Thursday, April 30, 2009

Coming clean....

I’m not afraid to admit it, “I am a Drama King!” Not the king of drama…I don’t write it then produce it, nor am I the leader of a major chunk of land called Moody-ville…but anyone standing nearby quickly realizes the slightest mishap or scent of anything out of the ordinary freaks me out.



Hypochondriac is my middle name and I wear it well.



A new disease rises out of Mexico and instantly I shut every window in the house, frantically rush to the car making sure I don’t breathe and stand three hundred feet from the nearest sneeze. Master Todd Harris demonstrates a choking technique and before he finishes the sentence I’m staring into the darkness of the soul in front of me sternly delivering, “Don’t mess with my career…touch my neck and I’ll find your weakness.” If I’m scheduled for a meeting or an event, my arrival time is two hours before it slated to begin. You can’t be late if you put total focus on always being early.



I’m not weird! But every chance I get I’ll play out the role on the radio. Away from your stereo system the Drama King’s journey is completely 100% the best way to travel. Who says that? Buddhist Monk and spiritual leader Thick Nhat Hahn, “Compressing your emotions leads to sicknesses that can’t be cured.”



I feel so much because I grew extremely tired of being numb.



Suddenly opening the door to a world of whoa so much turns into several embarrassing situations on the chick flick front. Movie critics slowly walk by asking for your view and I can’t get past, “You had me at hello.”



No matter how professional you feel keeping all things compressed, the energy will find its way out…drugs, alcohol, divorce, nonstop cold and flu, simple scratches on the arms that were really put there by paper clips or anything sharp. Walk within my sight and your eyes echo a tale, it’s up to you to tell or assumption will guide the world toward destinations much deeper than the hole already dug.



Careful now…those who feel are easy destruction targets. One look at coffee and power drink sales and instantly we qualify for free travel miles…there’s no better way to get back up then to lean really hard on the compassionate one. Up you go and the drama still sits at the bottom of the hole with the hand holder whose forgot to bring a ladder. One who feels always feels, you can’t stop feeling and if you try, it becomes an itch, twitch, a hum that’s out of tune and to whom do you place blame…oh they went that way!



Thick Nhat Hahn leads parents in the way of convincing children to emotionalize…to trust their ambition of letting go. In time, they learn to control it. A little farther down the trail and you discover ways to recognize its behaviors before birth. Bosses who are constantly edgy might not find fault in the workplace but because it provides a safe environment to vent…they let it rip.



This is where I normally say, “Wow! This is a great time to write!”

One in ten billion, trillion and a half a ca-zillion physically realize the importance of that outlet. Writers are nerds. Writing is stupid. Writing is a waste of time. Writing can be read by people too close to your problem. Writing is a paper trail toward stupid boring poetry that could include Winnie the Pooh and Tigger too.



You are so right! To write is the most God awful way to communicate. We are killing trees when we put words down on paper! How dare we think anything we write has the ability to free us from something so invisible even the invisible man walks away shaking his head!



Grrrrr…yuck! Anger! Bad words! Self created new words! You can’t think because thinking stinks too! More grrrr! If you were a can of warm Pepsi you’d pop your own top then shoot everywhere because it just felt so good to finally escape. Aaaaaaaaah!



And you thought I was a Drama King?



If you have uncontrollable urges to be a jerk…make your bed every morning. Not before you leave for work, not after the shower…the very second your feet touch the floor, turn to the bed and make it. When you start to take care of the things that bring you comfort, the moment you feel discomfort you look beyond the unrest in ways of seeking a better way to locate a solution.



Can’t write or make the bed…nice! Do pushups. Not thirty, forty or fifty…just five. That’s it…no more no less. Anger brings horrible pain to your body. So does doing pushups but the end result of the effort is a stronger body not another human spirit downsized by your efforts to pull off a pick me up.



If you feel empty, your soul aches like a migraine…don’t fill it with chocolate or other shapes of false highs…drink water. Get full on something that will wash the bad out in ten or twenty minutes and when doing so softly whisper, “Bye bye bad mood…”



Tired of hearing the propaganda story of the week during the six o’clock news…rediscover music…find something new to call your own…modern jazz isn’t the jazz your parents used as a laxative. It’s shaped by the imagination of travelers just like you, leaving open just enough space to set your life and style within its groove.



Do you hate the idea of going to work because of a lack of job security? Here today, gone tomorrow? Fill that fear with a guarantee, a rose garden that craves your love and attention, spend an hour a week at an old folks home and feel true love blossom each time you walk through the door. Rescue a puppy or cat and help them heal in ways that couldn’t have happened without your dedication and loyalty.



Your body is a closet. The junk you keep in there won’t sell at a weekend garage sale…the rest of us already have too much. It’s good to be a drama king or queen. If someone has a problem with it, you’ll soon gain the confidence to stand up to their lack of self discipline and control.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Grab the mop! I've got the bucket!

“In your face!”



If this was American Top 40…these three words would be bubbling under the hot top spot of the week for the most famous threesome of all time. I’m not Casey Kasum or Ryan Seacrest but let’s face it…Yes you can from the Presidential race and I Love You have some stiff upper lip competition.



Alexis on American Idol didn’t say it but pretty much delivered it in the seconds that followed Simon Cowell’s comment of her journey being in serious trouble. The struggling car industry caught some serious flack from the government when their CEO’s came to the Pow Wow in private jets…those controlling the dollars and cents didn’t have to say it…the lack of money being poured was loud enough.



“In your face!”



As kids and playful adults we’ve half heartedly joked and at times sarcastically pounded these three words into the hearts, souls, ears, eyes and noses of coworkers and friends while sipping on another twelve ounces of its attitude on the idea of moving forward.



Say what?



Yeah…personal growth at work, home, church or out on the golf course with Tiger Woods suddenly stops when you elect to remove what you need to truly do from your eyes connected to the head that’ll take you there. In martial arts, if you want to win at sparring, the goal is to work your way to the opponents head. It doesn’t matter how much you fork out for product or style, wherever your head is positioned, your body is following.



So where’s your head today? Business meetings are in the way. Meeting new clients is such a waste. I just want two hours of silence; let the kids do whatever they want. Nobody should have to say hello to the neighbor…just wave! Then Bob drops and the only memory you have is something that resembles the palm of a Prom Queen at the Macy’s Day Parade.



Nobody really knows where the term In Your Face arrived, but it’s been used countless times in some of the most memorable places, movies, MTV Video Awards, between basketball and football players and hot topics like Mohammad Ali and Mike Tyson. Before it became cool, even my brother Terry had a unique way of rubbing his attitude in places he felt it belonged.



We get it! Right? Not really. Nobody wants to take themselves on. Today’s leaders will be tomorrow’s leaders. The right of passage has become extinct. The only change coming our way is a constant need to clean the slate. Unless you stand up and take pride in your efforts of becoming what you’ve spent years or even five minutes thinking...nothing is going to take place.



In your face! Notes! Today I’m going to participate in the meeting by offering ideas. Today at lunch I’m going to thank the person behind the counter for being dedicated to making sure hundreds of people are served hot food. In your face! Notes! Today I’m going to stop by the music store and sit down at one of the electric pianos to see what feels like to put my fingers on each key. Rather than mow the lawn when I get home, I’m going to lie in the grass and look up into the trees to watch other living things around me. In your face! Notes! I’m not going to yell at the kids or pets when something doesn’t seem to be right at home. I’m going to try something like Facebook for no reason other than to connect with the friends I lost contact with after high school.



Wherever your head is…your body was created to follow. Wednesday nights are fight nights in Hop Kido, we play for real. The 325 pound monster appointed to me has one mission…take me out as quickly as possible. He’s no different than your boss and or most recent reasons for stress such as sickness or unpaid taxes. The only way to beat the beast is not to get in his face but your face.



Whatever...right? My little finger can lift the monster off my throat. I need this thing that connects my brain to my shoulders. Couldn’t survive in radio for five minutes without it. Patiently waiting for the monster is a good decision but within seconds you’ll have no air for your eyes to remain open. Using my little finger and placing it inside his snot canal, his head begins to follow and with him, that stinky uniform.



In your face! Notes! You aren’t paid to create a new family at work…but it’s expected that you use family qualities when building bridges to open ideas. If your children came up to you and said, “Mom, Dad, glad you’re staying home…the car is mine, taking all my friends to the movie then dinner on your dime.” You’d have a fit! Your work ethic does it to you everyday. Instead of playing out the role of Johnny Joe’s job description, we’ve entered an age when our current leaders could use a little help. In your face! Notes! In Tae Kwon Do we clean our own school and that requires us to take out the trash. Save your company money by helping to keep the building clean. Spend a day mowing the lawn. It’s amazing how your spirit about being at work changes when you become part of the process rather than seat number 2115 in cubical 39-B.



My first wife used to play an evil game, “If I can’t see it…it doesn’t exist.”



Where’s your head?



The economy is sour…Swine Flu has claimed its first America life. Are you popping on the tube to wash the worries away? It took billions of long hours hoisted into play by millions of volunteers and professional scientists to locate not a cure for AIDS but slivers of peace. We’ve learned this generation not to shove In Your Face into the presence of disease and or financial reality…it has a crazy way of spinning around and coming back stronger.



In your face! Notes! If you can’t see it…it won’t exist. Please don’t steal her art.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Crank it up!!!

Worldly respected architect Frank Lloyd Wright sits in a well decorated extremely rich in taste room with his grandchildren and wife listening to a song…instantly; he falls deeply in love with the even flow of harmony mixed with an orchestration of instruments not often sharing the same stage. The song plays through before the arm of the turntable lifts straight up then over and in that time Frank’s smile seems to be soothed by an often unseen soul…something worth sharing, so much so, he asks his wife of many chapters written to softly lift the diamond needle up from its resting place and start the music again.



