Friday, April 30, 2010

Flying without a net...

After several hours of searching and the invention of a few new words, Windows Word can't be located on this radio station studio computer. Gulp!

I openly admit...without spell check...I am flying without a net. We've become that lazy? Spin back the hands of time and you'll see Mrs. Stephenson yanking my third grade arm out of its socket and sending this writers dreams and passion to express straight to an object called a dictionary.

Whoa...I haven't physically held one of those things since walking through a Barnes and Nobel a few years back and thinking, "The only thing missing from this giant thick object are phone numbers and email addresses. If each word came with a social networking connection, more people might spend time dancing with the idea that great spelling looks so much better than the attempt to sell a thought."

If I used LOL or BRB on my mother, she'd ground me for a week for trying to come up with secret new ways to use bad language at the dinner table. I can't imagine what it's like to drive down a busy street with her...nearly every business in America has come up with a different way to spell their name. A good example is Kar Kare or Kustom Wheels.

I totally get what they're trying to do. Whatever it takes to get someone to remember your name. I once put myself in the Yellow Pages spelling it AAArroe Collins. It didn't score me any business. Truth is...it made me look like I couldn't spell and who wants to do business with someone who didn't pay attention in class?

If you spend time with me daily...the creation of words is my poetic attempt at searching for newer avenues of expression...I hide behind something I've personally dubbed Shakespeare-itis. Why is he the only one who can develop bigger, thinner more meaningful conversation pieces and starters? Is it a strength or a weird way to get you to tune out before finishing the store?

Street slang looks at my words exclaiming, "No way man! We don't have your back on this one!"



After several hours of searching and the invention of a few new words, Windows Word can't be located on this radio station studio computer. Gulp!

I openly admit...without spell check...I am flying without a net. We've become that lazy? Spin back the hands of time and you'll see Mrs. Stephenson yanking my third grade arm out of its socket and sending this writers dreams and passion to express straight to an object called a dictionary.

Whoa...I haven't physically held one of those things since walking through a Barnes and Nobel a few years back and thinking, "The only thing missing from this giant thick object are phone numbers and email addresses. If each word came with a social networking connection, more people might spend time dancing with the idea that great spelling looks so much better than the attempt to sell a thought."

If I used LOL or BRB on my mother, she'd ground me for a week for trying to come up with secret new ways to use bad language at the dinner table. I can't imagine what it's like to drive down a busy street with her...nearly every business in America has come up with a different way to spell their name. A good example is Kar Kare or Kustom Wheels.

I totally get what they're trying to do. Whatever it takes to get someone to remember your name. I once put myself in the Yellow Pages spelling it AAArroe Collins. It didn't score me any business. Truth is...it made me look like I couldn't spell and who wants to do business with someone who didn't pay attention in class?

If you spend time with me daily...the creation of words is my poetic attempt at searching for newer avenues of expression...I hide behind something I've personally dubbed Shakespeare-itis. Why is he the only one who can develope bigger, thinner more meaningful conversation pieces and starters? Is it a strength or a weird way to get you to tune out before finishing the store?

Street slang looks at my words exclaiming, "No way man! We don't have your back on this one!"

Putting together my first book was a nightmare for the editor. They wanted to erase and rebuild and my ego said, "No! I want to be known for my way of speaking not a sixth grade teachers attempt at shaping a growing mind." Huck Finn is my inspiration on that war of words...Mark Twain's southernism are a masterpiece geared toward taking your heart, body and soul straight to the river banks of the Mississippi.

The only reason why I know how to spell that word is due 100% to my brother who constantly told me, "It's M I crooked letter crooked letter, I, crooked letter crooked letter, I hump back hump back I."

Wed-nes-day. Mr. Barone boldly said, "Fridays are your friend...so the word friend should always include a Friday. Fri-end."

A good friend of mine was badly named as a kid...his wicked parents called him Clarence. He's constantly complaining about how people drive the blades of a bad knife into his soul everytime he has to fill out paperwork because nobody knows how to spell his name. Clarence? How do you spell that? Does that have anything to do with a clearance Clarence?

Spelling isn't going to get any better. Why should we learn how to spell when computers trying to give us the words before we finishing typing it onto the screen...did you mean? Or the one I can't stand they're their and there. I before E except before the Kibbles and Bits are given to the puppies.

When is congress going to release their old fashioned ways and allow the way we really talk enter the chapters of true American English? Punctuation is a nightmare on paper, computer screens and speaking. Commercial copy that's been written by someone else is somewhat of a chore because how you speak and how my mouth works are like two brothers who promised their mother not to fight but end up turning the living room into a professional wrestling match before dinner.

Bad spelling...where does it begin? Why did I ask that? I'm now face to face with a finger pointed directly at school systems that became satisfied that their little second graders sounded out the words then spelled it the way it sounded. Nice job Jawn-knee!

No spell check on my computer this morning. I'm nervous, moody and completely bonkers like an addict searching for a new high. Look man, I'm willing to sell my 1977 AMX for a hit off your spell check. If I hit Harrah's in the mountains...rather than score chips and points can they give me words spelled correctly?

I'm sure there's a dictionary somewhere in the radio station. Go look for it? Please...all I have to do is present it in a way that best represents what might be and your imagination will do the rest. Is that an ego talking or what? WWSD what would Shakespeare do?

arroecollins@clearchannel.com


Putting together my first book was a nightmare for the editor. They wanted to erase and rebuild and my ego said, "No! I want to be known for my way of speaking not a sixth grade teachers attempt at shaping a growing mind." Huck Finn is my inspiration on that war of words...Mark Twain's southernisms are a masterpiece geared toward taking your heart, body and soul straight to the river banks of the Mississippi.

The only reason why I know how to spell that word is due 100% to my brother who constantly told me, "It's M I crooked letter crooked letter, I, crooked letter crooked letter, I hump back hump back I."

Wed-nes-day. Mr. Barone boldly said, "Fridays are your friend...so the word friend should always include a Friday. Fri-end."

A good friend of mine was badly named as a kid...his wicked parents called him Clarence. He's constantly complaining about how people drive the blades of a bad knife into his soul everytime he has to fill out paperwork because nobody knows how to spell his name. Clarence? How do you spell that? Does that have anything to do with a clearance Clarence?

Spelling isn't going to get any better. Why should we learn how to spell when computers trying to give us the words before we finishing typing it onto the screen...did you mean? Or the one I can't stand they're their and there. I before E except before the Kibbles and Bits are given to the puppies.

When is congress going to release their old fashioned ways and allow the way we really to talk enter the chapters of true American English? Punctuation is a nightmare on paper, computer screens and speaking. Commercial copy that's been written by someone else is somewhat of a chore because how you speak and how my mouth works are like two brothers who promised their mother not to fight but end up turning the living room into a professional wrestling match before dinner.

Bad spelling...where does it begin? Why did I ask that? I'm now face to face with a finger pointed directly at school systems that became satisfied that their little second graders sounded out the words then spelled it the way it sounded. Nice job Jawn-knee!

No spell check on my computer this morning. I'm nervous, moody and completely bonkers like an addict searching for a new high. Look man, I'm willing to sell my 1977 AMX for a hit off your spell check. If I hit Harrah's in the mountains...rather than score chips and points can they give me words spelled correctly?

I'm sure there's a dictionary somewhere in the radio station. Go look for it? Please...all I have to do is present it in a way that best represents what might be and your imagination will do the rest. Is that an ego talking or what? WWSD what would Shakespeare do?

arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Flying without a net...

After several hours of searching and the invention of a few new words, Windows Word can't be located on this radio station studio computer. Gulp!

I openly admit...without spell check...I am flying without a net. We've become that lazy? Spin back the hands of time and you'll see Mrs. Stephenson yanking my third grade arm out of its socket and sending this writers dreams and passion to express straight to an object called a dictionary.

Whoa...I haven't physically held one of those things since walking through a Barnes and Nobel a few years back and thinking, "The only thing missing from this giant thick object are phone numbers and email addresses. If each word came with a social networking connection, more people might spend time dancing with the idea that great spelling looks so much better than the attempt to sell a thought."

