. cheerfully festive or convivial: a jolly party.
3. joyous; happy: Christmas is a jolly season.
4. Chiefly British Informal. delightful; charming.
5. British.
a. Informal. great; thorough: a jolly blunderer.
b. Slang. slightly drunk; tipsy.

Wow! I’m loving number five! Those darn British not only have incredible accents but have creative festive words that describe getting a buzz on!

I’m often accused of being number one…in good spirits nearly too merry. Those nearest me would rather see me pull off a number five and relax a bit. The secret to being up beat and positive has nothing to do with being out of control with excessive amounts of energy but rather gaining access to how you want to be treated.

Oh oh…someone call Oprah!

Being happy, jolly, fully spirited is nothing more than an emotion. Who doesn’t want to grab a little bit of this on a daily basis? Getting to it is the killer…which might be one of the key reasons why heroin and meth addiction is currently enjoying an all time high.

Does it have to be?

I love the full unforgettable flavor of a freshly picked orange—man is it ever good for you during a heavily talked about flu infected season—do I run around the studio screaming, “No! No! Don’t bring your illnesses toward this microphone? Nope! I buy boxes of oranges to share with anyone who wants to feel incredibly happy when that nice thick peel is impatiently ripped off and those lips jump into that itty bitty tingle of, “Oh my god!”

Elvis Presley was onto something during his days of living…he never stopped giving. The King of music would rent movie theaters and bowling alleys then sit back and watch those nearest his heart have an incredibly jolly time being themselves…laughing, playing, letting go of everyday pressures and anything else that kept their dreams from reaching the highest peaks.

Now you can bring Oprah in because this is what the book The Secret is about. What you set free is coming right back. Good, bad, pretty, butt ugly or holy cow that duck billed platypus looks just like my second grade teacher Mrs. Vegi.

We make Christmas too easy to be happy. We wrap and wrap, tape then tape some more, hang lights from the outside gutters while wasting billions of watts of electricity keeping air in those cute and cuddly inflatables that turn front yards into a private Disney World.

Then we enter the week before the new year hanging our heads, “I hate myself. I want to lose weight. I want to get along with people. I want to love my job. I want to find a better this, locate more of that, write this, bake that, feed, borrow, return…blah blah bonk!”

I must have been wearing a sign on my forehead yesterday that read, “The doctors in…”
Curtis the intern found enough trust in his soul to step from his incredibly shy shell and simply say, “Is there a way to block out bad memories of years past so that this year something positive can finally ring its silver bells so Clarence can get his wings?”

Wow! Would you rather win millions from the Power Ball Lottery or score forever more Christmas jolliness? Harrison Ford was hunting down the wrong treasure during his Indiana Jones days…the most valuable gem on the planet has nothing to do with diamonds and statues…people want to feel jolly at Christmas every Christmas.

Where can you find it? Does it exist? Who is the keeper of the golden key leading to the multiple maps required to sipping on the incredibly sweet juices of something so pure as jolliness?

The next time you use the bathroom, put down the seat, flush the John, step over and wash your hands then dry them. Right before you reach to turn off the light so you can mosey back into your world of already built foundations and structures, slowly turn around and wink at that person in the mirror. That’s what Santa does every year since the moment you were born. He looks at your tiny innocent eyes with rosy red cheeks filled with billions of Christmas dreams and wishes and winks the person inside.

I recently wrote a piece of poetry about that freak:

There you are, standing in the mirror—still got those fun kid eyes.
Here we go, dressed up in adult clothes—still joking about being along for the ride.
You and me, don’t agree—just showed up one day pretending to be me.
And I don’t know what you mean.
There you are, standing ever so tall—your eyes they look away.
You and I, need to find—a reason to believe in each others…dream.

Talk to that person in 2010 and I guarantee your life will become connected to jolly.

Steal my art…

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Home James!

Spent some time with a Grand Master of Martial Arts last evening…a true root from the country the Martial Art originated—my only purpose was to seek knowledge, to never stop learning, to be a clean sheet of paper always willing to listen so each chapter already written can be given birth inside a generation time has set aside for them to build their own foundations.

An apple cannot become a fruit if a single part of its journey goes unrecognized—one naturally assumes a spring breeze softly kisses the curved neck of a nearby limb leaving out the un-unionized agreement with the bumble bee department whose partnership allows families of other insects to stop in for a bite, each bringing with them an energy required to push that apple through what once looked like an unstable white tree flower.

A more simple approach would be the walls and mountains we often complain about, “Life would be more enjoyable if I could make it over this current challenge.”

We spend so much time trying to get over the mountain we fail to realize all rolling hills have sides to which we can maneuver ourselves around. Even if you had the strength of 100 men and mountain moving was truly your fine craft…the makings of that mighty beast have to go somewhere…where do you place it…behind you creating another mountain?

While swiftly turning forty I wrote, “An old man isn’t a wise man nor is a wise man an old man. Wise is the forever student.”

All too often we’re not given the correct digits to type into the GPS system making us feel as if we’ve become lifeless and stranded on the corner of walk and don’t walk. Truth is…inside five years our lack of interest in real maps will force young adults into a state of bewilderment when the television weatherman says, “The hurricane is located near Costa Rica.” Where?

The digital map mountain was needed to help aid men from getting lost and or being embarrassed while asking for directions. The stones from that nightmare have since been moved to an area that which blinds the next level of learners who couldn’t care less about globes and long lines leading to far away places.

The Dogwood tree is considered the most devoured plant on Mother Earth—deer, squirrels and birds from far, far away places require its bark, leaves and buds to give them the necessary energy to help lift their directed purpose to a place of success. A single beaver family has constructively taken out sixty Dogwoods on the ancient lake to which I dwell…what becomes of the road map? Each animal brings with it a seed, if nothingness begins to appear doesn’t the mountain become a desert that which the wind controls creating as well as recreating everything from dunes to mirages that can never been reached.

The great financial crisis of 07, 08, 09 and rumored to be deep into the tens has become the average late night shows chatter, “China saved America.” You laugh and laugh until the monthly statement arrives and its you who has to pay them back.

Reality asks, “Where were the stones from this crisis placed?”

Nothing feels better this holiday season than to hear Wall Street is still pumping in more than 10,000 points and the major leaguers of banking have paid back their billions by way of gaining access to future CEO’s. Am I blind here? I swear I didn’t see someone taking notes! You know, lessons learned, because sadly…their continued mistakes at the top of the food chain mean more unemployment and homelessness.