Sitting back, he prepares to welcome the piece of music in a more calming way…a slight lean on the right arm in a chair that’s held his dreams for years. The machine carrying the sound from a thick flat layer of vinyl is set at a one time acceptable speed of 78; tiny scratches can be heard but become part of the landscape his brilliant imagination creates seemingly melting into the vibration of each musical instrument as if to say, “You belong with us.”



Once the song was fully completed, the sharply accused of being out of touch, yet far reaching hardworking architect readjusted his body, then asked his grandchild to quickly step up and play the music once again. The sweet essence of the first note inspires his right hand to step from an avenue of normalism, turning a well crafted window designer and building maker into a single man standing before a large orchestra, arms raised as if to greet the wind instruments while slowly skating across open space to give permission to the strings to seep into the constantly moving picture.



What was perfectly timed out to being three minutes forty five seconds felt more like twenty two seconds to Mr. Wright. “Again!” He shouted, “I want to hear it again.” This time, he laid down, his eyes gently closed, not as path leading toward sleep but to envision what the producers might have been seeing. Frank had become so mesmerized by the music, he spiritually placed himself in positions that allowed his inner visions to be a fly on the wall, to reenact the French horns being called upon while an ancient cello handed through three generations kept pace with a bass beat resembling that of an echo, as if to remind those who became lost in the music of they might have missed.



A single piece of music so captivating its energy pulls you toward its presentation rather than sends you to a dance floor to give it away to a passerby seeking to do the same. A sliver of genius shared with another artist, resembling that of Frank Sinatra who was deeply inspired by the group Chicago that he sent handwritten letters offering ideas and advise on how to heighten the end result of their songs. Music so power that it takes the shape of Elvis Presley meeting Liberace backstage. The famed pianist calmly walks toward the undiscovered artist and compliments his stage appearance while offering him the jacket off his back, “Wear this the next time you play…showmanship is everything.”



His grandchildren beginning to get restless, his wife the same, Frank Lloyd Wright seemed endless on his desire to keep listening. Three times became six, then seven and eight. Finally Mrs. Wright demanded the song to be put away. Without skipping a beat the creator of unforgettable business fashion with a desire to protect nature and its multitudes of light replied, “If you want to make a difference in the world…you must use your voice.”



Say it to yourself: If you want to make a difference in the world…you must use your voice.



He didn’t borrow from John Mayer who penned, “Waiting for the world to change.” Nor did Frank Lloyd Wright crank up Diana Ross and the Supremes, “Someday we’ll be together.” Linda Ronstadt’s “Somewhere out there,” remained out there and forget about Paul McCartney singing, “Maybe I’m amazed.” Because he was…there was no maybe about it.



If you want to make a difference in the world…you must use your voice.



Two weeks ago hundreds of thousands of peaceful citizens staged a tea party protesting our nation’s taxes. They wanted to be heard. So did the millions who marched against a possible U.S. invasion of Iraq…but were they heard? Richard Nixon heard John Lennon but not in the way the former Beatle had hoped. Lennon wanted to give peace a chance. Nixon heard chants from wild college crowds and wanted the Englishman lifted from American soil. In November of 2008 we heard, “Change…yes you can!” So we did.



What was the message yesterday when Air Force One sent thousands of scared frantic people to the streets of New York City who didn’t receive the email that promotional pictures were going to be taken during the height of a normal business day? I live nearly a thousand miles from the Big Apple and for eight years I’ve never taken my eye off a big, small, twin or jet soaring above or nearby. What was the average Joe thinking, feeling, fearing then sharing on cell phones and any other method of texting or communication? A voice was heard yesterday but it was delivered so loud the echo reverberating against the planet has made many deaf.



If you want to make a difference in the world…you must use your voice.



A local newscaster once said to me, “Arroe, you might want to think twice about stepping across the radio lines into television…I am nothing more than a professional reader. You might see an image of me on the television screen but every word shared has nothing to do with the real me.”



Interestingly enough…success is based on our ability and or inability to pull off a stage and pony show. Vaudeville is back, its just one act and there’s always free tickets at the door. Why are we being moved to a HDTV television presentation? The old method didn’t seem broken. My mother still has a rotary phone, no computer and types on an old black beat up machine while refusing to let a calculator do math for her! The age of digital pictures guarantees one thing…frozen scenes…rebooting cable boxes and larger than life screens that could’ve easily accessed by moving the sofa closer to the tube. Just tune mom and dad out when they shout, “You’re going to go blind sitting that close!”



45 million people voted on American Idol last week. If you want to make a difference in the world…you must use your voice.



I swear I’m in a great mood! I promise I’m laughing and smiling! We live in an age when those who want to make a difference are labeled a jerk. Let your voice be heard!



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, April 27, 2009

Stop calling the doctor! They can't cure Whine Flu...

Do newscasters have it correct? Is it “Swine flu or Whine flu?” Could there be two? Both create tremendous stomach problems, high levels of anxiety and completely and stressfully affect as well as infect anyone who comes near it. The only difference, Swine flu is an extremely serious life threatening disease while Whine flu plaques big and small business bosses who can’t keep employees working day after day.


Five o’clock Friday…the body required something quick to eat; a sub shop is almost healthy…until you see one employee entertaining a line of fifteen. Mike the senior in high school elected not to show. Shooting down the road as fast I could go, the Greek place is constantly brimmed with hard working players feasting on creating the perfect goal. Yes! A room full of workers, oh oh…three quarters of them are texting or talking on their cell phone.


This is far from being just a restaurant pandemic. All places of business, mall stores, hardware outlets, grocery store chains, middle of the road and high tech offices, banks, schools, gas stations and neighborhood friendliness are being run down by Whine flu. Employee’s, coworkers, family and friends who spend more time contemplating a workday escape than focusing on getting the job done…and done high quality right.


This coming from an admitted work-a-holic who finds fault in the American system of asking for only forty hours a week…anything less than sixty or eighty is laziness. There would be far less complaining on the job front if someone with enough courage stood up and said, “I need fifty five hours from you a week at normal pay.” It’s when the normal person inches ever so close to that giant four then zero that hearts begin to pound a little faster, harder then out of control…generating more stress than a belt connected to your cars engine. Yet, the belt around our waist just keeps getting bigger...we've learned to worry about that in January and May, just in time for summer loafing.


Having a job is a luxury. Can you imagine being Laura Ingles from Little House on Prairie who was expected to wake up hours before sunrise, have the chickens and cattle fed before six, raking as well as weeding the dry fields completed by eleven so lunch can be prepared by noon so that could return irrigating the larger than life garden, stacking hay, shucking corn for animal feed, watering the horses and or sheep six miles away.


Even that doesn’t come close to the picture my mother constantly paints of our nation during the chapters written in the days after the Great Depression. War Time America put single ladies in bullet building job positions miles from family. Mom speaks of having to do a full day of what she called mans work. Wining about family issues, bank account problems, running off to the dentist in the middle of the afternoon or taking a three hour lunch in the middle of an expected eight hour day wasn’t part of their struggling economy.


As much as I want to blame mom for my passion at the workplace…she only gets credit for displaying a strong backbone during moments of crisis. No moping, no flopping down on the sofa to catch Oprah or Ellen…if one job position wasn’t enough, she moved ahead to land three sometimes four different jobs with not one single complaint of having too much expectation from out of control bosses.



Anyone can feed a tale of having incredible work ethics…talk is cheap. Executing top of the line performances everyday and not when you’re in the mood isn’t something that’s given to you at birth, leaders aren’t born…they are made…you must be taught exceptional ways to execute endeavors on time, every time…or assume the shape of a giant lion whose wild hair gently blows in the wind, not a care in the world because the King of Beasts has employees to do the deed.


All mammals find great energy in taking it one or far less step at a time…


Nobody really knows where human addiction to entertainment began, the Pictorial Caves outside Billings, Montana showcase ancient sketches on the walls of sandstone of a time in history when taking life easy wasn’t the fun part about living…it was bringing to life a landscape of plans that enabled the entire body to be fed. The idea of sacrificing what affects those who make up your circle was once looked upon as being a state of weakness and if that occurred you were forced to leave, to survive on your own and in the days before Laura Ingles, the likelihood of that was maybe six weeks to a year.


Once bitten by Whine flu, grasping the heart strings of department heads who vow to understand and have guaranteed they won’t act like the corporate leaders from the 1980’s and 90’s best known for micro-managing…we’ve lived too hard to seek control of your life and style, so lets reinvent the workplace like Microsoft and relax on the ideals that once held performance together and give trust to short term individuality.


Let reality be reality…Scotty Pippin of the infamous Chicago Bulls was paid to give Michael Jordon the ball. Dennis Rodman was there to pick up, grab, rip from another player any and every rebound possible and to do nothing more than send that ball back to Michael Jordon. You don’t need an entire bench of wanna-be players to win a game, they bottom lined it like a true business seeking success.



Michael Jordon’s personal claim to fame isn’t the number of perfect shots he made. It’s far from being the huge collection of rings embracing a national championship. The single greatest thing Michael Jordon holds…he got to be with his father for thirty nine years. His father was the spirit keeper and guide to a work ethic that lead a team, not an individual to unheard of success. Steph Curry from the Davidson Wildcats was the nation’s top shooter in college basketball, now headed to the NBA. Look who’s been there to showcase spectacular loyalty, dedication, determination and a willingness to never stop learning…his mother and father. I asked Harlem Globe Trotter Buckets Blake about Steph Curry, he said, “The man loves to share the ball…”


Whine flu doesn’t exist inside a champions chapters.


My coach was Fred Story. Because of his constant desire to bring listeners to radio commercials rather than push them away…his art of showmanship landed in my hands and to this day, every break on the air, every commercial written and played out still holds his signature of style.


Teach yourself to steal a champions art…


arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Stop calling the doctor! They can;t cure Wine Flu...