If I used LOL or BRB on my mother, she'd ground me for a week for trying to come up with secret new ways to use bad language at the dinner table. I can't imagine what it's like to drive down a busy street with her...nearly every business in America has come up with a different way to spell their name. A good example is Kar Kare or Kustom Wheels.

I totally get what they're trying to do. Whatever it takes to get someone to remember your name. I once put myself in the Yellow Pages spelling it AAArroe Collins. It didn't score me any business. Truth is...it made me look like I couldn't spell and who wants to do business with someone who didn't pay attention in class?

If you spend time with me daily...the creation of words is my poetic attempt at searching for newer avenues of expression...I hide behind something I've personally dubbed Shakespeare-itis. Why is he the only one who can develope bigger, thinner more meaningful conversation pieces and starters? Is it a strength or a weird way to get you to tune out before finishing the store?

Street slang looks at my words exclaiming, "No way man! We don't have your back on this one!"

Putting together my first book was a nightmare for the editor. They wanted to erase and rebuild and my ego said, "No! I want to be known for my way of speaking not a sixth grade teachers attempt at shaping a growing mind." Huck Finn is my inspiration on that war of words...Mark Twain's southernism are a masterpiece geared toward taking your heart, body and soul straight to the river banks of the Mississippi.

The only reason why I know how to spell that word is due 100% to my brother who constantly told me, "It's M I crooked letter crooked letter, I, crooked letter crooked letter, I hump back hump back I."

Wed-nes-day. Mr. Barone boldly said, "Fridays are your friend...so the word friend should always include a Friday. Fri-end."

A good friend of mine was badly named as a kid...his wicked parents called him Clarence. He's constantly complaining about how people drive the blades of a bad knife into his soul everytime he has to fill out paperwork because nobody knows how to spell his name. Clarence? How do you spell that? Does that have anything to do with a clearance Clarence?

Spelling isn't going to get any better. Why should we learn how to spell when computers trying to give us the words before we finishing typing it onto the screen...did you mean? Or the one I can't stand they're their and there. I before E except before the Kibbles and Bits are given to the puppies.

When is congress going to release their old fashioned ways and allow the way we really talk enter the chapters of true American English? Punctuation is a nightmare on paper, computer screens and speaking. Commercial copy that's been written by someone else is somewhat of a chore because how you speak and how my mouth works are like two brothers who promised their mother not to fight but end up turning the living room into a professional wrestling match before dinner.

Bad spelling...where does it begin? Why did I ask that? I'm now face to face with a finger pointed directly at school systems that became satisfied that their little second graders sounded out the words then spelled it the way it sounded. Nice job Jawn-knee!

No spell check on my computer this morning. I'm nervous, moody and completely bonkers like an addict searching for a new high. Look man, I'm willing to sell my 1977 AMX for a hit off your spell check. If I hit Harrah's in the mountains...rather than score chips and points can they give me words spelled correctly?

I'm sure there's a dictionary somewhere in the radio station. Go look for it? Please...all I have to do is present it in a way that best represents what might be and your imagination will do the rest. Is that an ego talking or what? WWSD what would Shakespeare do?

arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, April 29, 2010

I'm a jerk but for good reason. I think...

I’m one of those people that has a difficult time accepting a thank you or a compliment—instantly my heart begins to communicate with the brain telling it to take cover because the system is about to be attacked by someone’s wants and needs and somewhere on the journey you’re the only person on earth that can help them.



They compliment first then hit you up…which makes me less of a nice person and more of a sucker. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…there used to be a time when being a good person put value in your presentation but because of these untrusting times everyone including church ministers and the mall store rent a cop are on the edge.



I’m going to get crushed for writing this but I’ve always assumed it was a Southern thing to offer something nice to say then seize control of the moment by tossing in an innocent, “Oh by the way.” I’ve nicknamed it the Bless your heart approach to gaining access to success. “You’re tire was flat this morning…bless your heart…hey I want.”



Before I got here in 1985, the life and style was nothing more but a farmers brand on the backside of my Montana hide. Pacific North Westerners are a unique breed in the way of speaking clean…not a single slice of buttering up is available…just say it! I can’t imagine Dad the former military leader killing me softly with his song before slamming my day into an afternoon blessed with straightening up the garage.



An email from a friend sparked this conversation into play—in an age where you can’t trust anyone in a big box store parking lot, they were spotted taking trash to its rightful place in a large can near the door. The stranger walks up to them and says, “Thank you for doing that. Most people would toss it to the ground.”



The earth friendly friend didn’t know how to accept the news. Do you smile and keep walking? Do you wait to hear what they really want? A buck or ten? A free ride to an assumed car that’s broken down? Who takes the time to thank another person for putting trash in its rightful place?



People who want to make a difference.



It’s kind of like that Coke commercial where one person’s good deed leads to another then another and by the time they reach the end of the block a good deed is given back to them.



I trust no one…not even my dentist who sat with her assistant in the extremely tiny teeth cleaning room and tried to explain to me that further work needed to be performed. I’m not a fan of anyone in the medical field—their only mission in life is to pull off a car mechanics approach to scoring a career…everyday they think of newer ways to rip off clients. What the average person doesn’t know becomes their gain…dentist’s and doctors make up for it with a heavily touted educational background that makes the consumer feel stupid, so we fold and they score the bucks.



What? I didn’t suck up first!



They needed my name on the dotted line and I asked twice for more time to think about what they were wanting to do. Like a great sales team they wouldn’t back down until I stood up and boldly said, “You are freaking me out! You’ve trapped me in a tiny room and filled me up with too much information. I need to do some homework.”



I want the man who thanks me for throwing trash away!



Wait…stop! Take three steps back. How would I truly react if someone approached me that I didn’t know? It’s only natural for me to whip out my martial arts always on alert attitude—we’d probably have a John Wayne meets Alec Baldwin stare down…grunt like two cavemen on a Geico commercial then walk away feeling like we’ve both been invaded.



What? I’m not a jerk! Its how we’ve evolved. I’m guilty of the what’s this have to do with me theory that has been scientifically designed by slow approaching scalpers at professional sporting events that will do whatever it takes to make up for their possible losses.



If my Master in martial arts were to call me right now and gently say, “Let’s talk after class.” I’d spend the next twelve hours focused on nothing more than someone wanting to rip me off. This horrible attitude totally shatters rule number seven in the ten articles of student commitment, ten simple to live by commands that have survived two thousand years of constant change: establish trust between teacher and student.



Making matters worse…I couldn’t take the life of the brown tick I found firmly attached to the blood supply. I played with him for fifteen minutes then took him outside to the nearest bush. Trust confusion. I’ll set free something that was making very ill but if the man who offers thanks to those throwing away trash comes by or the dentist who wants to make my smile last longer than a Carolina sunset I’m quick to bite.



Now I feel like a snake.



What do others feel when I offer a compliment? I tell interns all the time how brilliant they are…do they believe me? Are they thinking…he wants more free time? I swear I’m not that way…never nice before a request. If something is required you gotta get it without creating a fake high because it feels like hell when its being done to you so why teach the fine art of abuse to an up and comer?



Confused? Or…are you one of them? Maybe it’s time to start thanking trash picker-uppers more often. If enough of us convince the masses we truly aren’t wanting something in return…trust might actually bloom this spring. Until then…you’re up to something and I’m silently watching you like the wolf I am.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com the jerk but ok with it until there’s change.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

While you were sleeping...

Been up late lately? Radio is…and it’s usually more relating than the other eighteen hours of the day.



It’s as if the Pied Pipers of overnight boards and microphones are given permission to say the most bizarre things—sporty conversations, filled with life and or plainer than a slice of white bread. Late night two speaker super hero’s talk about how difficult it is to stay awake while spinning out gobs of web delivered artist and concert tour info, gibby gab about Hollywood, spaceships and aliens while opening your thoughts to simple digestion not found after the boss arrives somewhere around 8 or 9.



I can’t say radio’s moonlit playgrounds are a lost art…there are too many performance starved word creators baking inside an oven of opportunity. Those blessed with a stage aren’t programmed to wake up but rather feed the veins of third shifters needing companionship during Corporate America’s transition period—the single most important part of a success story where shelves are stocked, hallways and offices are cleaned and everything else behind the scenes helps to set up what’ll become the path 9 to 5er’s require to reach up, out and through mountains of paperwork and numbers needing to be met.