The Toys for Tots campaign is down 60%. There are no long line of cars searching for parking spots at the mall and the Grand Master of Martial Arts softly said to me last night, “Parents have lost their vision of teaching children right from wrong, so they allow them to play in streets.” The moment those words rolled off his well educated lips I was reminded of the incredible amount of stories that made it to the eleven o’clock news about not just kids but adult being hit by cars this past year.

Almost sounds like we’ve been set in the center of the salt flats in Utah and ordered to find something pure to drink.

The Baby Boomers, The Me Generation, Generation X and Y, men, women 25 to 49, 18 to 54, Pepsi drinkers to beer guzzles, Panther fans and lovers of video games and IPods…we’ve been called everything……………………………………..but lost. That’s because there are no road maps leading us to the nearest dictionary.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

You won! You won!

On last nights How I Met Your Mother, Marshall returned to his daring childhood to kick his own unbeaten tail. It was that single moment we all have during an unwritten and unrehearsed journey called life; when making the wrong decision leads to a near impossibility to beat.

If you were given a single ticket to go back…where would you land? The only rule: what you change will affect the avalanche of events connected to its creation.

For instance, it would be extremely too simple to haul booty back to Billings and swipe every 8-track, 45 and album out of a wandering teens collection—more importantly, I’d yank the clock radio chord from the wall that fed the imagination of a sleepless night into believing he could be one of those long distant voices scratching his way across umpteen million miles of wide open radio space to gently land in someone else’s dream.

But to do that means…these words and your eyes wouldn’t meet.

Is it worth making a deal with the maker? We rewrite the rules of Monopoly so many times that when an outsider steps in to play, they feel completely bamboozled by what seemed to be clean enough rules to follow during earlier times of competitive struggle.

One ticket, a single moment…

Mr. Marsh was my Drafting III instructor—his Rollie Fingers handlebar mustache continues to haunt my longest deepest decisions—dropping his class from the high school curriculum would turn my architectural aspirations into a puddle of Montana mud. He busted me for designing a six bedroom dream house complete with four bathrooms, master suite walk-in closets, three car garage, tennis court and pool.

“We don’t draw dreams in my class. I train you to focus your mind on reality.” He sternly scolded while leading my right arm out of class. “Come back when you’re ready to understand that mechanical drawing is about machines and the parts that make them work. Until then find a different place to bend lines that create unwanted shadows.”

Being completely human, there’s very few who could stop at one. If given that golden ticket to climb on board the eraser train, what in your current life would you be willing to sell to gain access to a second and third trip? Knowing each time you returned, everything that became you meant everyone you loved could dissolve into nothingness.

Keg standing at the incredibly old age of 15—there’s no way such weekend stunts on a rolling hillside near Blue Creek, Montana would still have the ability to infect me today. What about when we woke up late one Sunday morning and needed to get to Lewistown for the drag races so Larry, Steve and I hopped into the bright orange Mustang and buried the needle never once touching the hot pavement…it was more like gliding. Surely, that lack of common sense has nothing to do with today…right?

Do you ever sit back and take note of how lucky you are to have gotten this far? Would it be worth changing…just once?

I’d never go back and take out the bike ride at the gym that introduced me to martial arts. Geraldo walked up and very confidently said, “How are your investments? If you aren’t taking care of your core interests there may not be a future in you.” What I put into those Americanized chapters ended up being why the heart doctor two weeks ago cleaned my slate claiming no scar tissue or physical evidence of there ever being a stoppage.

But this isn’t about great moments in victory. A single day sitting face to face with the eyes, ears, nose and mouth of the kid you once were during a time when decision making ended up controlling the rest of your life.

I bailed out of high school chorus because doing Barber Shop took my shyness and shoved it into overload. I wrote a book in the eleventh grade called Halloween 78 where three tragic things written about later came true. Band practice got out of control one night leading to me slamming the guitarist’s fingers in the car door. At 16, I took three different girls to a Van Halen concert and had them strategically placed inside the Metra where I could visit each of them during the show. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

The one ticket back I don’t want to own. I never got angry with my mother. I was far from being a momma’s boy…too rough and ragged way too early in the book. She won me over early, sitting in my bedroom listening to a little ten year old pretending to be a disc jockey. Turning around after every talk break she’d always remind me, “No matter how tough it gets in the business you’ll always have a set of ears willing to listen.”

Monday, December 14, 2009

American fashion is in a depression...

If you watch enough of the Beatles specials plaguing the circumference of the average person’s daily round of television channel surface, take note of what the Fab Four have never been credited for: Best dressed.

Mop tops, shaggy heads of hair, Rock n Roll that must be evil because it sends young girls into a tailspin of frenzies—but hardly if ever did anyone write, “Those classy chaps from Liverpool know how to sport the proper business attire a freshly pressed colorful tie complimenting a well fit suit jacket, any texture of style they wear it well.”

Even while recording at Abbey Road studios late into the thick fog hiding night from day, John, Paul, Ringo and George were almost never caught off fashion guard—which according to psychotherapists is a true sign of how much one cares about not only their image but the amount of passion put into the final presentation of the intended project.

Looking at their writing and producing track record, I’d say the team of Lennon and McCartney was spot on. But is it worth investing in?

One quarter of the team must still believe in it…while doing the same old nostalgia CBS This Morning interview over the weekend, Sir Paul didn’t do what most of today’s multimillionaires are spouting: I can be anyone, anytime and there’s nothing you can say about how Jimmy Buffet and Microsoft creator Bill Gates look.

Workplace dress codes have fallen off the top ten important things to remember—even bankers and insurance agents look out of place. Just because you’ve got a suit on doesn’t mean you wear it well which infects the systems connected to your place of delivery. Doctors never look good and dentists have to wear a white jacket or scrubs.

Everyone of us look like we work for a flea market.

Oh heck yes I’m guilty of fashion downsizing!

I haven’t been seen in an incredibly too tight air robbing, throat throbbing neck tie since jokingly showing up at a radio station promotion. Then again, at a different event, one of those dress down days...I felt totally out of place standing next to the Jonas Brothers who plowed their way through a powerful rainstorm and never succumbed to taking off their Italian driven shreds with well polished shoes.