Do newscasters have it correct? Is it “Swine flu or Wine flu?” Could there be two? Both create tremendous stomach problems, high levels of anxiety and completely and stressfully affect as well as infect anyone who comes near it. The only difference, Swine flu is an extremely serious life threatening disease while Wine flu plaques big and small business bosses who can’t keep employees working day after day.



Five o’clock Friday…the body required something quick to eat; a sub shop is almost healthy…until you see one employee entertaining a line of fifteen. Mike the senior in high school elected not to show. Shooting down the road as fast I could go, the Greek place is constantly brimmed with hard working players feasting on creating the perfect goal. Yes! A room full of workers, oh oh…three quarters of them are texting or talking on their cell phone.



This is far from being just a restaurant pandemic. All places of business, mall stores, hardware outlets, grocery store chains, middle of the road and high tech offices, banks, schools, gas stations and neighborhood friendliness are being run down by Wine flu. Employee’s, coworkers, family and friends who spend more time contemplating a workday escape than focusing on getting the job done…and done high quality right.



This coming from an admitted work-a-holic who finds fault in the American system of asking for only forty hours a week…anything less than sixty or eighty is laziness. There would be far less complaining on the job front if someone with enough courage stood up and said, “I need fifty five hours from you a week at normal pay.” It’s when the normal person inches ever so close to that giant four then zero that hearts begin to pound a little faster, harder then out of control…generating more stress than a belt connected to your cars engine. Yet, the belt around our waist just keeps getting bigger...we've learned to worry about that in January and May, just in time for summer loafing.



Having a job is a luxury. Can you imagine being Laura Ingles from Little House on Prairie who was expected to wake up hours before sunrise, have the chickens and cattle fed before six, raking as well as weeding the dry fields completed by eleven so lunch can be prepared by noon so that could return irrigating the larger than life garden, stacking hay, shucking corn for animal feed, watering the horses and or sheep six miles away.



Even that doesn’t come close to the picture my mother constantly paints of our nation during the chapters written in the days after the Great Depression. War Time America put single ladies in bullet building job positions miles from family. Mom speaks of having to do a full day of what she called mans work. Wining about family issues, bank account problems, running off to the dentist in the middle of the afternoon or taking a three hour lunch in the middle of an expected eight hour day wasn’t part of their struggling economy.



As much as I want to blame mom for my passion at the workplace…she only gets credit for displaying a strong backbone during moments of crisis. No moping, no flopping down on the sofa to catch Oprah or Ellen…if one job position wasn’t enough, she moved ahead to land three sometimes four different jobs with not one single complaint of having too much expectation from out of control bosses.



Anyone can feed a tale of having incredible work ethics…talk is cheap. Executing top of the line performances everyday and not when you’re in the mood isn’t something that’s given to you at birth, leaders aren’t born…they are made…you must be taught exceptional ways to execute endeavors on time, every time…or assume the shape of a giant lion whose wild hair gently blows in the wind, not a care in the world because the King of Beasts has employees to do the deed.



All mammals find great energy in taking it one or far less step at a time…



Nobody really knows where human addiction to entertainment began, the Pictorial Caves outside Billings, Montana showcase ancient sketches on the walls of sandstone of a time in history when taking life easy wasn’t the fun part about living…it was bringing to life a landscape of plans that enabled the entire body to be fed. The idea of sacrificing what affects those who make up your circle was once looked upon as being a state of weakness and if that occurred you were forced to leave, to survive on your own and in the days before Laura Ingles, the likelihood of that was maybe six weeks to a year.



Once bitten by Wine flu, grasping the heart strings of department heads who vow to understand and have guaranteed they won’t act like the corporate leaders from the 1980’s and 90’s best known for micro-managing…we’ve lived too hard to seek control of your life and style, so lets reinvent the workplace like Microsoft and relax on the ideals that once held performance together and give trust to short term individuality.



Let reality be reality…Scotty Pippin of the infamous Chicago Bulls was paid to give Michael Jordon the ball. Dennis Rodman was there to pick up, grab, rip from another player any and every rebound possible and to do nothing more than send that ball back to Michael Jordon. You don’t need an entire bench of wanna-be players to win a game, they bottom lined it like a true business seeking success.



Michael Jordon’s personal claim to fame isn’t the number of perfect shots he made. It’s far from being the huge collection of rings embracing a national championship. The single greatest thing Michael Jordon holds…he got to be with his father for thirty nine years. His father was the spirit keeper and guide to a work ethic that lead a team, not an individual to unheard of success. Steph Curry from the Davidson Wildcats was the nation’s top shooter in college basketball, now headed to the NBA. Look who’s been there to showcase spectacular loyalty, dedication, determination and a willingness to never stop learning…his mother and father. I asked Harlem Globe Trotter Buckets Blake about Steph Curry, he said, “The man loves to share the ball…”



Wine flu doesn’t exist inside a champions chapters.



My coach was Fred Story. Because of his constant desire to bring listeners to radio commercials rather than push them away…his art of showmanship landed in my hands and to this day, every break on the air, every commercial written and played out still holds his signature of style.



Teach yourself to steal a champions art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, April 24, 2009

Oh...it's Friday...weren't we supposed to do something this past week?

Twelve winters ago the personal challenge was to reshape the shadows on Heart Break Hill, North Carolina. You won’t find it on Google nor does anyone talk about it on Facebook or Twitter. It’s nearly straight up then a quick spin to the left, releasing enough natural energy to inspire water to float rather than sink, feeding the roots of wind damaged trees, honey bees, red tail hawks, white tail deer and one summer we had a beaver…his shadow seemed perfect sleeping next to wild white roses and giant grapevines several hundred years in age.



Walden had his pond, I have a forest…vowing never to plant professional leafy sticks that don’t belong in something so natural, nor do the sounds of roars and thunder from manmade engines that rip grass in half and limbs that have fallen during times when feeding the earth was more important than a prestine magazine cover living quarters.



Thousands of pieces of poetry have been written while staring into these woods. Billions of bugs have bitten into my skin waiting for the next sentence. Vibrant Cardinals stop to sneak a peak while butterflies glide by in ways that make them almost invisible to my writing instrument.



In 1997 a voice I couldn’t recognize spoke in ways no book can explain. The earth had suddenly shifted on Heart Break Hill shoving several trees face first into dried Georgia clay as if to say, “There’s a new song to sing…”



Erosion…



One neighbor called me insane, “There ain’t no way the earth is starting to move away!”



Exposing two giant boulders that appeared almost over night wasn’t proof enough in the way of explaining mans way of keeping house was no longer the way to play. He chose instead to look upward at the trees, “These have to come down. You need more lawn like the rest of us.”



Heart Break Hill patiently waited for the poet to somehow paste thought into word shapes so others of the same way could locate newer ways to save Mother Earth. A 93 foot drop from the street to the creek was growing daily…this truly couldn’t be my wild radio imagination. Swiftly jumping toward the poet with a pen was a single member of The United States Forest Service…he looked up, then down the trees, played with the poison ivy while studying the lay of the land then he got on his hands and knees and dug deeply as if to be searching for something.



“Heart Break Hill isn’t real. It’s manmade. Your trees are nothing more than branches fighting to keep a buried tree trunk alive. You have tremendous erosion because the trees are beginning to die and doing what’s natural…become part of the earth again which is creating enormous craters beneath what your eye recognizes are soil."



Holy cow I was living on Zombie Island! Each branch was nothing more than a single arm reaching to be recognized and once free to roam the planet…who knows what could be next! The poet’s forest on Heart Break Hill was quickly becoming an endangered species.



Fellow poets were physically saddened, Melody vowed to help by sending to me a giant Crab Apple tree, each blossom at spring represents the rebirth of many dreams. The Forest Service taught me how to utilize the fallen limbs in ways to protect the land. “Let the leaves collect, it’ll provide shelter for Mother Earth while giving snakes and turtles a place to hide on the hottest of spring days.”



Seventeen hundred trees arrived at my front door…it took me nearly three months to sink their music into every circle, corner and triangle of the manmade forest. Some stretched three inches while other maybe five or six. North Carolina Black Walnut seedlings that wouldn’t produce fruit for two hundred fifty years…I remember sitting next to one nearly in tears, “I will never know the poet who’ll come here and question…why are so many trees nearly planted in a row?”



The more natural the landscape, no professional trees and flowers allowed, soon the owl stopped by for a visit…I keep with me the picture of him dancing just three feet from me. To this day I can’t figure out what he truly wanted…except maybe to say, “I have a carload of family and friends in a forest south of town that need a poets place to play…do you mind if I bring them this way?”



And they did…including an extremely black squirrel to whom I’ve heard came from England. A former pet who got away and wow does he love to play! When the hawk steps in for a visit, most fuzzies quickly scamper ...not the British fella…his vow is to help out the chirp chirp chirp of the state bird by running toward the hawk. Seemingly shocked by such an introduction the bird of prey sits staring at the big tailed challenger and says, “Oh please…not the animal version of Simon Cowell…I’m so outta here.”



Heart Break Hill USA…the incline so steep few make it to the top on a snow covered day. “Manmade,” the forest man said to me. Tell me why the designer thought he could make a mountain out of a mole hill. Did he see something on the horizon where the water collects? Did he hear something in the wind that said, “One day a poet will sit in this very spot with a writing instrument?”



Seventeen hundred trees…one in twenty five have made it. They struggle each new sunrise to believe in the spirit of a lyric worth sharing…to send it to a place hidden away by the walls that keep time on time.

Amanda who is now nine or ten stopped the poet one day in the sun...this tree on its side in the forest you keep, you're not going to chop it?

"You tell me..." my only reply. "Is it keeping the deer from playing by having such tall branches with no leaves?"

"I walk across this fallen tree when I think..."she said to me. "I won't have any place to sing."




I turned and started to walk back home...only to notice the sound of two rock doves flying over, their wings sounded like clapping.

As much as I wanted to help the deer by removing the sharp limbs from a fallen tree...it occured to me, this trunk, this bark, these unvieled roots had truly danced with the stars...and Amanda understood the language.