Radio continues long after Leno and Letterman have disappeared from their appropriate networks.



For the past month I’ve been getting up at 2 AM and have desperately required the assistance of late night radio to keep my eye lids popped open. This close to the speakers, you’d think I’d be more critical of the vibrations shaking my speeds up and over the limits placed there by law.



What I’m hearing is presence. I’m taking note of a voice that doesn’t have to be there but wants to become part of the struggle to keep the chapters we write in forward motion. Nobody is up that late or early unless they have to be—there is no choice, you know what’s expected of you and to attain it’s presentation with a positive approach needs something more than another cup of hot coffee or your 15th Red Bull inside a six hour period.



I tend to react more to a late night voice because what they’re saying seems more real than the rest of a plastic radio day. This morning, the woman calmly said, “I love coworkers who come across dumb. We need people who pull off dumb stunts. It gives us reason to laugh.”



Twenty five miles from the four walls that keep me busy when the sun is up, instantly my mind shot down the hallways indentifying everyone who makes me chuckle. This, during an age when radio is supposed to be disappearing from the map—thirty one years with a pair of earphones wrapped tightly around my ego and the microphone a tongue’s lick away from the next thought shot through a system of communication…one is left with a palm full of passion that’ll rise above the waters if this ship truly elected to sink.



Music alone won’t get you above and beyond your hourly challenges. Companionship heals darkness.



The industry as a whole still loves its listeners or 98% of us would be bagging groceries.



Radio is a connection between all things real and your ambition to figure out how to make it part of your daily journey. Be it a bright beautiful weather filled day or an addiction to the pitfalls of fame and fortune—before there was reality TV, radio was and still is the stage for single acts of courage shared with listeners wanting to learn more just so they can compare it to the up’s, down’s and complete turn arounds taking place in their life and style.



Late nights were my favorite place to play radio. Not only did the clean up crew at McDonalds constantly bring me food they couldn’t toss out but limo drivers, party goers, chefs who put in a twelve hour day, tax accountants and people fresh from the perils of a vocal war with someone they loved would connect with every reason why I got into the business…music, if blended properly paints for the imagination a well exposed secret called escape.



Which you still get between 6 AM and 8 PM but lets be honest…plastic words and prefabricated thoughts that are deeply researched bounce off a pair of ears faster than snot leaks from a nose during allergy season…therefore listeners become more attracted to the lyrics of songs rather than a creative seven second thought designed to take the shuffle out of your feet, giggle like a goose, shoot diet Coke through your nose or pull off a high energy concert ticket victory.



If radio came with DVR’s and Tivo’s those selected to share thought patterns during the lit up moments a star shines would be ratings winners. It’s called relating and nobody does it better than that midnight to 6 AM voice that seeps from the dial position onto the floor of your car or home and sprouting roots that quickly grow in the crevices of struggle meets having a great time.



The days of midnight Jello jumps and Rock Star look-a-like contests at local malls and drive-in movie theaters may be over but not the attitude required to figure out a meaningful path that’s going to take the breath of a radio talker and place it into your lungs.



Television has elected to go the way of cramming the same evil worldly news stories and info-mercials onto their reasons for being open late. Radio has no problem sharing its relationship with music and conversation with you, your life and all things connected to making whatever you’re doing better than what it was ten minutes ago.



I salute the late night kings of talking and spinning! Thank you for having the courage to continue being up all night!



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

What are you sights set on?

S Truett Cathy, the mastermind behind Chick-fil-A once said, “My most satisfying day is the day I work the hardest—the day I get the most accomplished.”



Being an admitted and fully accredited work-a-holic…I look at comments like this and laugh the sort of chuckle that fits uncomfortably under the breath—no day passes that we don’t find ourselves comparing daily paths with coworkers, family members and neighbors constantly wondering how some people get away with murder while others are driven deeper into the ground of company policy.



Work ethics and procedures are based on levels of expectation, personal versus job demanded. My father busted his tail for forty years in the steel industry and got no further than heavily scarred hands and a beat up body. On the outside, as much as he tried to entertain his eight children he always came across as horribly unhappy. I knew at the age of six what I didn’t want to be.



Collecting records, 8-track tapes and larger than life speakers spelled out a poor man’s curse, I vowed to become massively more popular than a chicken farmer…whatever it took to be happier than the figure that kept the electricity on inside the self built house on Ryan Ave.



I read the other day that ten years ago most American adults endure the pressures of lifes failure during their mid to late forties—one look at the chapters that have been written and a darkened sigh is released into the air that feverishly screams, “I didn’t get to do what I wanted to become.”



Pop the clock up on the realms of modern day reality and those numbers dramatically change—new research shows the average twenty one to twenty five year old in 2010 looks at themselves as being a total failure with no hope of attaining the rights to holding whatever dreams led them toward a horizon assumed approachable.



S Truett Cathy’s quote continues, “When someone does something less than what they are capable of doing, its work.”



Could this be why so many millions hate their jobs? When doing less than what you’re capable why should someone move forward knowing such actions and reactions are nothing more than a statue or mountain nobody wants to look at? When there is no reason to grow...why should we donate leaves to a tree?



I know exactly where I stood between the ages in question and have never been proud of the endeavors to achieve what have since become the years I pull from when sitting with future Broadcasters basking in the rays of new beginnings worth chasing. Those fresh from high school and over protective parent adventures unmasked a willingness to make and accept mistakes while expanding the options of not letting them control my life by way of keeping me away from turning every step into a success making device.



A wise man isn’t an old man nor does age have anything to do with being wise. Experience, good or bad, bends and folds into place the shapes that become the figures we often call shadows.



How many times has Donald Trump filed for bankruptcy?



In the late 80’s David Letterman asked the real estate tycoon if he’d ever run for President. Compared to today’s notes, bankruptcy would’ve made Trump a hero who might physically have the knowledge to lift a nation out of a financial crisis rather rely on foreign promises and money picked fresh daily from an invisible tree.



What if Trump had stopped at twenty one? Betsy Ross was in her late seventies when the United States Flag was sewn into the seams of history. Mic Jagger, Paul McCartney and Don Henley from The Eagles have mooned the idea of getting old and crossed the 60 year mark continuing to build a financial empire worth millions because they’ve learned the fine art of giving customers exactly what they want.



In fact Don’s songwriting partner Glenn Frey recently told the press their new tour won’t feature any new music because people won’t pay to hear something they don’t know. What if Henley and Frey had stopped during those struggling years with Linda Ronstadt?



Truett finds faith in knowing, “When you do an outstanding job in your performance, it’s rewarding.”



But where do you locate acceptance in a world of work where bosses have no desire of learning anything more than your availability. If that’s not possible, that’s ok; we’ll find someone who is.



The press is extremely correct in saying how tough times are…if a 21 to 25 year old has lost faith in helping to put our future into motion…how are those following them reacting to a serious lack of inspiration and influence? Where is the leader who’ll step up to the podium and convince businesses how important it is to create proper growth inside a company without intimidating dreams?



There can be no new beginnings if every step you take is living in the past. We've become a nation who finds enjoyment in cutting down trees because it makes the yard look ugly totally forgetting the roots of everyday life is the strength that keeps a tree from leaning.


arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, April 26, 2010

What have we done to ourselves?

Something interesting sprouted wings and elected to fly over the weekend—while in the attic searching for those infamous boxes we aren’t supposed to throw away or people like the computer company will no longer support your system…I couldn’t help but notice how extremely different we are in America.



Growing up in Montana, I spent the majority of my childhood chasing trains attempting to escape town—most had stopped to pick up wheat and other grains or sugar beats from the farmers while other freights elected to play with a growing imagination honking that long whistle as if to tell the kid walking across those long metal tracks to do all he could do to become part of this incredible way to travel.



My vow was to be a hobo.



To be so carefree seemed more inspiring than sitting behind a desk or shoving bails of hay tightly together to keep the snakes, rats and winter out. My dream was to find the largest cardboard box and call it home. No HBO, refrigerator two car garage with two point six kids…I wanted to find the perfect box that didn’t mind being folded up and carried from St Louis to Seattle then south to Phoenix then Charleston.