Not all businesses have sold out—in Las Vegas the Beatles Revolution Lounge requires patrons to be dressed to impress. Most well respected golf clubs require a jacket and tie but in the end we still have companies that promote messages like this: Our Company's objective is to establish a business casual dress code. It’s to allow our employees to work comfortably in the workplace. Yet, we still need our employees to project a professional image for our customers, potential employees, and community visitors. Business casual dress is the standard for this dress code.

Should we blame this on Anthony Kiedis who convinced his band The Red Hot Chili Peppers to show up for work one day wearing nothing but a sock in the right place? Might Curt Cobain’s Grunge days be responsible? Adam Lambert looks totally out of place so critics bash his fashion by shoving the look back thirty years to the days of Glam Rock. I lived that period of music and he ain’t no David Bowie nor does he fall into the character of androgyny fed by the veins of Annie Lennox of the Eurythmics and Boy George of Culture Club.

Back to the company who laid out the rules for their employees: Because all casual clothing is not suitable for the office, these guidelines will help you determine what is appropriate to wear to work. Clothing that works well for the beach, yard work, dance clubs, exercise sessions, and sports contests may not be appropriate for a professional appearance at work.

Clothing that reveals too much cleavage, your back, your chest, your feet, your stomach or your underwear is not appropriate for a place of business, even in a business casual setting.

Mall stores bank on casually professional by charging big city fashion prices for the same boring off gray or brown slacks with pleats running up and down each leg. I can physically tell a difference in my radio show when these stinky feet are covered by Crocs rather than genuine leather. I know when I’m wearing white socks compared to calf grabbing cut off the blood supply colored foot protectors that resemble a grown man’s version of Grr Animals.

I’ve never been good with fashion because dressing up is fake—it doesn’t matter how much the dress or suit jack cost there’s still only one way to free your nose from an unexpected booger. We all get them and the end result is always the same. We can turn it into a three ringed circus or casually deflate the issue by honking into a tissue.

I will admit that President Obama and the First Lady are one classy couple when hitting the shaking hands and kissing baby circuit. No wonder people are sneaking into the White House to grab pictures with them—they making being dressed up unforgettably beautiful.

Wait! This just in…back to the business with the casual rules: If clothing fails to meet these standards, as determined by the employee’s supervisor and Human Resources staff, the employee will be asked not to wear the inappropriate item to work again. If the problem persists, the employee may be sent home to change clothes and will receive a verbal warning for the first offense. All other policies about personal time use will apply. Progressive disciplinary action will be applied if dress code violations continue.

I’ve only been asked to go home once: KBMY in Billings, Montana was located in a cow pasture and there should’ve been a sign that told extremely eager radio people, “Do Not Step off the Beaten Path! Ever!” I drug that stuff past the receptionist, into the tiny kitchen near the Coke machine right into an un-air-conditioned radio station control room. I literally tried to laugh it off by telling news director Mr. Tony Swear-Engine, “I was only trying to score better ratings for the winter wheat and cattle report at noon. Paul Harvey has been dying for a killer opening act like that!”

Dress codes! What will you be wearing in the new decade? How will it affect your attitude knowing that every step taken forward, backwards, to the right or left, fancy pants Depends are what’s waiting for our aging legs and backs to arrive. My luck, the pair I grab will feature a mug shot of Gene Simmons from Kiss.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

No! No! No! Its not 2010!

It wasn’t until the new edition of Rolling Stone Magazine found its way to my mailbox that I realized we’re in the final pages of the decade. Hold it! We can’t be moving forward not until radio stations come up with a creative way to say, “We play the 70’s 80’s 90’s, 60's and today and in the next decade and and and…”

True 80’s music hasn’t been rediscovered yet! Donnie Iris with Alliah, When I’m With You from Sheriff, Gone So Long from Chilliwac, Say Hello by April Wine, Betty Davis Eyes from Kim Carnes and all the other deep rooted pieces that were nearly electronic but not British enough.

Come on now! We’re taking our ears off the most prolific decade since the 60’s the raw garage, basement and alley recordings that injured parents and forced record stores to hang signs on their door reading, “We don’t sell rap music…" We’re talking Gangsta Rap fed by the streets of a disillusioned wandering but inescapable America. We can’t be moving into a new decade until someone nominates 2 Live Crew into the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame for shattering the number of times you can cuss on a song and still hear it on the radio.

What in the bleeping bleep has happened here? Its official…Y2K was extremely real…it didn’t set us back; we’ve been catapulted by the powers of light speed landing face first in the makings of 2010. Don't believe it!

How can this be? September 11th just happened yesterday! Isn’t that why I got into martial arts? We flew to Los Angeles so much that it became my destination to have a fighting chance in space. Ten years and nearly $25,000 later I couldn’t knock a box cutter off the shelf at Wal-Mart. 2nd degree black belt? No way...its off colored white.

My daughter isn’t 31! She’s hired child actors to play the part of two cute monkeys. I sure in the heck didn’t have a heart attack at 47! I swear I did it for radio ratings! No! I was trying to do some investigative reporting for 48 Hours…you know, to catch the medical world off their game plan.

Claiming that it’s 2010 is pretty much admitting that I woke up one day and my dreams were no longer walking with me.

If it’s truly 2010 then we’ve got to blame it on Bart and Homer Simpson. Those freaks aren’t aging so that mean’s neither are we! Making matters worse is Stewie on The Family Guy…as long as he’s still in diapers life is nowhere near 2010.

Mic Jagger and and Paul McCartney are still making music! Bono is pounding out powerful classics like he did when New Years day busted onto the scenes in the 80’s. We only assume super legend Steve Perry of Journey is missing in action and Steven Tyler has left Aerosmith—with VH-1 Classics and You Tube everybody’s here!

I-485 hasn’t completed its intended circle and the light rail system hasn’t touched the speedway. Kerry Collins is still our quarterback for the Panthers…they’ve only changed his jersey. Jake something is what they’re trying to market. Compare the numbers...there's got to be the same number of interceptions and sacks. The UNCC 49er’s haven’t dressed up in their football team gear yet, the Bobcats continue to fall short on the real love affair we once shared with the Hornets and what’s this I hear Pat McCrory isn’t our mayor anymore? Ha! Ha!

The only reason why radio and television commercials are screaming 2010 is because car dealers are flat out busted on a great idea since cash for clunkers. Twinkies are hotter than life itself thanks to Zombie Land, Jolt Cola and a long list of copies continue to keep college students and coworkers jacked up and punching forward.