Twelve springs later...three inche seedlings have become four feet. Others have joined the skyline in ways that catch the wind then send new words for me to write…not to have and to hold but rather place inside a once living tree so people I’ll never meet can see what it takes to convince a wandering vision that Earth Day isn’t just in April….Earth is every day.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, April 23, 2009

You're never a day late for Earth Day

Laughter versus comedy…one in the same or neither is playing the game? It’s like legendary professional wrestler Rick Flair taking on Mickey Rourke who portrayed a legendary professional wrestler in a movie. Although Rourke recently found himself in the midst of a major brawl on national television…wipe away the sweat, makeup and guts to climb in the ring and in the end he’s only a rough tough actor. Sure, he’s had his fair share of beatings but that doesn’t make him a wrestler.



Comedy may make you laugh but not all laughter is fed by the roots of comedy.



Constantly fit onto the pages of daily drama are quick attachments. See people laughing, must be having fun…gotta get me some. Yesterday we spoke about the low burning blue flame connected to nervous comedy or that which feeds a willingness to laugh as a way of socializing or to make a person in power feel more important.



It’s a constant behavior that creeps beyond the four walls of business straight into our everyday adventures.



In Tae Kwon Do tournaments I tend to laugh at those set to spar me. To stand across from someone whose face is smooshed by an oversized mouth guard, helmet tightly wrapped around their head like an Eskimo’s igloo and acres of padding vowing to protect what little shins, forearms and ribs they have left…it forces me into laughter. I’m about to take on the Michelin Man. Maybe I’ll score a free set of tires!



Laughter is contagious…I don’t step into a brightly lit colorful circle to serve up some comedy, but through laughter, my goal is to lighten up the load. Most of the monsters across from me look as if they’ve just seen Freddy Kruger or the freak from SAW…one look at my mug and suddenly they want none.



It’s easy see that comedy is nothing more than communication karaoke. There’s nothing like being on stage even if your audience is one.



But how can we use comedy for the good? It is good…right? Dr. Patch Adams put faith in its hidden purpose…those who laughed healed more quickly. Carlos Mencia envisions comedy as a bridge stretching over giant gaps created by separated views of culture. People laugh about Earth Day claiming they’ll never participate yet slowly yards and cars are becoming environmental friendly masterpieces.



Laughter can also turn arrows into flowers.



Early 70’s…an already war torn politically beat up Vietnam falls under attack, teachers and spiritual leaders scratch their names into a personalized contract to help invite peace to a starved people, their dreams nothing more than a wishful thought to make it through the night.



Sister Chan Khong is summonsed to a private meeting with city leaders and business owners, “Your name must be taken off this peace treaty.”

Angered by such demands, she bit her inner slip to keep silent…her mindfulness training now being used…for the single voice ordering her to shut all doors to achieving any type of peace inside such brutal times was the minister who led her as a child into a world of spiritual growth.



“Mr. Minister,” Sister Chan softly spoke, “As a teacher, I believe the most important thing we can do during this time of killing and confusion is to speak out with courage, understanding and love. You too were once a teacher before having this high power in government. You are like a big brother to those of us who’ve chosen to teach.”



Silence filled the room like bombs bursting only three yards away. Their eyes locked on separate actions that required attention for his former student faced lifetime imprisonment. Through mindfulness Sister Chan opened the one time ministers heart but what led her words through tempered goals was a tiny chuckle not hidden from the world when she said, “You are like a big brother.”



You could see it in the ministers eyes…he had become softened.



Thinking and living in the light of mindfulness serves as water for the seeds of compassion. When you see clearly, we no longer feel as if we’re victims of violence. The hearts of those labeled enemy begin to feel allowing then to grow as friends.



Through well written shapes of media we are constantly kept abreast of our current states of violence…we see the anger, fear and hatred while learning how to turn during moments of suffering. Violence accumulates in baskets everyday; few of us have reason to believe there’s a strategy to better deal with a plan already put into play.



What leads most toward rivers of suffering? It’s us, our misunderstanding toward not knowing how to handle it. Quick! Get it off the front page! Everything must be ok… Learning to become responsible for our own pain and learning to work daily to transform it puts seeds in the soils of a deserted path allowing John Lennon’s most favorite word to blossom, “Love.”



As contagious as laughter, so is ones inner pain, fear and anger. Learning to turn arrows into flowers invites a new emotion called compassion. Your compassion has the power to change another person’s speech pattern. Learning to smile during times of irritation and anger lifts your presentation toward victory for all.



Celebrate Earth Day everyday by never taking your eye off the animal extremely close to destroying it for the rest…make a concerted effort to water the seeds of violence with compassion. Bring relief to yourself and others.



Wisdom from Vietnamese Buddhist Monk Thick Nhat Hahn…steal his art.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Hahahahaaa what are you laughing at? I don't know!!!!

Inside the opening pages of my new book, comedy takes a hit on the chin by way of exposing its true identity…there shall be no laughter unless an act of relating unfolds.

Capitalizing on that very gene is Hollywood actor and writer Seth Rogen whose brand of showmanship makes being a dumb klutz with behind closed doors shock and awe an incredibly cool adventure.

But why are we laughing?

Bathroom humor to a radio jock is the one place station program directors fight daily to keep us from reaching, claiming listeners don’t want to hear about toilet paper sticking to the bottom of your shoe then walking out and the first person you meet is a sharp dressed, hair perfectly combed potential client. Yet it’s become almost embarrassingly legal for shows like Two in a Half Men and How I Met Your Mother to set things up on network television in ways that influence us to reach for the computer to locate the punch line on an easy to locate website.

But why are we laughing?

The New York Times recently printed a story that claims laughter is an instinctual survival tool for social animals not an intellectual response to wit. Wait wait! Harold the rescued Maltese loves to socialize with every neighbor on the block. Do you mean to tell me the wag of his tail and the way he squints his eyes is a puppies way of saying, “The funniest thing happened to me on the way over to your house.”

People don’t like to confront…so they use comedy as a way to smooth things over. Insert laugh here…who can’t relate with this? Quickly look to the floor, good no toilet paper on my shoe. Move forward slowly.

Proper discussions no longer take place at work or at home…the mere suggestion of having a meeting of thought sends a well protected wall straight up ten miles. Whatever it takes to keep confrontation away from the gates leading to the front door of the world we call our own.

Teeth that have been ground down to the nerve have suddenly started showing up at dentist offices. Being the confrontational type, I took on the doctor and said, “Stop trying to reinvent ways to boost my bill!” Not a lick of fear in his eyes, “Then stop holding back on letting people know how you feel. I’m starting to see it on your chewed up lips, your teeth and along the inside of your mouth.”

Ignoring a problem won’t make it go away. Although we’re addicted to walking entire football fields away from chronic behavior, we’ve chosen a much easier route to deflate…bathroom humor that usually starts with someone saying, “Ok, I’m probably going to cross the line here, so if you’re easily offended…you might want to roll your chair back into cubical number 22.” But you don’t…our top goals in life aren’t fame and fortune…it’s to be and feel accepted! So, we elect to stay and sure enough, it went the Seth Rogen way.

The New York Times writes, “People choose to move rather than remove.” A story about apartment living, the man next door snores so loud it rocks the Rocky Mountains. Calmly knocking on the door is so 1985. If NBA and NFL players refuse to locate roots in the cities they play…we find acceptance in playing the same game. The sleepless neighbor felt it was his part to move across town while the noisy snoring machine lived live like nothing was happening.

Face it…nobody is from here anymore! I checked out of Montana fresh out of high school because I just couldn’t deal with my family. I can’t imagine what life would be like today if I had taken the time to sit down and weigh out both sides of the separated planets.

“Where you from?”

“Everywhere…”

“What brought you here?”

“Neighbor had toilet paper on the bottom of his shoe. Freaked me out!”

Painted is the picture of a generation that truly doesn’t get along. Facebook and Twitter might serve as avenues of communication but how many times do you find yourself discussing the really good stuff without radio or television doing it for you? If you do get locked up in deep heart wrenching self discovery…did you achieve it because nobody could see you or you’ve assumed the role of thumb typist and it’s the only way to play without getting busted for rolling your eyes?

To avoid is to suffer. Andrea Kay who authored Works a B**** lays it on the line to help land faith back on the path that once fed your career a reason to move. She speaks of a boss who hems and haws while fake laughing her way through conversation. Her employees fear the idea of discussing anything because a true identity has never taken shape.

How many times have you heard, “Who are you today?” Is this why the divorce rate is now 52%? The Stock Market and banking industry might not have crashed if they would’ve set aside their competitive ways and discussed a few options before leading the entire train down a clueless path.

I call it the art of bend and flow…as if to be a willow set free to grow along side a riverbank. Let it flood, doesn’t matter, we have roots and a stem that bends with the wind.

The best are not at the top of the company ladder…they’re hidden within the ranks of an honest wage for a good days work. No need to climb any higher when being truly effective on the business front requires nothing more than loyalty and dedication without corporate hesitation.

So…where’s the comedy in all this? If laughter doesn’t exist unless there’s an act or event that we can relate with…make me laugh! The shock isn’t Seth Rogen or Charlie Sheen, they’re the awe…the release, the letting go because we’ve located people we can relate with and in doing so; we accept them into our living rooms and theaters. No need to dress them up in fancy clothes…we are the Family Guy not Dr. Welby MD or Mike Brady.

RollingStone Magazine calls Will Ferrell one of the top 100 geniuses who will change the world in the next ten years. A master of improv, point the camera that way, whatever is…is and what isn’t shall not only decorate the cutting room floor…but will make great bonus material to lift DVD sales. In the Chinese restaurant world this is liquid gold….American’s love their Egg Rolls.

Is there is solution to our delusion? Nope…not in the mood to listen.

Steal my art…

arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

A forest is never too thick...only your imagination is.