Dad always bought things used so scoring boxes from him was a useless effort. I hunted for my boxes in a dirt covered alley or behind bars that featured beer bottle boxes that were stronger than life itself and if you collected enough of them you’d have the makings of a cardboard brick house that could be huffed and puffed by never blown down.



Kmart up on 24th street always featured the best and biggest boxes. Giant, larger than life pieces that took my heart and wrapped it around the idea of something coming true—I was the kid who’d be spotted zipping down Moulany lane with a box on his back riding a reconstructed bicycle…it was that important.



Once home…it became not a fort but a living quarters complete with my dog Cocoa and several gray and white pigeons with the coolest cooing and a dance that seemed to always go with it.



Boxes…I’ve always loved boxes. Even the plastic looking things the mailman tends to haul around these days. They don’t melt in a rainstorm. They’re extremely light and come with easy to use handles that never rip or carve lines deep into your palms. One problem…too small! Can’t live in the mailman’s nifty thingy that tends to make you believe it’ll last longer than a Twinkie and its friend the cockroach.



Move the clock ahead to 2010…how the heck did we get here?



A 47 year old man standing straight up in his attic wanting to locate the computer box that holds the secret DVD’s that’ll reboot a system that crashed and its at that single point in the pages I keep that this always out of control imagination constantly told to stop creating couldn’t help lay out the ground work of the most tragic news delivered to his childhood dreams and wishes: Television boxes are no longer a hobo’s dream home.



Look at them! Maybe 4 feet tall but barely a foot thick! Ten years ago, two or three television boxes set side by side told the always moving society I was the king of my hobo world!



After taking note of the tiny television box, the confused eye caught the square shapes belonging to kitchen mixers and coffee pots, stereos thrown away years ago, a cable TV box I’m still paying for and like I knew it would be…the computer box…barely two feet up and seven inches out. A pillow maybe?



What have we done to ourselves? I grew up loving the idea that the biggest box under the Christmas tree belonged to me. That doesn’t mean junk in this modern state! IPod boxes are dinky. In fact some electronic devices come in that skin cutting plastic designed to keep thieves away and consumers out. I can’t live in that! I’m the type of personality that would end up losing the pieces along the train tacks.



No wonder people spend everything they’ve got on the Power Ball; being down and out takes up too much room. The people at Ikea must get where I’m coming from…they sell furniture and appliances for rooms no bigger than a washing machine box. I can’t be that insane!



Cars don’t come in a box but people live in them. I’ve never seen the size of a highway overpass but if it came in a box…wow, talk about condo living for a hobo.



I’ve never been able to figure out my fascination for boxes except to blame it on the hobo way…interestingly enough…when all is said and done, a box won’t be where I’ll end up. For some odd reason the thought of it steals from my dreams of being as free as the wind.



Maybe it’s my sixth sense saying, “Dude, you ain’t goin into something the size of a salt and pepper shaker. The ego alone needs something the size of Mount Mitchell.”



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, April 23, 2010

Hello, it's me opportunity. Can you hear me or are you ignoring success?

Each day when you jump free of those nice warm blankets a new journey that can’t be predicted is put into play.

Yet…you can vividly layout what’s going to happen if your decision is to do nothing.



Native American Nation’s continue to put tremendous amounts of trust in their Medicine Men because of their keen sense of direction geared toward building energy that’ll lead not one but several into the future…upon it’s arrival, the end result is chance meeting risk which is always going to be two steps farther than a frozen knot in a chunk of wood attached to a house that rarely if ever moves.



Opportunity exists on every step leading up, down, sideways or backwards…its knock can be thunderous or so faint not even a well trained police dog can locate the scent of which direction it’s walking. Therefore daily goals should be trained to do more than just listen.



A tree falls on your house…do you see it as a tragic unpredictable mess or a signal that its time to design a strong wrap-around support system like the $50 leg and arm braces Wal-Mart and CVS make a mint off selling it to consumers who find tremendous faith in diagnosing their own ailments?



In studying the words laid out by singer/songwriter/motivational speaker Robin Crow…life tends to be a series of tests and challenges designed to make a person weak in the knees to the point of screaming uncle before the weekend arrives.



Where’s the fun in that? Rather than get hurt or emotionally drained let’s wait for everything to pass us by.



Robin Crow had a dream: To one day record with Jon Anderson from the group YES. He wasn’t a groupie, follower or stalker but rather a performer whose roots were inspired by Jon’s willingness to share his art with the world. Crow knew if he met Mr. Anderson he’d have a sliver of hope to create with the highly respected master of many anthem-esque arrivals such as the 80’s classic Owner of a Lonely Heart.



Their first meeting was near Anderson’s tour bus. Whoa…that kind of says watch out…especially when Robin blurted out, “So when are we going to record something together?”



Talk about a red faced moment. We’ve all been there. You think you’ve got the plan put into place until the moment arrives and your delivery falls completely apart creating a horribly uncomfortable situation for everyone involved.



I had just spent nearly an hour with famed artist Peter Max on the phone, he says to me, “I love your concept of adding poetry to the canvas…lets meet and discuss it.”



Grabbing what I assumed were my best pieces…I looked, double looked and went through each presentation over and over again then finally gained the confidence to shove it all into a really cool case with a destination set for a one on one with the man who brought life to The Beatles Yellow Submarine. Once there…I froze. An artist I had met countless times before still had the strength to steal from my private chapters the required guts to step up and say, “We just spoke.”



I gave the artwork instead to the curator...



Robin Crow didn’t let his fan first moment freak out his future. His back wasn’t turned on opportunity. No matter how much it resembled an echo most ignore, he kept his fingerprints connected to long term dreams and wishes which led him straight to Jon Anderson who flew into Nashville to spend a week recording with the singer/songwriter.



He jumped and the net appeared.



Artist Way author Julia Cameron has influenced me to be a better artist and in doing so that requires trust, not only in myself but a simple act called synchronicity. When you least expect it…something new will be delivered and its ultimately up to you to hear opportunity knocking or to decide life is ok just as it is.



A great example is my Tae Kwon Do Master Todd Harris who spends day and night learning then teaching. The sun rises, he learns more then teaches. He travels all over the country learning from other Masters and Grand Masters. Being only a second degree black belt I can only assume I know what he’s doing but only he holds the vision given to his senses every second of every moment he wakes, walks and sleeps. Nothing stands in the way of him learning then teaching.



Why doesn’t everyone come with this computer chip? There’s got to be something located in the brain that we can quickly switch out! While some race to the nearest Apple store, Home Depot or Lowes Foods…the real answer must be made out of glass because enough of us openly admit that opportunity is an object that can easily been seen through therefore making it almost invisible to turn into reality.



Somebody invented the Popcorn Ball! Al Gore claims he created the World Wide Web. Where would we be without a broom or leaf blower? I’d love to one day meet the clown who laid out the map for Corporate America to purchase every tiny thought and endeavor and turn it into their master plan to take over the mall.



For 31 years I’ve never been able to explain why I became a radio disc jockey except to say I heard a voice that said, “Eric Clapton picked up a guitar…fine tune your voice and locate a two speaker stage…and so I did.”



What have you learned to ignore?

Don’t allow anyone to steal your art unless you’re willing to teach them how to do it right. Make today a brilliant day because this 24 hour period is screaming with opportunity and it's going to knock a little louder.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, April 22, 2010

You are better than OK

S Truett Cathy—the founding father of Chick-fil-A restaurants has always found great pleasure in speaking to graduating classes—he finds value in locating the straight A students…not to symbolize their efforts to study from sunrise to sunset, be loyally dedicated and or determined to be looked upon as being one of if not the best…but to softly remind them, “The world is run by C average students.”



Being a smart player, a well determined performer, a finely tuned and polished machine doesn’t guarantee you a solid first step because research constantly shows average students have a lock on grasping what it takes to get by. You don’t need to have a brilliant mind to have common sense. The only thing required in the department of accomplishment is hard work.



It’s ok to laugh the laugh, the tiny giggle that invisibly screams, “No wonder Mike in cubical twelve gets away with being a slack off.”