For God’s sake my sister and I still fight! Wait! Hear that? That’s mom shouting, “Don’t make me come up there with a belt!” Oh oh here comes dad!

So put away your Sharpie and online bill pay and get off this kick that we’re headed into a brand new decade. Not until George Jetson is spotted on the horizon in his bubble sounding space vehicle with his dog Astro and boy Elroy.

Seriously…do we have any clue why it took an act of congress to make every television station go digital? I’m still getting frozen pictures and Time Warner Cable owns the 3rd child from the 7th generation after my death.

Get off that chair you’re sitting on and get into that bathroom! Look at those eyes in the mirror and tell me they’re saying, “It’s 2010.” Now step back and ask your heart. If it says, “Yes,” then that’s all the proof you need when it comes to identifying an addiction to multitasking at a job you can’t locate a future with.

I know!

Dear Mr. President…if you really want America to start moving again…buy each family a Jon Bon Jovi concert tour RV and let’s hit the road!

Keep smiling, it's 1973, 62, 55...whatever you want it to be except 2010.

Arroe Collins

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Be lazy at work not at your next doctor's visit!

I’m not embarrassed to admit doctors and everyone else connected are not my favorite people—they don’t “think” they know best, ask them they’ll tell you, “We do know best.”

As easy as it would be to jump up and wipe the dirt off these aging pants my delusions are fed by rivers flooded by a message delivered by a Native American medicine man who once said, “Doctors practice medicine like a young child practices playing basketball and baseball.”

Kind of like my radio career…I’m not Glen Beck or Ryan Seacrest but dang if I won’t practice everyday to try and make it to the major leagues of broadcasting.

We have every reason to love those who pretty much save our lives—but those good feelings become extremely cloudy because like a marriage, one of the leading causes of divorce is money, so why should a doctor be any different? My most recent visit to the heart specialist involved the doctor walking into the cold drafty room; he put his feet up on the desk, read well typed out notes dictated over the past four months, listened to four different areas on my back and boldly said, “Thanks for coming in!” The final cost coming in at nearly $1,000. Attach that to a new box of meds that don’t give you a buzz and life becomes too painfully real.

All the more reason to hate my parents!

Why didn’t you push me into medical school? You could be living in a far better house with a kitchen the size of Wal-Mart!

So, what are we going to do about this? With N1H1, the common cold, the threat of strep or a typical manly fall off the ladder you can’t suddenly stop going to the doctor. The everyday average American needs what NBA, NFL and Professional Bowlers have…a manager! We need representation! Someone to think and speak for us! Someone who’ll step forward and negotiate a deal that’s profitable to both parties.

Not gonna happen.

At lease we have Dr. Bernard Lown, the author of The Lost Art of Healing…a forty year pro who wastes no time to admit, “If the glove doesn’t fit…you must acquit.” Basically meaning if you’re neck deep in dog and cat fights at the doctor’s office…find the door!

According to Dr. Lown having a great relationship with your doctor lowers anxiety levels making you less sick. When he or she showcases true care and concern it physically improves your likelihood of becoming cured.

The sad part about modern day medicine is…we can’t test drive a doctor. We’re forced to rely on referrals. Dr. Lown says, “Don’t let that stop you from examining a doctor. They need to know their tires are being kicked.”

I recently did this with my dentist of nearly twenty years…his practice closed at 3pm. It didn’t fit my life and style…calmly asking him to please remain open longer for those who couldn’t run from work so easily and his secretary said, “We have a life too you know.”

I felt sorry for the dentists I began interviewing…there’s a lot of egos in this small place on the map we live. In the end the winner was decided upon because I honestly felt true customer care.

Insurance or not, anyone in the medical business needs to be interviewed and treated like the employees they are. There are seven signs Dr. Lown claims you must constantly be aware of:

Your first ever meeting with a doctor should never be in an exam room. Do not disrobe until you’ve broken bread. Have a face to face in his or her office before making your way into an area where your best kept secrets now rest in the palm of their hands.
Reach your hand out and shake the doctor’s hand—it is a significant sign of respect. Right off the bat, decide if he or she is going to call you by your first name or last. It’s about making you feel comfortable.
The doctor being on time is absolutely an important feature. If consistent lateness is their pattern of practice, their ego is taking away from the only 24 hours you’re going to get today. Remember, they work for you and like a great boss you need to treat them as such.
Make sure you doctor isn’t interrupted by phone calls or emails on computer systems usually turned from your viewing. A great doctor forbids interruptions.
Tap into your doctor’s optimism. If being positive is a chore, hit the door. I’ll never forget being on the operating table having heart surgery and my doctor and I were impersonating the voices we hear on car commercials. The entire staff carries that love life attitude and has kept my moving forward every step of the way.
Please make sure you doctor documents everything. History isn’t something you event. There must be a pen and paper in their hand and or recording device or once you’re gone it could be made up. A great doctor doesn’t stop questioning the moment you hit health issues, they cover family, friends and most importantly your job. One doctor said to me, “Your blood pressure is up…are people driving you crazy at work? Want a pill?” What? A simple pill will take them away…I love this country!
Do you feel cared for? Not was your co-pay worth the visit…did you physically and mentally feel cared for?
If you wanna read an incredible earth shattering future shock of a book that’ll wake your tooty up…pick up the latest from Jane Brody: Guide to the Great Beyond…within seconds you’ll be forming tea parties petitioning the White House for better treatment.

You can’t stop yourself from getting sick, injured or needing an extra hand getting through some tough times…that’s why doctors were invented, do yourself and your family a favor…put a little effort into locating someone whose in the business for the right reason and its not to build a stairway made of gold to heaven. Wait, wait…gold is too cheap…a platinum staircase.

Now lets talk about your pets doctor...

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

I'm going to be the worlds oldest American Idol or bust!

I can’t count on mine nor one hundred others ten fingers and toes the number of people met who are openly aware of a hidden desire to locate their purpose. Walk, walk, walk, talk, dream, talk and nearly everyone demands to be shown a giant colorful light during an unexpected turn and through that brightness there shall be loud sirens and horns signaling the arrival of every reason behind the way it all turned out the way it did.

Banks, writers, musicians and magicians, the Stock Market, TJ Max and Wal-Mart love your addiction…I mean passion to scrape from the edges of reality a mysterious white line of somethingness that’s consumed like chocolate truffles when exposed.