In his latest motion picture The Soloist, Jamie Fox plays a homeless man struck down by an act of life…deeply sickened by a mental disorder, his passion for music continues in a way that heightens an unexplained passion to lift music from four strings.



Visibly connected to Beethoven, Nathaniel Ayers spiritually caresses his awareness for song while leaving untouched the assumed presentation of a grocery cart pushing wanderer lost somewhere between thick and thin only to ask Robert Downey Jr. “Who do you see when you write?”



Who do you see? Do you see your father who aimlessly shoved hard work and dedication into his career which provided your mother with love and security? Do you see a minister, local leader, an actor, musician or grandparent’s ambition?



When you are being you…who do you see? Do you evolve into a thought created being? Have you ever put energy in discovering the origin of the rooting system of desire turned reality?



The writer in me isn’t Julia Cameron, John C Maxwell or my mentor in life Dr. Ronald Mack from Wake Forest University. I am Lewis and Clark or English explorer John Lawson who vowed to never let a Hurricane in 1600’s Charleston shape walls across paths that required a name and location. Each plant was nothing more than a new personality, rather than take its life he allowed things to grow.



Writing each morning before sunrise teaches the imagination to reach beyond the witnessed horizon.



Who do you see when you evolve into the positions you’ve acquired? The banking industry was once overrun by Hugh McColl sharp dressed suits while the auto industry bathed in the longevity of Lee Iacocca’s compelling Mustang idolisms. Thursday night Karaoke singers might grasp at the chance of reeling in a Simon Cowell standing ovation while Chefs whip up madness over Paul Dean or Gordon Ramsey.



Speaking at Johnson and Wales University yesterday, I elected not to lecture but rather fork out a few bars of fun while playing a simple game called, “Who the heck are you and why are you here?” I share the same way I learn. No day passes that I don’t sharply, harshly and unlimitedly ask myself the same question. Like the Jamie Fox character, our daily lives are filled with a constant voice that refuses to sleep, rest or do anything but put speed on the tires leading us up, down and around a mountain pass.



I wasn’t shocked to receive, “I don’t know why I’m here.”



Rather than become a disgruntled guest speaker, I find tremendous inspiration when gifted with such truthfulness. To walk out into a world with no image to hold or a hot fire to put steam in your steps doesn’t make you a quitter, slower learner or ambitionless career builder…instantly I’m fed the vision of an explorer.



Anyone can stand below a mountain and call it a giant hill with funky rocks and billions of trees. Half will climb a quarter of the way up while one tenth of the breathless travelers are driven to a colorful ring only they see or a piece of music that seems to be floating. They will teach themselves to sit next to a once flooded river bank whose scent still carries a deathly fishiness not easily wiped from their face, body or fingerprint. Three, maybe four will look close enough to notice the remnants of a long lost spiraling wave and how it sketched into the banks a shapeless cavern big enough to fit a dream. Thinking they’ve reached the pivotal part of the journey there will be shouting, wild kegger parties and loads and loads of BBQ chicken wings and things.



Only one of the barely prepared mountain climbers will touch the center of the colorful ring while attempting to pour from the lyrics of everyday challenges a song to sing. Out loud it will be shared, echoing between trees and more trees. Giant skunks hidden beneath leaps of rocks will stop to stare and wow look at the size of that bear! What bear? Look at its T-shirt! It reads, “I am your future.” Nice!



Sadly, the world of corporate big business and its avenues of success have created a hairy beary situation. What do we naturally do when confronted by bears in the woods? Run or play dead. Enough said.



Who do you see when you dream?



Nathaniel Ayers assumes the role of Beethoven while closely slow dancing with his stringed instruments. His eyes and body flow with a rhythm unstoppably sought then reflected making each passerby nothing more than a witness to a cause only he holds then quickly rushes to set free from fingertips flooded with emotion, turning a field of poison ivy into a garden with a single.



Anyone can be a radio jock. It requires no talent or gift of performance. Those who make it have discovered the art of listening. They’ve chosen to stare at the bark peeling from a tree while studying the woodpeckers feeding instinct, devouring insects beneath what only the naked eye can see only to notice the holes left behind create just enough space for Swallows and other smaller birds to sleep warm tonight.



While standing at the front of the class at Johnson and Wales it took no time for someone to say, “The economy is bad…do we really have a future to grasp?” I love this stuff! More truthfulness!



The cream is rising to the top. Billions of dollars have been spent on research that didn’t work and or couldn’t predict the layout of the current roles CEO’s and decision makers have assumed. Research means money had to be forked out for someone to think for them. Today is your day to put a face on your dreams and think for yourself. Corporate America failed…not the little people who kept it going daily. The amount of competition that awaits the rebirth of brilliant ideas is going to generate a future worth climbing…get to the top and teach those not so daring how to shove aside a tree branch that which reveals a tiny rock strong enough to hold your weight…then lift!



Once achieved, let your dreams breathe and don’t be so quick to sell it off…Home Depot and Lowes are nothing more than a neighborhood hardware and fix it shop just like your grandpa had all those unwritten pages ago…they are the same store that happens to be on your corner, your uncles corner, your former friend from works corner and Willie Wonka’s chocolate factory corner because the Ump Lumpa’s needed to be let go to keep costs down.



Who do you see?


Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, April 17, 2009

Is the chain link weak or the elements missing from your dreams?

The radio intern looked on with wandering bewilderment while dedicating his willingness to continue searching for any or all connections that may or may not lead him to better understanding what I mean when discussing hunger.



Mom always told me, “Radio hunger is no different than banking hunger. If the drive to succeed is so strong you can’t drop it from your plate, conversation and lost in love heart…you indeed have been bitten by the hunger bug.”



The owner of an extremely small radio station anciently located in the rolling hills of North Carolina once said to me, “I knew you were a radio guy the moment you jumped out of your car.” What? Did I have a big nose and forehead like Major Dan Miller of KOOK in Billings? Was I round as round can be like Paul Damon in Lewistown? I’ve never had a mustache and beard like Bill Conway and lord knows my ego is large but not as can be!



Bankers know bankers. Veterinarians know who’s willing to put forth the effort of truly taking care of animals during the darkest of times. I’ve always believed your profession is picked before you’re born. The clothes fit before you open your first book.



Legendary radio on-air talent Larry Lujack caught onto this in his mid-twenties while locked in a forest rangers hut high atop the mountains of Idaho. It was a job! We all need jobs to get cable television, video games and giant thick steaks to grill on the backyard BBQ. Like eighty five percent of this nation, he hated his job and wouldn’t stop talking about one day locating something he truly enjoyed.



Being alone in a forest with skyscraping sun sucking trees, wild bears and deer seems like paradise until you’re caught in the act of having to do it not just daily but hourly. Keeping him from going postal…a tiny black plastic box with a long silver thingy thing attached to its backside…it would squelch, sound overcrowded, bleed in and bleed out, pour into the imagination of a bored mind something as simple as a favorite song. What he held wasn’t an Ipod, laptop computer or cell phone…nope; Mr. Lujack had a transistor radio.



What? Stop! Breathe! Holy cow! No air in my lungs! I, I, I can’t seem to picture this! A lonely forest ranger high atop a mountain in Idaho finding enjoyment in something that pulled sound to it rather than pushing it away…where’s Howie Mandel? I’m on candid camera right?



The vibrations that fell from that single speaker, bounced on the wooden hand shaped floor then squeezed past his lengthy hair into a pair of ears that barely picked up anything spoke directly to Larry Lujack in a way that would fine tune not just his life long plans but over the next three decades millions or more.



Labeling himself Super Jock…Lujack made his way down the mountain, shot over to Spokane, Seattle, California, the east coast then Chicago…creating such a wave that today the mere mention of his name generates enough energy to torch up a station antenna. He didn’t reach this pivotal place in lost history by doing a job…he was hungry enough to create a path leading straight into the lost dreams of anyone…someone…seeking something more than a lame everyday presentation. They required a supreme product delivered not daily, not hourly but thoroughly second by second through the efforts of a vision to affect a client by means of becoming part of their life.



Curtis stood staring into my stories, lost like most. Totally my fault, I tend to talk way above peoples heads in hopes that something said will ignite their calves to leap upward and grab a word, inflection a pieces part that once belonged to a chicken…and do nothing but pull it toward them.



Realizing the effort was completely out of tune and Simon Cowell was set to come knocking on my door…being saved by the judges was an already performed stunt. Vividly I sat, as if to be alone on a mountain top, the wind so cold my lips became blue, my second degree black belt in martial arts returning to white.



“Hunger…” I softly shared with Curtis while rubbing my eyes then tossing my production disc jockey fingers through my lengthy multicolored hair. “What is the absolute worst food you hate?”



“Liver…”came his reply.



“I invite you to purchase two cans of it on your way back to Asheville. Tonight, you will open one of those cans and eat it. Not just one bite, every bite must be swished around inside your mouth so no corner is missed.”



Shocked by my higher than a kite way of explaining hunger, Curtis shrugged his shoulders and confidently said, “Ok…sure.”



“I want you to know the taste of that liver. I want you to tell your stomach and your brain how much you hate that flavor. Your entire being must become well aware of how you absolutely without a doubt can’t stand to eat that stuff.”



“Aaaa, I’m lost…” Curtis interrupted me. “If I stand here and tell you that I’m hungry for radio…what does eating something I can’t stand have to do with me making this business a major part of my life?”



“It’s all in the second can,” I quickly shot in his direction. “Place it in your food pantry or unopened in the refrigerator in plain sight. Each time you see it I want your stomach to become sick and twisted. I want your body to react in negative ways.”



“I’m so lost…” Curtis popped in.



“Know in your heart that if you don’t put your entire effort into these self described radio dreams, doing all you can to reach farther than maps already created…the only thing you’re going to have to eat is that can of liver that’s been waiting very patiently for a day, a week, year or three decades to be opened then devoured.”