$300,000 for three or four college degrees and all you ever needed was a fist full of common sense.



What amazes me aren’t the number of people who’ve learned the fine art of being less at work but the increasing collection of experienced professionals blessed with skill and the desire to use it through leadership that have developed a daily ethic that features them spending early mornings, lunch hours and the drive home thinking about someone who completely stole their reasons to succeed because being less is the acceptable.



Please don’t think of this as being a call to action for ladder climbers to loosen their passions to reach the top. By identifying the elements that are taking you down, it helps you rebuild the playing field required to create a firmer foundation that’ll feel like a payoff for hard work and dedication and not punishment for caring too much.



Check collectors are part of the American process. It’s a balancing act that begins when two kids sitting at the same table reading the same book swiftly move through the words then slam their eyes onto the next page, then the next, then next. The student with the higher grade constantly falls behind. He allows the assumed faster reader to bolt through the paragraphs—the goal isn’t to digest the presentation of thought but rather to gain confidence in common sense and gather nothing more than what’s required to get by.



The smarter student develops a complex—believing he or she has a reading problem.



7th grade Riverside Jr. High…I chose to fail a reading test. At the age of twelve I had grown extremely tired of not getting attention. I couldn’t stand the idea of being the car that could maintain it self. I was jealous of the students who drew the teacher to them while the rest of us sat with our faces buried in books. By failing the test that convinced the educational system to place me in a reading center where my heart got what it wanted most…someone to talk to me.



I didn’t cheat to win. I chose to lose using crafted common sense to get what I wanted. The decision to do so totally destroyed every effort the other side of my personality required to draw out the plans of becoming the architect I wanted to be. The more I failed on tests, the less the upper levels of school management saw in me. I got the attention of special teachers but lost the hope of those who could’ve easily put me in the drafting classes that would’ve turned what I saw on the inside into a reality.



The world is run by C average students. I had fallen below the standard.



A 12th grade religion teacher grabbed me by the arm in 1979 and changed the layout of the process, “I don’t want you back in my class next year. I don’t like you and never will find a reason to understand why you completely bother me. The only way to get you out of my class is to some how convince you that having D’s and F’s aren’t going to put that diploma in your hands and you somewhere other than here.”



That’s where I learned you can’t fire high school students…you can only come up with words that hurt like hell yet they inspire you to wake up. Because of his harshness and lack of love for the student who wanted nothing more than tons of attention from teachers…my stupidity cleared the way for me to gain access to an A minus average by schools end.



I failed me and during the journey of rebuilding a loyalty to quality I’m constantly reminded the real world didn’t have my religion teacher.



Know that term: I failed _________.



While the nation puts focus on masterminding a plan to put us back on the top shelves of worth and value, your performance and lack thereof can and does inspire as well as influence people you know and will one day meet. The world may be run by C average students but somewhere along the line you’re going to get tired of being just ok. Being ok may get you HBO and a few video games but it also leads you to the final box that was designed by an ok machine thats been glued together by an ok worker then sold to an ok funeral director who shrugged his shoulders and said, “Ok let’s get this over with.”



Ever seen how much money they make when people are leaving? You’ll be ok.



Will being just ok ever change? S Truett Cathy went through his vision changing experiences during the Great Depression—70 plus years have spun by faster than Madonna reinvents her image. Guess it’s ok to be ok…just don’t fall below it cuz it’s happening more and more everyday. If giving 70% is acceptable today…your grand children will only be required to give 50.



Constantly face the facts: I failed __________.



A shot of reality in the arms required to lift your tail up out of that chair.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

If it's not your house don't mow the lawn...

This above all: to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.



Hamlet Act 1, scene 3, 78-82



I always assumed it was a Montana thing to be upfront, blunt, truthful and desire filled in the art of sharing language—talking openly may hurt and or offer an option to come across as crude but in the end…if you grew an inch, was damage done or were the soils fertilized by an effort to lead rather than play the part of?



The next time your boss, coworker, family member or neighbor seeks reason to burst open a fresh can of words and points of view…challenge yourself to say nothing. Calmly control the situation by listening.



Get to the heart of the leader…



Buddhist Monk Thick Nhat Hanh was the first to introduce me to this peaceful walk through an everyday assumed in danger. If we spent more time listening, the journey might become enlightened. Where most of us get in trouble is in the words we choose to use while believing the silence leaders put between their visions is a great place to offer conversation.



Get to the heart of your leader…



Decision maker’s rarely read word for word from their handwritten notes of constructive criticism—they build foundations that enable them to spring forward. Which means more than most put personal trust in delivering a message that if unchallenged is clear to them but rarely if ever understandable to the one being given direction.



Time goes into nearly every conversation they create. Your reaction and counter action are based on the three C’s of everyday life: Count, Compare and Conquer. Employees, family and friends spend so much time counting the points collected during the process of always trying to be better than that it becomes nearly impossible to be a great listener. We’re constantly caught in an act of comparing our experiences and or reasons for doing so to everything brought to our feet and nearest fingertip then it becomes a mission to conquer without even thinking about what we’re up to in the name of developing common sense.



Getting to the heart of your leader means you’ve given them permission to enter your mind, body and soul through your ears. Teaching yourself to listen, to study their reasons and or purpose without reaction builds for you a place of peace—Thick Nhat Hahn reminds us of the protests we create while trying to be seen as well as heard…breaking it down, the true walk is a workday filled with peace not war. It’s ultimately you who must take the first step in offering peace by not starting or finishing the war.



Getting to the heart of a leader buys you a ticket to see what’s being presented. American companies love to promote—current working conditions idolize great performance by turning someone good in sales into a management figure. The 3 C’s…. Count, Compare and Conquer…whoa…nothing about people skills.



Author Lou Solomon writes that we are starved for genuine conversation—we love those moments when someone breaks through the noise and says something. Nobody moves until the heart of a great leader gives permission to other thinkers to be just as open.



In her book Say Something Real, Lou gently explains that self acceptance is infectious but extremely difficult to understand in business. Solo performers making their way to top places on totem poles are indispensable rain-makers but poorly typecast leaders.



Look what they’re facing…the 3 C’s. Count, Compare and Conquer! Your view combined with their options mixed in with cubical whisper talk about how it used to be and about life not being fair instantly injures your drive to succeed—creating a new infectious disease called lack of trust and belief.



The war begins. And all you ever truly wanted was to walk in peace.



Native American spirituality studies have taught me a valuable rule—constantly ask your feet whose house are you currently standing in. If it’s not yours…then allow your ego to be left at the door and abide by the rules of the keeper of the four walls to which you are visiting.



Speaking from the heart is an incredible performance. Nobody loves passion more than the face in the mirror. Understanding different ways to speak from the heart makes you a leader without corporate pressure. Borrowing from the lessons taught by Lou Solomon, the heart represents more than love and emotion. It’s the pulse that keeps us going, representing our quest for meaning—the kind of spirit and wisdom employees across this nation seek hourly.



Bosses focus on scripts. Employees only hear words. Bosses use expert terms. Employees hear words. I used to brag about being a perfectionist. Man it felt good to be so in love with the idea of delivering quality that it drove me fricken insane trying to be something I wasn’t…perfect. The harder I tried to do my best the more difficult it became for me to hear anything but words.



When future Broadcasters sit with me today…goal one is to get them to understand how to take scripts and expert terms and turn them into a positive energy that’s used to inspire the heart not rip it a part. It begins with listening without reaction, getting into the heart of a leader.



Real leaders have the best interest of the company, asserting great vision through a single note called speaking from the heart opens eyes. Attaining that level of performance can’t happen unless you find value in knowing how important it is to listen first, do some homework and then…wait a second…you might not have to react.



Protesting a war starts with learning how to walk in peace.



Steal my art…



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Who's keeping score?

Keeping score…we all do it. It’s a gift given to us the moment your newly unwrapped eyes lock onto the people playing the role of Mom, Dad and the Grandparents. One smile or gitchy gitchy goo and you’re hooked on scoring.

What is it going to take to get more of that really cool junk called attention? I got five today…can we latch these ten little toes and itty bitty nose on three more tomorrow?