Your purpose can be your job, having lunch hunger pains at 9:30 am, making sure your kids got to school on time, racing home to catch the latest guests on Ellen and Oprah. Right now my purpose is to sit inside a completely frozen studio on a tall radio station production room chair with my feet dangling off the side nearing total numbness because my butt refuses to share the blood supply.

Do you understand where I’m going with this?

I’m totally guilty of landing too much energy in the future and not saving an ounce for this present delivery of breath. This mind, body and soul are sickened by the idea that no matter how much heart I put into Tae Kwon Do and how hard I worked at perfecting each form and defense, the organ elected to vacate the premises in July leaving my 3rd Degree Black Belt dreams on a long deserted highway resting next to an opossum whose only need was to get his rounded rump across the road.

We spend so much time focused on reaching a particular point that getting there ends up being a left turn at the tracks, go three miles and turn left before going right only to stop, spin six circles without getting dizzy then hit the gas to pull off a Dukes of Hazard leap over a creek that didn’t exist two seconds ago.

Purpose is what we’re delivered on the inside then spend the rest of your living years trying to turn into something you can touch.

Almost losing my father three weeks ago opened my eyes, it’s become important to those who surround him to simply ask, “Has this man of eighty plus years been given air to complete whatever circles he created?” Like most men dressed up in adult clothes the only thing any father truly wants is happiness and true love for his wife and children. After all the teenage wars, young adult challenges and midlife struggles, my sister Susan noticed something my father would never call his purpose but to her the message came through loud and clear, “You wouldn’t believe how much Mom and Dad love each other. I love watching them be in love.”

Such a presentation sent me to the pages of Eckhart Tolle whose written thousands of pages on these unrecognized purposes billions of us chase hourly, “A purpose is what you are doing right now. If you get up and walk to the door to fetch a hot cup of Joe, you have been given a new purpose.”

Wait! Stop! What about the giant picture? There’s got to be more about life than just living in the moment!

I will forever believe how I reacted at Mercy South at the announcement of my body shutting down has governed the thought process of how I attack each sunrise. My reaction was a big beautiful, “Merry Christmas!” For some stinking reason for nearly twenty five years I’ve ripped at the torn edges of everyday culture spouting, “I don’t do Christmas on one day…I celebrate it everyday!” Never realizing that one day shouting it at the top of my lungs during a heart attack that it would send this system into a performance mode that would build a path into a forest I didn’t recognize only to hear my doctor this past Thursday vibrantly say, “You’ve been given a mulligan. You went against our orders to not do pushups. You didn’t listen when we said no Tae Kwon Do for a year or longer and yet today as I sit here looking at your charts and other doctors notes knowing your heart has returned to 100% performance without any sign of scar tissue. You can’t tell anywhere on this machine that something went horribly wrong not even five months ago.”

Being aware of your being is the purpose. Putting faith in a future you might never touch is like getting beamed up or down to a planet on Star Trek. What is the likelihood of that materializing? How many decisions have been made on your journey toward tomorrow that have reached back and bitten you with a giant poisoned dose of deception?

One of my favorite people in the world is Viva Doc Vegas...his imagination is endless and he has no fear of bringing it to life in the present. His level of confidence is earth shattering because he knows in the end, he did what he wanted most in be happy being nobody but himself.

A desire to excel, win and succeed is achieved in the right now. It might not be a six figure paycheck or a brilliantly designed twelve bedroom home in a ritzy side of town but nothing inspires the tummy more than something new on the dollar menu at McDonalds.

You hear the great masters of martial arts and many spiritual leaders speak of living a life of alignment all the time—being the kid who sat in the back of the church trying to squish my brothers fingers in the hymnal, I didn’t get it, so it didn’t seem important to digest. Once I became an adult it was like...oh oh I think I missed something along the way!

Being aware of your being is nothing more than taking an outside snap shot of your present moment: I’m currently sitting on this giant radio station studio chair with my big fat chin resting in the palm of my hand reading and rereading every sentence written and there’s still going to be an area where the minds eye didn’t catch a misspelled word, out of place sentence or for that matter a message you can relate with. I don’t try to make things perfect because there are too many trees that lean in a pristine forest of trees.

Alignment of your primary purpose begins with thinking and awareness. Get your mind off the clock and calendar and stop measuring the distance you’ve traveled. I’m not a fan of the month of January…the most commonly heard thing, “I’ve lost 22.6 pounds in three weeks!” By February the diet plan is over because that’s all you wanted to reach never realizing that dieting is a way of life and it must remain part of your written pages every day. We slip off the wagon because we’ve been given permission to seek a new purpose.

Honestly, I could speak for hours on the rebuilding of the thought process. My first wife lived by one rule, “If I don’t see it in front of me at this very moment…it doesn’t nor did it ever exist.”

Hmmm…maybe she was onto something but didn’t know how to use it by way of turning it into a positive. Being aware of you is the purpose.

Getting back to living…steal my art.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

I ate a booger in the first grade...

Spent some priceless time with Social Networking Guru Nathan Richie yesterday—his strength being the ability to look deeply into each presentation given on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and My Space and spot extreme weaknesses in the way we’ve elected to communicate.

Like any drug, if it feels good you’ll continue to use it until it kills you.

Conversation without face to face contact is the greatest invention since the birth of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich—to speak when not spoken to without having to visually change our attitude due to selling out to unexpected facial expressions is like walking into a jewelry store and taking home the most expensive diamond without paying for it.

The most common connection we share is an addiction to where we’ve been.

We’ve developed a life and style around an assumed fifteen minutes of fame. While in the sixth grade I was the hall monitor at Ponderosa Elementary—it was during the week President Richard Nixon elected to help out the farmers and change Daylight Savings Time. To be a monitor protecting hundreds of children in the dark was an important position based on trust and leadership. That was 35 years ago! Surely I’m not the same person!

Why torture readers with chapters already written when it’s the future we’re trying to get to?

It kills me to see The Beatles outselling Jay Z, Jordan Sparks and Carry Underwood…it shows how lazy record companies have become in the art of discovering raw, unrehearsed, un-researched talent—they do what comes easiest, rely on the classics. Those rules didn’t exist in 1979 when a group of cousins and friends from Tennessee brought their four part harmonies to the forefront of Country music. I’ll never forget my radio station program director Lonnie Bell at a little daytime station in the armpit of the world screaming the praises of what he called the new kids on the block…Alabama ripped a hole in Porter Wagner’s glorified rhinestones generating enough pomp and circumstance to revamp a dying art. Can you imagine what the face of Country music would look like today without Randy Owens and Teddy Gentry having the guts to put a little rock guitar beside the fiddle in the band?