Destinations come with success and failure. To set free a dream expecting it to soar through storms without proper loyalties does nothing but fuel fate. Native American’s do not believe in fate…to hear someone speak of their time being in the hands of fate is nothing more than letting go, you’ve given up on gaining access to the origin of the dream.



I believe in Curtis and truly believe he has the ingredients required to make radio more than a job. Why do I believe? Careers are given to us before birth…to get there requires a helpful hand to help shape and or put faith in a plan fully capable of affecting people lives. Just like the grocery store clerk…the banana sold just fortified the body that just became the Olympian just elected President of the United States who created a plan to invite peace to places of war which invited music to your great grand child’s grand child’s fortieth birthday.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, April 16, 2009

What's the difference between loyalty and forgiveness?

Well well…Matt was given the much touted reprieve on American Idol last night. The infamous vetoed American vote put into play by Simon, Paula, Kara and Randy…funny how it took place the very night Jennifer Hudson, one of the most well known shoulda could’ve been’s returned for an encore performance.



Truth is…we have nothing to complain about…the newly written rule states the judges have until the top five to rearrange the popular vote…Jennifer, Chris Daughtry, Kelly Pickler, Katherine McPhee, Bo Bice, David Archuleta, Justin with the fuzzy hair and Clay Aiken did quite well on their journey toward larger trophies, stages and television deals because as we’re constantly told…someone has to go.



But what if real life delivered to each us four different judges blessed with the power to rip a bad time from the chapters we write and make it better than good? Can you name a single moment worth rethinking? Knowing that changing such an event can turn your Back to the Future purpose of taking fifth place into an American Dad episode where a single cassette tape left behind physically will wreak havoc on the final presentation.



Openly I admit, I probably wouldn’t have said, “I do…” in Cody, Wyoming during the bone chilly days of February 1981. Being Zack Efron several chapters before he crept onto the scene put me in places of decision making that featured plenty of warning signs but with an attitude like Johnny Depp, “Oh what the heck!” The state of Montana came with rules; no one below the age of 18 will get married on our soil. So we ran away to Wyoming…where we were promptly pulled over and nearly arrested because my mouth got away from me. But heyyyy…I was Matthew McConaughey! Wait…he didn’t come along for a couple more decades.



Yet, I can’t physically pull off a Simon, Paula, Kara and Randy…my luck and addiction to codependency; I’d still be locked up in Lewistown, Montana playing Conway Twitty and Nat King Cole. What I needed was a big big big town like Billings! A town of barely 100,000 where every cow and sheep are still numbered by hand and the chickens walk the streets like fashion queens from L.A. The only way I was going back home was to calmly say, “Yes dear…”



Believe it or not, second, third and fifteenth chances are an everyday occurrence. Look how many DUI’s are served then reserved a month or two later. It’s as if we’ve become a people of grand forgiveness. The latest issue of US Weekly features an innocent pop shot of Lindsay Lohan begging for fan forgiveness. Come on now! We have too! It’s Lindsay, star of Herbie the Love Bug!



You’d think we’d learn! Seriously, unless it’s fully planned out, Matt probably won’t pull off an American Idol win. The same way my brother can’t erase his fixation with the national sensation called meth. No matter how many lives are affected, the infection never includes a clear cut escape.



Maybe we should live like trees! A forest is far from being forgiving. Look how many thinly barked sticks stuck feet first in mud lean hard to the right just to get a sneak peak of the light. If a true forest isn’t humanized in allowing the roots of forgiveness to seed the streams, cedar pines barely reach three feet in length while others stretch and stretch then end up getting buried during a powerful snow storm.



One of the greatest stories ever told belongs to that of Chief Joseph from the Nez Pierce nation. He loved his people so much his destination in life was to constantly forgive the intruders of the land and just move his people…so he did over and over again and again. What most modern day American’s don’t realize is that being Native American in 1864 in the state of Colorado was illegal…obviously it became the big fad because millions of lives suddenly changed after the conclusion of the Civil War. Wouldn’t that be an incredible place to start the Simon Cowell second chance train?



Car makers want money to start over. Big banks are making bucks again because they were allowed to pick up the pieces. The Stock Market is soaring yet unemployment in some places has reached eleven percent. Outside of the Tea Party Protesters on last nights NBC Nightly News is anyone complaining? Wait wait…I’m not judging…just taking the time to recognize Simon, Paula, Kara and Randy in a large group of real people.



Did OJ Simpson get a second chance then blow it? Is Michael Jackson on his last fifteen minutes of fame? Probably not…he sold out 50 shows in less than ten days. Will we ever love pirates again? The most recent headlines put a twist on our passion for those associated with the Caribbean. Pete Rose belongs in Baseballs Hall of Fame! What about Barry Bonds who couldn’t have done what he did without pumping up his volume.



Britney Spears is hot hot hot! George W is not not not! But hey, neither was Jimmy Carter right after his years in the White House.



Earlier this season the inside word was Simon and company already picked this years American Idol winner. Two heart beats free of such rumors and Alexis was out. Checked her out a couple days later on Ellen…she could’ve beat out Gokey and Lambert.



This close to a Friday and I had to go and get political. I can see the emails now, “Where’s my spiritual pick me up disc jockey man? What did you do, sleep with CNN last night? Get pulled over doing 95 in a 55 on your wedding day?” Actually, I failed to stop at the corner, which signaled to the nice people in blue in Cody, Wyoming something just didn’t seem right with the car from Montana. He popped on the lights and began would could’ve been the biggest change of my life.



Ever feel that way about your everyday? What if we learned to stop at the corner of walk and don’t walk and softly asked, “Where are you going in such a hurry?” Where would you be ten years from today? And would you be so willing to forgive and forget when you know what you did, didn’t sit too well inside the ranks of popularity.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Hahahahaaa what are you laughing at? I don't know!!!!

Is it something we hear, are we searching for new places to travel or fighting to locate answers from distant places a single book clearly speaks of…as quickly as the days fly between our eyes take ten minute break and notice the number of people looking up. Can’t we believe its spring? Could it be a bright red Cardinal and the songs it sings? The sun can’t be too bright; nobody seems to be shielding their eyes.



What do you see when you look up? Maybe a leaf that forgot to get away during the final seconds of fall? A giant bumble bee with a tummy so big Jenny Craig is dieing to sign them up for their next commercial campaign. Even if your choice to look up is late into the night, do the stars and planets hold the energy that’ll carry you through another day?



I experienced Empty Nest Syndrome several chapters ahead of most…my daughter was up, out of school and living in Los Angeles before I could count to forty five. Whatever lives up there, even if it’s just twenty feet above our heads, it seems to pull us toward a level of somethingness a simple poet can only guess.



The song Somewhere Out There from Linda Ronstandt would play in our hearts and minds wondering if Jenny was looking at the same stars this night. And if she was, would she know it in her heart?



Author Eckhart Tolle simplifies such personal journeys as nothing more than material objects and space. In his words, “If you don’t become speechless when looking into space, then you really aren’t looking.” Putting focus instead on the objects, stars, a couple of bats, a buzzing bug and maybe a duck that got lost when he took a left at the tracks rather than a right and is late for dinner in the nearby lake.



Allowing a sense of awe to enter your path while staring into the realms of day dreaming or in many cases just looking up teaches your mind to remove labels from the presentation. Once there, a vast array of inner space grows within the assumed limits of your stress filled life, opening a new canal for better ideas to flood.



Tolle believes we can’t see space, nor can you hear it, touch it, taste or smell. How then do we know it exists? Space is nothingness. Shapes exist…airplanes racing Corporate America to far away destinations, the heavenly scent of Honeysuckle caressing your nostrils before sneezing the world’s largest boogie across six states and two creeks. Space has nothing to do with it.



So why do we spend so much time looking up? Each of us has an affinity with space. This is why you’re aware of it and spend day and night trying to reach it. Wait wait! If we’re pushing to reach something that doesn’t exist, then it must exist.



Tolle explains, “Being aware of space means you aren’t truly aware of anything, except awareness itself. Through you the universe grows.”



I stood next to my mentor in life Dr. Ronald Mack while he was in the midst of passing or as the Dahli Lama would say becoming something new again. The Dr.’s eyes no longer held color, his voice extremely dry and barely audible, not a tear to be drawn from his soul nor a song to sing slip into the tight clutches of my hands that refused to let go. He was where we look upward each new sunrise…within the depths of space. All that he created on earth was taking the shape of what many in the medical field would forever recognize as a solid rock of constant growth, maturity, leadership and fulfillment of not his dreams but those he met daily during times of struggle and through his wisdom the world took one step forward to locate answers.



The difference between the Dr. and our current realty isn’t that his time had arrived but rather how he was reacting to the arrival of an incredible amount of space. It is all too common for those assumed strong to whip up new ideas and things to accomplish. If there’s silence we fill it with text messages and twittering. If the radio isn’t playing your favorite song, rather than create a new hum, some get angry and punch the steering wheel or locate talk radio whose only gift is to take you down and out.



Spiritual leaders from every denomination, be it American, Russia, from India or a hidden valley overgrown with jungle like trees in the Smokey Mountains….it is written and spoken over and over again, a sane, balanced fruitful human life is a dance between two dimensions that make up reality, form and space.



Without space…nothing exists.



Taking ten minutes out of your day to people watch is a lesson that teaches you to learn how to recognize the images tossed out daily by means of your own path. We are the generation that’s become hypnotized by technology. We’ve allowed ourselves to absorb incredible amounts of content, resembling that of the space alien in the movie Short Circuit, “Input…need more input.”



Through daily writing, I’ve learned to recognize mindsets and temperaments weeks before they naturally arrive. Rather than shove pills into an assumed depression, the body mind and soul speak clearly. By putting faith in the nothingness we are given, all that becomes your tree blossoms on days made up of rain. Create mile markers that serve as gut checks. A simple feather that’s fallen to the cold ground…what does it mean? To a bird it’s no longer required, on your daily routine it teaches you second and third chance. Feathers are used in art, children locate them only to laugh and play. A feather has the power to tickle your upper lip on a lonely day.