Scoring is a numbers game. If I eat all my green beans and zucchini surprise…I’ll have enough brownie points collected to seize control of the ice cream scoop, or if I constantly give my boss extra unpaid hours of dedication and loyalty he or she will write good things about me for the yearend evaluation.



Coming from a family of eight kids, one hundred twenty five rabbits, a dog, sixty or so pigeons and a herd of chickens…keeping score during the early chapters was essential. How was I going to gain access to the front seat of the car? Taking out the trash and keeping the bedroom clean was a brilliant first step—Mom’s dig kids who don’t demand loads of their time.



Then it occurred to me: Quickly grip the future before it reaches you…start building your career at the ripe old age of fourteen. No matter what you sacrifice and how many close friends you lose become a point collector outside the ranks of the four walls of parental comfort.



Meaning…those who keep score easily become life’s biggest bore. But what’s wrong with that?



I know a school teacher who had so many unpaid sick days built up she could retire nearly a decade ahead the pack. The cell phone industry banks on individuals who place value on collecting roll over minutes. Birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas are secret hideaways where millions run to even up the score.



I literally ran away from home because I got tired of competing. A trick I learned in junior high school where teachers tend to give more attention to students who over and under achieve. Those in the middle waddle through the pages like baby ducks in search of a lake to plant their butt—once there, goals change; why score points from someone known for handing out points like candy…take on the world and lay your hands on new adventures that earn, “Wow points.”



Businesses put too much energy in the keeping score point system. Research shows you should be performing at this level or else. I keep waiting for the single voice that’ll publicly admit the most recent recession and banking crash was solely based on cheating the keeping score system. When you have too many people reaching for thin air eventually the stuff that keeps us alive disappears.



The point system used to be about having the biggest flat screen television, the most rooms in your house, best looking SUV and kids that were too pretty to be tough and rugged…one slip and they haven’t got the knowledge to pick their tails up and brush the dirt off their knees.



Which is why keeping score is quickly becoming a dinosaur. Those behind us aren’t creatively searching for points to stuff into their pockets; they expect you to collect it for them. I’m shocked their aren’t more parents wearing soccer and Little League baseball uniforms…the tiny people want nothing to do with kicking or hitting the ball—just get me to the end result so we can do something new and less boring.



Video games keep score. ATM’s and online banking are all about how well you keep score. Grocery stores give out free samples to score high marks from shoppers who’d rather be chasing dreams than reality. The most valuable lesson learned is how we truly look to the outside world…we reach for an item then shove it into a basket we spend an hour trying to push away.



Now watch someone who’s come to the store to score a carton of ice cream or a DVD from the Red Box…they hold onto it as if to say, “Look what I just scored.”



Drug companies are making zillions off our passion to keeping a tab on the number of days we feel sick and not in the mood to do what we do. So, they make new drugs that will give you cramps, make your feet swell, could cause a completely different problem in the bathroom, make your eyes pop open at 3am but it doesn’t matter…you feel good now and when you’re keeping score…feeling good is how you stay ahead of the competition.



Can you break free of this addiction to keeping score? I always assumed RV’ers were the great masters of letting score keeping go…then I went to a convention center show where they displayed the biggest, smallest, thinnest, lightest and fanciest RV’s and trailers this side of the Mississippi… That totally says keeping score!



No matter where you go, what you taste, see, rub your fingers through, jump over, climb up or around…everything you do and will do is based on keeping score.

In martial arts we collect belt colors. Black belts continue to learn because the more one knows the more points you score. But in reality how many pages of a 2,000 year old tradition will save your life?



Where is the peace and quiet on a journey oversaturated with point and compare? Be aware of how you keep score. Be open with how you collect and what you do with each point after it’s been delivered. The hardest thing to digest isn’t the failure of collecting points but rather the unspoken knowledge of knowing none of it is going with you the moment your feet touch the horizon.

Be good...play fair and never stop being you.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, April 19, 2010

Stop talking!

Thursday evening I stepped from the car and was instantly stopped by the visitation of a large deep dark brown owl just six feet from my nearest touch…for nearly 15 minutes we stood staring at each other—it’s not within the comforts of my nature to be silent…each word may have been soft but came in bags of 2,000 per second.


I commented about his face looking human like…an aged man that time wanted to forget but his personal embrace on adventure put him in places that curved his path around objects that might have halted another traveler. Easily you could see the owl had spent several summers chasing dreams without catching a breath or the invisible ingredients that would in fact make him famous on the shelves of self.


He gave me no comment in return…he kept staring. “Ohhhhh…this is like prayer,” I reminded my impatient self, “Sometimes you’ve got to shut up and listen.”


Animals…big, tall, medium or small, fat, hungry, vicious versus too loveable for their own good have always played an important role in the makeup of the trails I elect to follow or create. Not everyone believes in the power of Animal Speak until both lids of the eye escape a moment of meditation and take note of a giant snapping turtle sitting next to you. Rather than run, I reached to touch his house laughing like a kid when he hissed and hissed.


“You booger! You came to me…I didn’t chase you!”


Like yesterday...


Unexpectedly and with complete weakness in my knees…I spent time with the Catawba Nation’s Medicine Man. To a passerby…big whooptee do…unless your life and style are fed by the rivers that sneak past the limbs of growing trees held in place by the rooting system designed by wild weeds and flowers that tend to pop up from out of nowhere.


Like the owl…we stood staring, feeling what martial artists call Chi (key) energy. Candy coated and groupie-like were not the wisdoms driven…the vehicle was a mutual respect for each others experiences with a single note of harmony based on laws that gift builders and the residents who’ll occupy granted permission to continue destroying what once was an open field of living plants that time can no longer protect.


Upon arriving home, two whitetail deer dined without fear in the forest to which I vowed to protect 18 Carolina springs earlier—then without warning, one squatted…doing her business. What? It was if she had left the bathroom door open and confidently elected to share conversation while performing an act that every living breathing object on the big blue marble does everyday.


Trust? Absolutely! Although I personally couldn’t talk during moments of letting go…she was far from being shy. Good morning! Wow! Almost 48 long years of living and poof something I had never seen before. It’s absolutely nothing to brag about unless you believe in Animal Speak or you’ve begun the process of better understanding why dogs and cats truly mark their territory.


So I got my childish giggle fix and didn’t truly think much about it until arriving at work at 3:36 AM where I was greeted by a big ole fluffy cute as can be Raccoon who’s only mission was to put a dent in my constant flow of feverishly moving forward. Stopping…I stood staring at that mask he carries for a face.


“Tell me old friend…are you a bandit or do you wish to believe in the power of Gene Simmons of Kiss and think makeup makes you Spiderman or an undiscovered comic book hero.”


Not a single word given back to me. An air check session with my radio boss will probably have him saying, “Even the animals have no clue what you are trying to say…please stop being creative.”


So…this thing called Animal Speak…what did any of this mean? This is how it works.

The owl is generally associated with creativity, sensitivity, awareness of things not yet in form. How Owl relates to individuals and the messages she brings can only be determined by each person, or with the help of a Spirit Guide. Most often the message will come in one of two forms.



One is regarding the hidden realms within the individual. Are you self-aware? Are you hiding something from yourself? Are there core aspects of your shadow nature you have not looked into, or maybe are afraid to look into? The second would be in terms of relations with others around you.

Owl calls you to keep a keen eye for deception. This could be in immediate relations or a reference to people outside your direct sphere, maybe those in more public roles, like politics and business.



Then a visit from the deer: Compassion, peace, intellectual, gentle, caring, kind, subtlety, gracefulness, gentleness, innocence, and seller of adventure.



But what about the Raccoon? Curiosity and cleanliness…

Animal Speak is taking the message from each and connecting it to the events of your unexpected meetings with what you wish, desire, fight for or let go of as it unfolds through the periods called a workday and or hours that follow. Developing a sense of trust with the circles you keep outside all things beyond human.



The golden rule…you don’t pick the animal, they speak to you. See a snake? Stop running and pay attention to the message. Too many squirrels or earth worms…someone is talking to you and it’s completely 100% human ego to think it’s just us who reach out with words. Blah blah blah…



When you can’t find the words or actions to properly say and or do…always know the path you choose is protected by fuzzy, feathered covered, winged warriors or fishy like creations whose language comes from sunrises and horizons waiting to catch an never ending ray of sun.