Your web page and Social Networking outlets are no different. They’re stuck in Beatles-mode. In 1983 blank blank blank was named best to succeed during a nationwide recession. Who cares? What does it have to do with those surrounding you today? What did you do then that could be utilized in 2009?

The one story I personally can’t stand to talk about is a weird event that unwrapped its pretty little face in late 1987 when Casey Kasum elected to leave American Top 40. At the age of 25 I was named one of the five finalists to replace him. Wanna know a secret…it’s never been a deciding factor in landing me a radio job. Sure! I wanted to be Ryan Seacrest years before he was pulled out of diapers! But why paste it to my history?

Social Networking is a tool. Former Vice President Al Gore predicted it would become a valuable source of communication but seems dumfounded by the fact that once we get a hit, laziness sets in. In the latest edition of Rollingstone Magazine he’s vividly clear about how the Obama campaign has totally missed the purpose of the medium. They dedicated their souls to its strength during the election and have done nothing since to keep American’s abreast of what’s going on behind closed doors.

To radio people Social Networking has become an open microphone ungoverned by program directors and decision makers. By being up to date and clear with reasons to stand on a box, the avenue described as broadcasting has hit a level of performance the masters before us didn’t have so they relied on two speakers to stretch their points across cities and states. Rather than saying, "Here's another four in a row without talk," listeners are seeing we're extremely human and go through everyday circumstances just like them. A thicker more meaningful bond is being created. But must be maintained everyday.

In theory Madonna is the greatest creation known to music—she never stopped reinventing. Maria Carey on the other hand has sold more CD’s scoring more number ones than Elvis Presley. Until she married Nick Cannon who the heck was she? Tommy Matolla a record company President vowed to make his wife the best thing since the invention of chicken McNuggets—once the divorce took place she totally disappeared having to reinvent a career that’s respected more today than the moments those incredible five octaves tore up your favorites list.

I love The Beatles! I can’t stop being inspired by Paul McCartney but they weren’t part of George Jetson’s life. We were supposed to be living in space by now working at Spacely Sprockets with our houses being cleaned by extremely friendly robots named Rosie.

How are we supposed to get to the future if our hands are Super Glued to a past we can’t change?

Nothing peels my potatoes more than hearing someone blurt out, “The music was better forty years ago!”

If that’s the case why do producers continue to re-master the Beatles collection? George Lucas rakes in millions every other year with added features or newly designed digital scenes in a movie series we’ve seen 16.9 billion times. James Camreon waited for technology to catch up to his dreams and next week we'll see it come to life in Avatar.

My brother Larry was wrong! Mighty Mouse and Howdy Doody were not the last of the great Saturday morning cartoons. The success of Sponge Bob Square Pants is a stolen page from the book that says, "Hey lets take a chance."

If you don’t think we live in the past…go back and count how many times I reverted back to its witchcraft in this short story? I’m cursed! I’m melting! Melting! All because my Facebook and personal web page have nothing in common with the future.

Nate might be onto something here…if you’re having a hard time landing a job or picking up new accounts—try allowing the power of Social Networking do its magical mystery tour…

If what you're screaming is, "Look at me!”

What’s in it for me?

Steal Nathan’s art…

Monday, December 7, 2009

Is there anything left after being called the best?

Did you happen to catch the CBS Sunday Morning story on unemployment in America? Physical faces, honest fears, self contained bewilderment during a time when being the best no longer inspires the top of the company ladder; it’s a portrait of this great nation the Saturday Evening Post would never publish.

Although a few of the important numbers have dropped, what still remains is a constant company need to shed employees from the books like a snake ridding its body of dried flakey skin.

I spent the majority of my weekend studying human behavior—there are tremendous amounts of entertainment located in the art of conversation. Grocery store cashiers are like a radio morning show; they make or break the future deal. How a cashier acts and reacts to someone barely fit to purchase the stores 80% markup determines if the client will return.

Seriously, movie theater ticket takers and the custodial staff are the biggest stars in Hollywood—their performances at the front door and inside the rows and on top of the stadium seats are far greater than George Clooney appearing in three pictures the same year.

If CBS is spending valuable time putting a heck of a lot of attention on those no longer working…why am I completely fascinated with the gainfully employed? They have what a lot of people want. They hold an invisible key that keeps them working.

People watching uncovers the important behavioral skills required to land the next performance. Name the last time you entered an interview thinking your delivery was hip, on top of pop culture and later learned you came across older than your mother?

So who’s sticking the jobs?

One quick glance at the current trend of everyday places all people visit without judgment and you’ll easily identify the current wave of American workday fame, it’s no different than the uncorrected angst delivered to the world by Curt Cobain and the billion other wanna-be Grunger’s who two decades ago let go of trying to please the decision makers and did what makes life fun…their own thing.

Free spirits are everywhere…except on top. But is that a bad thing?

I fell to my knees in shock when a company manager walked over to an employee and said, “You’re going home.”

Unmoved by the sudden change the employee looked to the floor and smiled.

“I’ve asked you a hundred times to stop updating your Facebook at work.”

I’m not a Baby Boomer but nothing generates more blood flow than watching the gap between the ages shrink to near nothingness. Inside my imagination I picture the older person taking the time to showoff their skills, a stealing of the arts, this is how you do it better type of conversation only to learn as you near the blurted out words the Gen Xer barely recognizes the mindset of the taller more experienced employee and feels a need to reprimand the aged like fine wine worker for not stalking a shelf properly. No grin, not even an insane smirk, a calm, “Yes sir,” is heard and the day moves forward.

CBS didn’t cover the story that needs to be told—the inside secrets of those holding what everyone wants to own. Let us look into the eyes of the employed to see how unprotected multitasking has nearly capsized the family dream. You can’t help but believe that N1H1 and other sicknesses will one day be linked to a society that couldn’t stop working. If our daily lives were the NBA, NFL and the Actors Guild, it would be a much different America.

I’m not screaming unions…take a good gander at who the healthiest people are shopping this holiday season…small businesses owners with teams of two to five. They’ve developed plans that make grassrooting the true path to success. They’re not worried about George Clooney’s bottom line firing devices displayed in the new film Up in the Air to walk in and easily erase eighty collective years of hard work and dedication.