What are you sharing that has the strength to infect and affect another living object?



The next time you visit a Chinese restaurant and the giant Buddha statue greets you at the door…think not of the rounded tummy and jolly face caught in constant smile. The deeper purpose behind his presentation is: Man and No… Object and space… A mile marker just as powerful as mother natures attempt to water our lawns without having to fork out giant amounts of dollars to a city that’s laid ownership rights on something so pure.



Learn to write, if but only for a moment, by means of poetry, songs to sing or doodle words on a page. What you share with the world is nothing more than a bird’s feather until one day you’re asked to share it in ways you never dreamed…this weekend, I will serve as the spiritual host of two who’ve fallen deeply in love. Their ceremony and or vows were written by my writing instrument seventeen years ago.



That’s a lot of space…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Hello...hey there...yo...zup!

How do I plead? Guilty your honor…guilty of assuming first names are a great representation of the person it’s attached to. I’ve judged the book by its front cover and realized the pages within have nothing to do with what I assumed.



Take the name Lee…a man right? A girl would spell it Leigh. Not true. My wife consistently receives calls wanting to talk to the man of the house or they think my name is Lee. I wish! I’ve spent forty six years searching for the reasons behind why my mother went the direction she did. Toss in Lee and I might find myself in Canada knocking other the door Getty Lee from Rush or Tommy Lee of Motley Crue. I was born to rock and nobody does it better than these daddy Lee’s.



My newly discovered sister continues to tell the tale of how her Bob style haircut and name Jamie put steam in her shorts when people would come up, tap her on the head and say nice things like, “What a cute little boy.” What about Hollywood favorite Cary Grant? Did his parents get the look when introducing their child as a boy? John Wayne’s real name was Marion…not to be confused with Ritchie Cunningham’s mother on Happy Day’s…her name is Marian.



What makes it worse is our desire to toss aside face to face time.



Through emails and text messages, our push to communicate might be up but recognition to whom we are speaking to flies way below the radar. This is why I freak out my hair; Jesika the stylist knows of only one rule, make it approachable, unforgettable and up to date, totally rock star and extremely easy to handle on days when floppy humidified loose is the only way to go. Outside of speaking the way I write, you can’t spot the dot in an overcrowded room of circles.



What is the proper way to function after dysfunction has put a late night leg cramp inside the identity crisis. Sam isn’t just a guys name and neither is Leslie, so what happens if you’ve mislabeled their place in history?



It’s time to call in office manner expert Anne Marie Sabath who recognizes our shapes of correspondence as being disastrous. First things first…let them talk before you speak. Not because you’re being saved from embarrassment but they’re being rescued from it.



Don’t say, “Wow Micheal, Michelle, Micky, Mikey…I thought you were.”



By allowing them to acknowledge the error creates room for you to play it down. They’ll be the first to let you know how often it takes place and how eighty percent of the time it begins with written words.



But how do you best handle situations of too many people named Chris, Lisa’s and Arroe’s? Yeah, like the last one would ever happen. Until that day we find ourselves bumping into a landslide of Britney’s and Jennifer’s. Hank isn’t used much but Jeff, Jef and Geoff once met on the corner of Queens, Queens and Queens in Charlotte.



My sister Susan’s middle name is Irene…what a coincidence, my newly located sisters first name is Irene. Wow! Obviously the father figure loved his mother a lot! My brother’s name is Terry; my stepfather’s daughter Margaret married a Terry. Thanksgiving at our house was spent saying, “Not you…him!” Welcome to the age of outrageous, horribly misunderstood nicknames that stick like ancient gum on the bottom of a picnic table in the park.



My daughter’s father in law’s name is Carlos, she married Carlos Jr. and they named their son Carlos. This has to be the reason why when I first moved to the south everybody on the block greeted me with a firm, “Dude or hey!” You simply can’t go wrong!



What’s the best way to handle friends and coworkers who share the same first name? Especially since the national directory at your office features the same first and last name in three or four different states and the wrong person keeps getting your emails.



Rule number one: Double and triple check the city and location of the person you’re sending messages to. It’s not like the golden age of the Ronald Reagan years when we took three steps down the hall and hand delivered a private joke. These days, such presentations could easily offend someone you’ve never met but wow, they have Bill’s name! One expert firmly warns: The safest way to play at work is to never forward jokes or pictures. Quickly erase them from your computer and get on with your day.



But what about radio interns whose name is Jarrod but he looks like Byron. You spend all day trying to remember his name but can’t pick it up until he calmly says, “Jarrod.” This is the very reason why parents should get out of the name business. The intern brags about being named after Jarrod from the television show Big Valley. What? That’s like Mariah Carey grasping her name from the song The Wind They Call Mariah from the Clint Eastwood film Painted your Wagon.



There needs to be a rule…you’re given a symbol at birth, a sun, a flower, maybe a bird in full flight over an ocean….or something totally radical like Prince. It can change three times before officially getting a real name at 30. By that time, the rest of us pretty much think you act like a Bob…so you become Bob.



I’ve always found true inspiration in the spiritual journey Native American’s take…in some nations your birth name is given the moment your father opens the leather drape to the outside world…what he sees first becomes the identity. Sure it would be easy to pick a name from one of the four thousand books available, have Gwyneth Paltrow as a parent and be named after your favorite fruit or become what your father was given through hours meditation…my luck I’d be named Baby who looks like man on Scrubs or Smells like skunk must be one. Lord knows the father figure called me worse, “Hey pain in the ***”



The communication generation needs to shake a better hand. Reaching out includes asking questions and locating answers. What is written isn’t always true. What is true is often never written. Your thumbs locked in text position…think before you send. Know before the rest of the world locates something they never knew. Cute computer names give you reason to escape but in the end are you the chicken or the egg?



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, April 13, 2009

Life that exists on the silver screen physically took place light years before its time...

What does Hannah Montana have that most can never and probably never will find? What’s that single most identifiable element that continues to push open the poison ivy crowding an overrun forest enabling her to softly walk in as if nothings stood in the way of the billions before her?



Off camera and away from the studio microphone Miley Cyrus doesn’t seem to bare the infamous Golden Child attitude, you know, daddies best or the middle school class favorite destine to be the first married or hold an office in local government. If anything, her storyline and presentation on screen and through the lyrics she sings tend to promote consequences.



And yet we continue to watch and listen?



Artist Way Author Julia Cameron believes if the average person would stop comparing their living chapters to Hollywood, the highest shapes of happiness would shower your journey with unforgettable blossoms of success.



If there is a comparison to be held in the continuing drama of Hannah Montana, it seeks more than a red carpet and blankets and pillows with your face and blonde wig plastered all over them. Miley’s on stage vow to be a famous musician is nothing more than a particle of sand on a very windy day. Looking beyond Disney’s marketing plan, the Hannah Montana character is Keith and Danny facing the same growing up challenges on a weekly basis during an episode of The Partridge Family.



So what did David Cassidy have that most can never and probably never will find? Is it likeability? Might it be that early seventies sex appeal? What can two completely different teen idols from separate generations have in common outside of a television show fed by almost true nearly new to life experiences?



Relationship.



The Brady Bunch had it and so did Hawk, Pierce and Radar on MASH. Relationship bleeds off the set of Scrubs, House and even American Idol. Without relationship, the journey fails in the department of enjoyment. Ryan Seacrest makes it a point to poke fun at Simon Cowell. Why? Because you do it and through them you locate enjoyment…we all have big know-it-all brothers and figuring out ways to put them in their place is a lifelong mission for some…watching shows like Hannah Montana guide us in ways of teaching us that we’re not alone.



Dr. Mick Ukleja believes strong personal relationships are extremely important inside the ranks of continued growth. It doesn’t have to be intertwined within the tight weaves of family but he coaches us into believing strong relationships outside the shields of protection must include friends, coworkers and others who might share the same hobbies as you.



Can you imagine being part of a MASH unit without relationship being an option? It took a strong relationship between several men in the United States Navy and the FBI to rescue the captain off a hijacked ship. Suddenly Jack Sparrow and the Pirates of the Caribbean aren’t looking like poster children.



Strong relationships begin with truth. If you can’t be trusted, there can’t be a relationship. Look at what happened in Hannah Montana the Movie when Robby Ray landed the airplane in Tennessee rather than New York City! Seconds after discovering she wouldn’t be making it to the awards show, Miley wasn’t part of the picture, inside her mind, the character came to life, making it a totally bad Hannah Montana attitude.



How often do we do this in real life? Two years to ninety eight…if someone’s efforts to help you aren’t looked upon as being an open palm…there’s a price to be paid. The spiral motion affects not just you but anyone who unexpectedly becomes involved. I felt horrible for Miley’s grandmother in the film…the only thing she wanted for her birthday was to see her little girl and little did she know there wasn’t enough Claritin in the world to clean up this snot.



Buy the truth and do not sell it, get wisdom, discipline and understanding.



Sometimes the truest shapes of value are nothing but blind spots on a body that wasn’t born with rearview mirrors, so in our quest to push forward we’re able to see our lives on big and tiny screens.



Hannah Montana isn’t the Jonas Brothers and they can’t be compared to the Saturday morning New Kids on the Block cartoon. What they have in common are writers who experience life and through their efforts of gaining access to higher ratings we live vicariously through them. People Magazine and Entertainment Tonight call them Idols when in reality Miley is nothing more than a teen girl with an early career.



Making it easier to relate with the set up aren’t expensive producers with highly touted camera angles and proper lighting but rather a father named Billy Ray whose day to day challenges reek of the same junk our parents shoved through our skulls 2.6 million times.



When the going gets tough on How I met your Mother or Two in a Half Men…we laugh, not necessarily at Charlie Sheen and Doogie Houser but the images we can’t see unless standing half naked in a mirror quickly getting ready for work.