Too much over your head? Only until an animal stops to talk to you then you’ll be reaching for answers.



Happy Earth Day Week!



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, April 16, 2010

I can hear you breathing...

A common question always heard, “Where is art born?”



Depends on what you accept as art. In some circles art is nature at its best while others label the presentation of pictures on a canvas as the only true shape of art. I’ve met only one man named Art and he was anything but artful, but then again that’s an opinion from the outside—Art might have been extremely art filled…in his own way, shape and nearly out of place form.



Art is what you make out of life. Art can be the bump on a log your parents accused you of being. Art is anger, a dream, escape and expression set free from that inner place some call a soul, corner of the world, voice in the head and heart or just you being you without having to offer an ounce of judgment.



I’m often accused of being creative or talented.



That’s an incredibly quick way to get on my bad side. I am not a label. Labels do one thing…they invite people to steal your art—to walk into your circle and take so that they may benefit. Quick! Raise your arms and protect the face…you’re about to be hit by words that say, “I would’ve done this or hey if you do it this way…this will happen.”



Suddenly your art now has a parent and it becomes your new job to adopt them…and all you ever wanted to do was release or you’re going to explode. Study the way of comedian’s, truly listen to their tortured stories—the only reason why you laugh is because you can relate.



When you move people you give life to art.



Going to work everyday…your job pays you for your art. Even if you’re building burgers, the act of doing so is art. My father was a professional welder, what he could do with that eye blinding flash of light totally blew me away. He was willing to scald his eyes during a process of using his hands and imagination to better the life of someone who required steel.



Wait! Before I go on…I’m not being dark today! It is my goal to add light to a subject most know about but refuse to seek their own vision and I blame that on art teachers who push acrylic paints and watercolor pencils rather than tap into the very energy that makes a human trust their ability to create. Without support, it becomes natural to hide making beer lovers and abusers out of people who wanted to do nothing more than to get it out.



Social networking is a valuable tool on the steps of releasing what fills us up. Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber and the new lead vocalist of Boston put their art on the World Wide Web and the human race began to follow. Benjamin Franklyn was a word artist…social circles call him our nations first blogger. He wrote daily and didn’t require a newspaper, magazine or bookstore to get his art out.



If you spend time with Peter Max he has no problem telling you his art is crafted by the makers of the universe to which he studies like Galileo. Paul Stanley from KISS is currently enjoying an extremely successful path lit up by a desire to hold a brush; his works are selling for thousands. Ask him how it began and he’ll stop you midsentence if you blame it on the band. Music had nothing to do with it…Paul hit a major mountain during a nasty divorce and slamming paint onto a surface created an echo that allows a total unknown to step out from their personal worries and locate peace.



To be alive means your only job is to be an artist. Create to create. Build to build. Master nothing because being great at only one thing stalls personal growth. To stop gives birth to silence not art.



Johnny Resnick from the Goo Goo Dolls once said to me, “Artist block is when you look at everything you’re doing and you think it sucks. The moment you let it go and stop being harsh on the maker is when art begins to happen again.”



Why do so many ignore their ability to be unique? Artist robbery. Ideas are stolen everyday. Coworkers, family members, the neighbor…we live in the most productive part of the world because our elders cleared the way for art to be lifted. If you’ve got something others want it becomes their mission to beg, borrow and steal your craft so their path can be lit up like Vegas.



And yet I constantly end most of my writing with these words: Steal my art.



All that is materialistic won’t make it into the final box you spend a lifetime searching for. The experiences you carry become the art which have the strength to last longer than a gut full of gas—let it explode and teach a willing listener how to reach up, out and through the mountains we see but can never figure out how to move them.



It doesn’t require talent to be creative and creativity is nothing more than air moving through you. By admitting that I am neither talented nor creative convinces the inner places we run to come this direction. Through my eyes, fingers, voice and nose filled with snot there is sight and sound and it’s within its presentation art is born.



Highway makers are artists. Skyscraper designers, chefs in a rich person restaurant to fry cooks at Willie’s Eatery are artists. My mother trying to bait a fishing hook…would’ve loved to have filmed that…somewhere on this trail such a display is going to be required in the days when life throws our dreams, ambitions and desires to the other side of the white picket fence.



If it seems I got dark today…look beyond the surface of Crayons and bubble plastic. Sometime this weekend you’re going to stop…you’ll embarrassing look around to see if anyone caught you in the act of being you. Taking a single step forward makes you an artist. You let it go and its now up to the wind to carry your presence to areas of the valley you’ll never visit but your art will grow.



Be you always. No matter how bad it hurts when people steal from you and deny they ever did it. Be you…there’s always new art to be born.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Making music out of popped balloons...

A group of Middle school children are invited to the gymnasium to play a game that involves a balloon, a long string and one leg. The goal is to run, race, chase and or be chased until only one balloon remains. Twenty five little people instantly become products of survival. Words are tossed, fists are thrown, a few laughs are heard and in the end someone new will be crowned king or queen of the balloon pop.



Take the same game…invite 25 new children into the gymnasium and explain to them the same rules and expectations. The end result won’t be a vibrantly out of control mind that scientifically pulled away from a large number of stomping feet and tiny egos requiring to be named best…the second game of survival takes an interesting twist of fate—rather than bee bopping and hopping toward that wall and this exit…group number two takes a different look at the process turning the game into a less personal victory and more of a group effort to protect fun. By games end, everybody is standing in the center of the gym cheering.



Keeping score…who wins and who loses?



During last nights American Idol Andrew and Katie’s balloons were popped. Which group of balloon poppers did they belong? Does being one of the top ten left standing with a summer tour planned make them more interested in the groups overall appearance or has a completely natural inner instinct located disappointment within the game called best versus least favorite?



Over on ABC its Kate Gosselin versus Pamela Anderson versus Pussycat Doll Nicole Scherzinger…cat fight or the person blowing up the balloons has the best seat in the house? Basically meaning, is there room for more than one winner?



Learning the fine are of keeping score involves making a personal decision of accepting the idea that today might be the single twenty four period where your name might come in third or fifteenth place.



Try telling that to a group of Tae Kwon Do multi colored belts who’ve been trained to kill or be killed. Once the Olympic sparring ref drops his or her arms…you better be wearing a game face. I can still hear my Karate Sensei shouting at the top of his lungs, “Mr. Radio man! You aren’t here to have a great time! If I see you making friends in my class one more time you’ll be doing pushups until each arms falls off.”



Monday night TKD black belt classes are supposed to be silent. Can you imagine me sitting in such a place? The voices in this noggin are so loud people three city blocks away can’t figure out where the volume is on their remote control.



My biggest weakness is more mental than physical—nobody loses. If popping my balloon is going to make you feel like a winner so be it. I don’t collect trophies…I choose instead to surround myself with winners. I can’t stand the idea of keeping score.



Maybe it’s a bowling thing…it once served as my passion driven heartbeat. Growing up in the American Junior Bowling Congress wasn’t a cool place to hang out in the 70’s. Kids my age were throwing footballs and stuffing basketballs into nets. For some untold reason I couldn’t get enough of rolling a round rock toward six innocent pens. I didn’t sleep at night because my tortured dreams were fed by a decision to make money as a teen in the adult leagues—holding onto it meant getting kicked out of the AJBC at 15.



How did I get this way? The bowling teams I performed with. Parents pulled me aside and sternly said, “Get the girls off your mind and start playing for real.” Once locked onto the adult leagues, accepted betting forced me into a challenge to be better than the best or be like Tiger Woods and start throwing my tools at anything and everything other than having a fun.



Who’s winning when you’ve stopped keeping score?



It’s totally affected the career. A trick I picked up from former NBA standout and now Bobcat announcer Del Curry…it’s perfectly fine to be the 6th man. Always be ready to be unexpectedly called into action. Once on the court shoot to win then go sit down again. You won’t sell the most jerseys nor will your baseball cards be worth more than ten cents in a two dollar pack. Doesn’t matter…surrounding your self with winners has a bigger payoff.



Some recent changes have me pulling off some wickedly weird hours and it seems the only concern offered by others is based on whether there’s a balloon popping pay off. Not a single word based on how strong the team remains.