Keeping it small is like saying keep it real. It reminds me of a speech my radio mentor Andrew Ashwood once shouted during a time of rebuilding the radio station, “I don’t want to be a listener’s first or second choice! We’ve done nothing to earn it. My goal today and everyday is to be just one of the five buttons on that car radio. Once we begin to appear there and not something someone scans into then we have the right to say we’ve accomplished something. Until then…its time to hit the streets and promote what we do with lots of hand shakes and lasting smiles.”

He was a one of a kind with a vision and voice that stood out like someone trying out for American Idol the rejection episodes. Yet if you took the time to get to know the man...the mission became easy.

Have you ever watched a flock of morning doves? They follow each other everywhere singing what seems to be the same coo coo coo over and over again. Survival to them seems like a solid team effort until you drive beside a collection of above ground telephone lines and notice a single dove staring off into the world. That Andrew Ashwood style of individualism takes on a new role without becoming depressed by morning dove peer pressure. By flying alone he’s allowed himself to believe in the spirit of locating newer places to eat, grow and take shelter during bitterly cold mornings.

True story…seconds after I took note of the dove, a red tail hawk flew in to sit beside him. I naturally assumed the hawk was recently fired and was trying to land a gig with the dove family. If it was about having dinner the hawk is blessed with enough skills to swipe dove meat right off the line without skipping a beat. Seeing them together holds the message: It doesn’t matter how big you are or how power your reputation is…in the end there can be no success if what we develop isn’t equal to everyone who participates.

Which is my poetic way of saying, “The stock market and banks might own America but it’s ultimately the average everyday person who makes it worth its weight in gold.” That’s the real face we need to get to know…what do you have that we all want to own? Maybe it’s time you let someone steal your art. The best students in a martial arts class are the instructors who never stopped recognizing themselves as a white belt.

Friday, December 4, 2009

How valuable is time in a world that wants to slow down?

What the heck is going on here? It’s another weekend already! How is this possible? Did I eat too much turkey and all those secret sleepy ingredients inside knock me out for days?

Dear Santa,

Please give me a wind up clock with a giant oval face that doesn’t make time race.


Billy the silly time keeper with nothing better to do than sit and stew.

We’ve all been through this! Our first official date with bad timing was fighting like a wild dog to get through elementary, middle and high school…it was a chore! Just 8 more years, three months, six days, three hours and twenty two seconds. The only thing that sped it up was a great teacher you loved so much you officially dubbed them a member of your secret invisible family.

Maybe that’s what we need to do in 2010? Is it time to set up some time? A good example…I can’t wait to finally reach July 22nd! That’s when the medically trained professionals have me slated to stop taking these drugs. Not only am I being forced to remember to take them but once these horse pills are outta these handwritten chapters…there are a few Tae Kwon Do names that need to be taken care of on Martial Arts Santa’s naughty list.

I’ve never been a fan of time. It is my pet peeve. There are no eyes to look into or arms to pull back when life feels like Black Friday at an overcrowded mall. Nope…time just ticks away. It doesn’t have an ounce of care for humans or their pets. It’s the world’s greatest employee, constantly staying focused and never taking days off to be with the kids.

Time is the greatest piece of marketing created…hired are messengers called clocks, they’re everywhere! Big clocks, tiny computer clocks, watches that buzz, grandfather clocks that bong… I’d love to meet the man or woman who inked the deal with time to be in so many places without paying a single cent for rent.

I hate time! It hates me! Songs can be too long and we hit fast forward or rewind. But not with time…we’re the snotty nosed brats in the back along for the ride. Time is so powerful it has Presidents convinced that something needs to be done but you only have this much time. When you run out, we wave goodbye and set up vacations around their libraries to revisit what they did with their time.

Time’s biggest weakness is how it can be measured. While the group Styx belted out Too Much Time on Your Hands, NASA scientists would like to nab some of that something, something to score a light year from the heavens while living to tell about it. A sonic boom is an act connected to breaking the sound barrier…the time it takes to reach point A and B equals BOOOM!

Time can’t be confused with times. Parents who stare down the young folk with bursting conversations like, “How many times have I told you not to do that? I’m going to take your punishment and times it by ten.” Multiple times I’d begin to laugh because I was more powerful than Spiderman, fully capable of turning off the lights with my eyes and that for a brief moment in time would purchase me enough time to send their thinking methods into, “What the?”

Time times time equals? How many gray hairs does it take to finally reach the core of your true purpose? My Uncle Willie once took thoughts like this and pondered them. Basically meaning, he’d latch his Wyoming farming hands around a single break in the day to create a brake on times path.

A new weekend is already here. I feel as if I should be upset. How can I get my work done at work if we keep running out of time? In the words of the great Steve Miller, “Time keeps ticking, ticking…into the future.”

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Tis the season to pork out!

Ahhhh the spirit of the holiday! Nearly every night of the week its dinners with bosses, neighbors, friends at fchurch and anyone else willing to drop the diet and go all out Feliz Navidad. Yummy!

The problem with so much eating really isn’t the food but rather how we shove the incredibly seasoned, heavily salted and sugured, fried not baked delicious appetizers, leafy green salads, full blown out meals and always craved deserts into our choppers. Dad constantly told his eight growing tikes, “You belong tied up and gagged at home—you eat like you’ve never seen before then wear it around on the front of your shirts and blouses like pigs headed for the slaughter house.”

Not all kids grow out of that…so what are you supposed to do when you're stuck dining with a mess?

Morally speaking…it’s time to bring in the expert Anne Marie Sabbath who quickly reminds the invited guest to do their best when trying to express, “Yo oink oink…the only thing missing from the slop is the scent of a milk spoiled stale farm on a one hundred degree day.”

If the food keeps missing the pie hole don’t stand up and demand better people to eat with…Anne says, “Take the high road and blot your lips with a napkin.”

It’s 100% human nature to mimic the people you dine with. As much fun as you’d have embarrassing the mess all dressed up…keep peace in the peas while inviting them to clean more than their plate by doing nothing more than tapping and not rapping on the gentleness of your lips.

Stop! Stop! Stop! This year is different; celebrating the holiday in a fancy rich person restaurant is totally out of the question. Ordering ala cart is boring compared to the endless amount of good stuff found on a hot rockin flame throwing buffet. I frequent these bad monsters so much that an invisible badge hangs above my heart, “I am a professional at this game!”