If you know of someone racing to the mall to dress up like the current fad…look deeper into the meaning of Twilight, Ironman and I Love You Man. Each tale told is fed by the veins of a heart seeking life through relationship. In reality, what’s the one thing we want most out of life? To be accepted…



Steal their art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, April 10, 2009

Teach yourself to look beyond reasons of doubt and judgement...

Good Friday! Every Friday is good right? Just like everyday is Christmas! I’d be the first to dive into a giant plate of research to see how important any Friday is during these times of major change.

Although Corporate America would like to slim things down to a four day work week, those doing the work find themselves locked up in survival mode tossing down Red Bulls and fancy coffee to keep two to four part time jobs going.



Yesterday my good friend Chuck the producer stood strong in the way he’s able to balance several opportunities in a single life. He envisions it as an extreme positive to have so many options, gifting his fashion and style with the infamous “Never the same day twice.”



While growing up, the fifth of seven days earned a golden halo to which I raised high above that single twenty four hour period…The arrival of Friday meant tomorrow was the greatest day on earth…Saturday! Forget Scooby Doo, Speed Racer and H.R. Puffin Stuff, the first official day of the weekend gave birth to the only sport my parents allowed me to play...bowling. Thanks to the AJBC I learned early in life how to bust free of the blankets and get the day started.



It wasn’t until my teen years that Friday’s became important…both parents were out of the house until ten maybe eleven…time to spread the wings, soar across the Yellowstone valley and make waves on an ocean that existed only in the vivid depths of a growing imagination.



Before the World Wide Web, Face Book, Twitter and texting, secret hiding places were usually on Montana mountain tops, dark off the beaten path forests or in the center of corn fields with tassels so high you'd swear Shaquille O’Neil was the party animal standing next to you.



My neighbors have reinvented the passion for family Fridays. After forty long drawn out pressured filled hours of giving the bigger man what’s required, each week members of the block gather at a selected home to do nothing more than play games. I’ve never participated, mainly because I have no clue how to wind down. It seems like a horrible waste of valueable time. After all, my favorite day of the week is Saturday!!!!!



We’re trained like that…seriously! Ever notice your workday seems to drag at or around three or three thirty everyday. That’s when school let out. Look even closer, we hate Monday’s not because it’s another workday but waking up in kids shoes only to stand on the corner waiting for a bus was brutal and we continue to carry that spirit. How many Sunday nights did you spend on the sofa with your mother trying to rip the rats from your hair before bedtime? I’d love to be a fly on the wall watching to see how many people rub their hands through their hair because repetitive motion from the younger years still breathes inside the chapters we’re writing today.



Good Friday! Far out Saturday then Easter! It was the single most important day of my childhood life. No matter how many friends, neighbors and completely unknowns I convinced to visit Billings Baptist Temple, the one person I wanted to see there most was my stepfather. I dreamed every year that Easter would be the one time he’d feel just enough J. Love to hop in his beat up dingy red International pickup and surprise us kids at church. The bad news is he’d probably bust my brother Teddy trying to slam my fingers in the hymnal. A quick bop on the back of the head would’ve felt pretty good knowing he was there with us.



Now that I’m two thousand miles from his book of love, I still wait for the email from my sister Susan to write, “I got him there.”



It’s not that dad doesn’t believe…he just believes in something different and knowing that taught me how to respect every shape of spiritual growth. The dude is blessed with something because he can grow an outstanding garden and the flowers he plants for my mother every year are far greater than a nursery or fancy flower shop stuck in the middle of a rich person strip mall.



I’d say it was Joe who taught me the importance of animal speak. You’re supposed to grow up hating the men who marry your mother a second time but he spoke to me in ways that allowed animals to be heard. A pigeon was gunned down at work, rather than let him pass with the wind, he sheltered the feathered music maker, mending his broken wing then paying for the tremendous amount of food it would eat. One became many, then there were chickens, rabbits and anything else with a heart, lungs and a reason to be seen as well as heard.



Joe also taught me life after death. He’d take something once labeled unforgettably beautiful now busted in half by weather and time and allowed it to breathe inside the shapes of new beginnings. As kids we assumed he loved ripping down old houses. In reality, the wood from that once living tree was replanted on different soil offering a continuation to the protection a tree vows its entire journey to.



Joe didn’t stop then and doesn’t today. Through his odd ball way of teaching and my assumption of him never finding religion, one would be foolish not to think everyday is his Easter. He has no problem extending his open palm to give people, places and things so often ignored the opportunity to feel the joy of rebirth. His love for all living things can be seen in my mothers eyes.



Thank you Dad for letting me steal your art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Can I dip my computer chip in your hot salsa?

Received an email from a chapter assumed forgotten, a page written before the days of laptop computers, I-phones, texting and Twitter. A simple connection reintroduced through the powers of Face Book…the son of a radio friend, a man I spent my early years of broadcasting admiring not because he’d been to the top and stood on stages so large Hannah Montana would step back and whisper, “Whoa.” But rather his approach to creating a common ground between the disc jockey’s side of the radio speaker and those who happened to pull in a for a quick bite of ear candy.



The conversations we host on these invisible canvases mimic nothing. No other generation before us can fathom what’s taken place or where such a journey is leading our trickled trails quickly becoming mountain passes and highways.



If Grandma Bakken suddenly reappeared she’d sternly stand above me demanding the box with funny pictures and no Carol Burnett be turned off and my tail would be in the garden collecting ripened raspberries. Mom still has a rotary telephone and types on a machine I hope and pray will sit next to her picture inside the Bowling Hall of Fame she entered a few years back.



Thanks to Bill Gates and Steve Wozniac, Microsoft and Apple have created dressing rooms for us to step inside to slip into an array of bird clothes to do nothing more than soar through personal valleys once thought to be covered by earth shattering events, reasons to grow and or flat out modern day boredom.



Most unexpected connections begin with, “You might not remember me.” That’s ok because through continued conversation the human brain figures out ways to regurgitate the canals that once played an important role in making sure your fields were properly irrigated. Once achieved, the ditch seems overgrown with weeds twelve feet high yet the base of the feeder still has the strength to pass a new memory by.



Wouldn’t it be great if the masterminds of technology could figure out ways to connect to inner transformation? Gaining access to a GPS system that softly says, “Turn right at the eleventh grade and go two miles to your first guitar.” Wait! I purchased that Ibanez Flying V with the money received after my birth father passed, feeling totally guilty because I had no clue who the dude even was.



Such computer connections would instantly land us in a pair of Michael J Fox shoes, enabling us to shoot back to the future in ways that paint the origins of hidden adventure turned mud. We live in the past as it is…why can’t we come up with a full proof plan to physically pick up the bumpers of our Fred Flintstone car and tear off toward a horizon that fate forgot to let us touch?



In terms of reality, practicing inner transformation is far more approachable than waiting for near invisible computer chips to lift the tips of our imagination toward a destination we were naturally supposed to leave behind.



In 2003 Buddhist Monk Thick Nhat Hahn sketched out his views of turning arrows into flowers. Not an art but rather a decision to locate peaceful paths that may or may not have been barely living in stored caverns buried deep below the surface of your skin.



Being from war torn late 60’s early 70’s Vietnam, he’s been forced to digest personal vision quests that have led his feet toward destinations not pictured as a child or young adult hoping to seize the hull of ship to scream, “I’m the king of the world!” His world resembles that of the History channel and it’s black and white or off colored films that represented a place many of us couldn’t relate with yet felt tremendous compassion for those who were forced to go through it minute by minute, hourly and in his case even today.



Thick Nhat Hahn’s experiences are timeless, like a song, a favorite Hollywood motion picture or magazine story that puts focus on crime and within its storytelling way it paints the picture of something that could easily fit within today.



Turn on any television set or pick up any newspaper in 2009 and without a doubt you’ll see violence is never far. We identify the seeds of violence in our everyday thoughts, speech and actions…seeds that are given to us in our minds and attitudes and in our fears and anxieties about ourselves and others. Thick Nhat Hahn wrote during the Vietnam War, “When we believe something to be the absolute truth, we have become caught in our own view.”



A view we tend to share via computer links, cell phone conversations and or coffee pot cookers where the java is always free.



Thick Nhat Hahn continues to write, “We think of violence and war as an act with a beginning and end. Yet when you study the true act of war, whether it breaks out or not the seeds of war are already here. We don’t have to experience an act of war to know of its presence."



Look around us…



Like the battle between a smile and frown, no matter which expression appears, the other is required to use just as much if not more facial muscles to exceed the limits of its purpose. War and peace live inside the same channels of communication.



Inner transformation begins when you learn to recognize that seeds of peace survive daily on the very roots violence requires to reach through soils often so thick it’s been dubbed granite or bedrock. Cultivation is your only requirement. If a bad day has reared its ugly head give its face that of a velvet rose. Mindfully create in newer ways to think, speak and act while waking up a side of you that’s been hidden and or silenced by a society that hasn’t allowed you….to be you.



You have the ability to stop a war where it begins…in our minds.



Sometimes the greatest act your Broadway production can pull off is doing nothing more than sending something positive via an email. Rather than living in a past you can’t change, maybe the voices that are coming back via Face Book are the reasons why trees are given leaves each new spring... Look at the number of flower bulbs and roots that sit in the ground during unpredictable weather changes and still have the courage to share with human stick figures a blossom or two on days filled with so much warfare you’ve become blind to all other living things except a simple weed that happened to sprout a purple flower in a place you forgot to mow.



The voice from the past, the son of a radio mentor…a single breath of wind that lasted no longer than two letters. Today I find myself worrying about him…he is a soldier in the United States Marines stationed in Iraq and through technology a long forgotten path happened to cross. Did he reconnect because he’d soon pass? Until he writes again, I will never know. Until that computer is created, the only thing we have is prayer.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com