Buffets expose everything! Working one of these babies requires a solid game plan and it starts with understanding the Grand Daddy of all rules—if you came to this fine place for one plate…leave now. Porking down the freshly delivered tators, fried rice and sushi followed by constantly reappearing steaks and shrimp is an honor not a test market.

Keep your hands off the oversized dishes and bowls and limit the water and soda intake. Managers and waiters are on a mission to jam your bucket in the name of quickly getting full...nothing fills you up faster than an oversized plate of blessed with everything. That’s why you should quickly locate the little plates. Create Food Network masterpieces on the tiny guys…presentation is everything at a buffet.

If you’re heaping you’re heaving.

Get out of your head and put the food in the tummers by creatively walking through the enormous amount of way the heck out there food…and whatever you do, always invite someone to go with you. The average couple spends fifteen minutes eating. Whoa, that was fun…what’s up next? Unless you have a good grip on relaxing at dinner without diving into the chocolate pudding…take someone with you to share conversation with. Get lost in thought not the food to which you no longer have room for.

People come first not the food…this isn’t the last supper.

One more thing…who’s the idiot on the left that keeps using your bread plate? I love to share until the moment arrives…their nasty butter knife is on my side of the white picket fence. Do you have the dinner rights to fight? Anne Marie Sabbath says, “Yes! But do it playfully…such as Wow I love rye with my wheat.”

No! Now the person on the right has swiped the plate on the other side! This assumption game is causing me to drink! Two things can happen at this point…calmly ask for another plate to be placed next to your salad or pull off a classic Arroe…stay 100% away from bread. There’s much better food on the way. "Sorry Mr. Chef I couldn’t find the time to enjoy your infamous worldly known dish…I was in an all out Rick Flair brawl with the dogs trying to score squatting rights to the butter dish!”

How often do you want to scream, “I can’t take you anywhere?”

This holiday season eat like a Super Bowl Champion...put faith in having a mission then get her done without feeling like a water buffalo or a guilt ridden freak before bedtime...and always hand your tips to the person that waited on you. If you truly mean what the tip represents its truly welcomed with a warm smile and a solid thank you. It inspires the employee to work just as hard on the next table.

Steal my art….

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

I hate pain but do nothing to prevent it!

Rain, rain and more rain…talk about a major headache! But is it the weather we blame? What causes those fat monsters to creep up and bite you on the neck, shoulders, legs and other things? I’d be fibbing to you if I didn’t admit the attempt to be the manly man by ignoring a solid day crunching headache nearly took the air from these lungs.

Headaches aren’t to be ignored. Like anger they aren’t the solution but only a symptom. Headaches act as a signal by way of telling the body, “Whoa…Jimmy can’t jam, got his booty ego in a big ole bunch of ouch.”

In my situation, a self diagnosed prescription of two Advil chased by five extra strength Tylenol then watered down by a couple of Goodies powers should’ve spelled out trouble—I failed to listen. Rather than hoist the symptoms into the palms of the educated medical official, I played the role of the doctor officially declaring war on stress combined with eighteen hour workdays. There was no way a stupid headache had the strength to whip these size eleven feet from under me. I’m a second degree black belt! We are trained to ignore pain and disaster! I shall push my way through this brick wall.

The scariest document ever written in my daily journal was on Saturday July 18, 2009 in which I physically penned out, “I’m in tremendous pain without explanation. I am having problems breathing and can’t seem to focus on anything. I think it’s because my body doesn’t want me to go for the 3rd Degree. I’m electing to ignore how I feel today because a true martial artist never lets anything stand in the way of winning a war.”

I took the special class nearly passing out four different times. I didn’t have the courage to tell Master Harris that I was in that much pain…it showed a sign of weakness. My side kicks were barely knee high. My balance resembled a completely out of control drunk downtown. I couldn’t perform a single martial arts form without walking slowly to the back of the room in shame. As bad as my head hurt I couldn’t stop…never realizing I was having a heart attack.

High blood pressure causes headaches. But you already know that and if you’re like millions if not billions of others such conditions can be beat without seeking medical attention. I will change my diet! Gone will be…will be…hmmm…you know what, lets not worry about this until something happens. I mean come on! We all know the signs of the big one!

When consumed by a headache have you ever put focus on relaxing your left leg? What? Dr. Robert G Ford from the Headache Clinic believes head throbbing prevention begins with learning how to relax. I didn’t say snag a bottle of beer or glass of wine from the fridge. I said relax…

By starting with your left leg the rest of your body will follow—the toes, the plumbers behind which then inspires the awaiting right leg to play along with the song.

Other ways to escape include an hourly moment with the body we call our own but barely know…every hour at work, you should spend one minute with your eyes closed. If the boss man has problems with this exercise, that’s why God invented toilets…go take a seat in the worlds greatest place of privacy. Rub the palms of your hands together to create heat…then place the heals of your hands over the eyelids. Do it again, then place your hands on your cheeks, neck and scalp.

Did you know most headaches are triggered because we fail to move our necks? We are the lazy generation! Holding your neck in place for an extended length of time is good reason for your body to toss a king sized two year old child’s fit. As much as you can’t stand to leave your job to visit the doctor, its time to see the man or woman that can help you identify where the pain originates so you can begin a healing process.

By relaxing those trapezius muscles it’s telling your system to take a chill pill. One of the quickest ways to reach that level of performance is to get control of your breathing. Out of all the classes they teach in elementary school to college, the single most important class is constantly left out…what is the proper way to breathe? I don’t care how fat you look, if you don’t give me the Buddha belly when tossing energy through that body then you’re asking to be completely connected to a massive headache made of granite.

Take the time to read about four extremely easy breathing techniques created by the Great Grandmasters of Jin Jung Kwan Hapkido


Headaches! I can’t stand them! And on rainy days like today they rage far worse than children who didn’t get what they wanted for Christmas. What we eat, drink, sleep with or without…what we perform or stay away from adds to the bodies way of trying to communicate with the inner ear of a core system that’s guaranteed to do two things…live then die. What you do in between will determine how big the headache is going to be.

Getting back to living…steal my art.

Footnote: Since July 18, 2009 under the extremely over protective watchful eye of the Sanger Heart and Vascular Clinic I have returned to martial arts where every night I continue to push my mind, body and soul through the same brick walls that stood before me in the chapters written before the fall…except this time around I’m learning a new art…trying to identify the language this body is speaking so the next time it wants something I don’t attempt to create words to put in the place of assumed silence.