If a bowling ball is dropped on the foot of the strongest player on the team…where does your attitude sit? Do you council the nearly shattered foot or find yourself worried about the end result of the unfinished game? How do you keep score?



If your current place of employment opens the door for Game Show Friday’s…what reason if any do you participate? Is it a loser leave town approach or a cut loose laid back friendly game of darts? Are you the coworker who takes an extra hour for lunch knowing going back affects your end result more than what being absent might do to others striving to achieve higher marks not for themselves but the company?



Who’s keeping score during a down economy? Maybe the makers of little people T-Ball are onto something when deciding not to count runs—walking away with an everybody’s a winner attitude paints a single outlet of peace until you come face to face with Kevin the Brawler who wastes no time to grind you up and spit a positive attitude into a tobacco chew cup sitting near the door.



How do you pop your balloons? There’s no right or wrong way…but understanding how everybody plays makes it a more productive day.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

This country was built on music....

Reading the book Jump and the Net Will Appear from singer/songwriter/producer Robin Crow—a tough guy on stage and in the studio but completely weak at the knees when face to face with those who fed his veins of inspiration. The mere mention of Jon Anderson from the group Yes and your ears will be blasted with daring adventure, vivid dreams of achievement and a constant drive to begin a journey with a master set on far reaching harmonies.


Sitting back in this tall nearly worn out radio station studio chair…I laugh. We’ve all been here; to be completely locked and loaded on scoring any opportunity that brings your path closer to the people who helped shape you. I call it wearing masks. I do what I do because I want to be just like __________. To accomplish that, I have vowed to become __________.


Sure, it’s easy to paint thoughts onto the face of a computer screen like Peter Max, admitting Casey Kasum and Wolfman Jack put my tail in this wobbling chair but then I’m forced to believe such a confession steals from KOOK’s Major Dan Miller and Kurt Anthony in Billings, Montana whose addiction to laughter in the very early morning hours while being completely connected to the community ignited a freaky kids blossoming wisdom.


While Robin Crow raced through his young adult life chasing five bars flooded with quarter and eighth notes linked to Mr. Anderson and his presentation worldly known as Yes…it was my plan to build a radio station playing everything from Hank Williams Sr. to Peter Frampton, Dolly Parton, The Bee Gees and my garage band Rest in Peace. Getting there required two of the most valuable tools introduced to corporate carpenters who craft the future: inspiration and influence.


Robin met Jon Anderson and I met Gene Simmons, which wasn’t supposed to happen—the thought of getting busted at a Rock n Roll concert brought on ample amounts of fear…what would my extremely religious neighbors Sue and Mike think if they had somehow found out I had attended a two hour show filled with fire and blood spitting men dressed up in heavy makeup and costumes that resembled a comic book hero?


Once with Simmons, all things planted, quickly passed—just as they did for the millions who witnessed Elvis and The Beatles on Ed Sullivan…an unexplained source of energy that wreaked havoc on innocence and tore up the holier than thou game plan to make it in the world without being inspired by exploding guitars, heart thumping drum solos and brilliantly designed R-n-R marketing.


It no longer mattered how funny Major Dan and Kurt Anthony were…midnight Jello jumps and radio jocks vowing to stay on the air longer than any other human didn’t seem edgy enough to poke holes in the opportunity to be something more than just another plain as day Montanan. It would be my place in history to rip the knob off success and become Gene Simmons. Not the musician but the master of marketing, accepting the chase, the energy behind chance meeting ok I can do it.


What? Tell me a single local or national leader who didn’t fall to the power of music. Prove to me that Taylor Swift and Hannah Montana haven’t planted the seeds that are currently feeding the fields of future success. Influence and inspiration through the songs we sing cracks the invisible seals of innocence.


Nick Jonas breaking away from his brothers to pull off a solo trip will do more for banking than middle school math and foreign language. His openness to achieve a higher level of play teaches the hidden to walk through the walls they’ve created and try to do something that’s totally them.


Becoming _________ made me who I am.


Marlon Brando toughened up American men by showcasing an image that said, “If you don’t like me…that’s ok…I don’t need your support to be who I am. I will not change to win a popularity contest.”


And that’s where American Idol continues to fail. It’s a weekly presentation that has left an evil scar on the continued growth of this nation—rather than stepping forward to create a difference, we’ve become an unmoving people who elect to stand on the world’s stage waiting to get approval to grow.


We won’t shake this recession until we stop dancing with the stars. Have fun while becoming ________but stop standing in front of those who judge. Stop begging to be accepted.


This is why I’ve retired from collecting more stripes on my black belt in martial arts…life is filled with enough tests…why do I need someone’s approval to succeed on a path designed around personal journeys? We spend way too much time doing what other people tell us leaving no room for that little voice that once said, “I can do it because _______ did it first.”


Major Dan and Kurt Anthony both own and operate separate competing radio stations—like McCartney, Jagger and _________ you’re never too old to Rock n Roll. The world is waiting to hear your voice, see your art, put their hands on your craft, melt away with an idea that’s beyond new and improved and the mask you elected to wear when discovering __________ is going to take you there.


Maybe its time you pop on that old 45, album, CD or video so you can replenish the soils cuddling up to your roots.

Reintroduce yourself to _______________ so you can become again. Be in love with the idea that life is about doing everything you want not what they want or you're fired.

You may not be as famous as ___________ but man it was fun being _____________ because through their influence and inspiration others now want to be you.


arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Leader's don't have to be loved...they just need to lead.

Say what you will, hide what you won’t, open what you could be thinking or bumping into during your everyday journey through plenty of hits, misses and knockdowns—it doesn’t matter if you support, argue with, have disengaged or totally ignored the political processes and decisions of a constantly changing America…Hilary Clinton is one of the most influential incarnations of our time with barely a tap into her long lasting potential.



She’s the employee whose resume doesn’t match what the individual is all about—been here, done that, wanna do this, could we please do that? She’s walked the line, talked the talk, upset a few, pampered, listened, fought for, torn up, rebuilt, set aside for better times while walking away from what assuming people might think was a good, bad, or uncaring decision but in the end she still has a charismatic something that bring people to either positive words or vows to fight.


What if you knew what she’d be up to two decades beyond her role as First Lady? Unlike some and I’m not judging…Hillary has defeated the game plan that offered her early retirement and a really cool house protected by security forever. She’s elected instead to stay in the public, as if to be addicted to the paparazzi, harsh critics, mind mines and or individualized groups of supporters blessed with enough spirit to say, “Wow…what else can you do?”



To read that Hillary is being looked upon as candidate for our U.S. Supreme Court is going to create noise—some good, not so favorable, white picket fence like, meaning right down the line and there’s always those that keep walking toward the sunset wishing it might arrive a little sooner than expected.



You don’t have to support Hillary to know Hillary. In America its 100% ok to offer an opinion or challenge her beliefs, lack of support, recreating of the circle and attempts to mend triangles by way of publically being where more hard working, dedicated, struggling but far reaching people tend to walk away from.



She has done so much with her gift that one hundred years from now a tiny soul in a somewhat interesting history class will get her confused with Hannah Montana, The Beatles, Elvis and Brad Pitt. Right, wrong or somewhere in between or far, far away in a galaxy not yet created has become a pop icon. The only thing missing from Hillary’s performance is an appearance on American Idol and Dancing with the Stars.



I’m not easily inspired until someone steps forward and offers a difference. It doesn’t have to be well loved—being filled with guts, courage, tenacity, vigor, spunk, willingness and loyalty to a people makes way for a destination that’s not supposed to be accepted by the masses because in America we can be everything we want to be and still be reaching into the pot to latch onto whatever else is available.



Leadership is an art that requires ambition, compassion, a soul made of steel, heart that’s leather tough and enough Forest Gump to stand on a park bench and calmly whisper, “Life is about being available to others.”



I love everyone who runs for public office. I wish there was a way to open the door for more than the rich to survive such brutality but would you know what to do if you got there? I can’t imagine how many mouths are moving at the same time while standing in a circle of I want, I need, you told a fib, you no longer support, you are the best, not so best, far from the truth and blah, blah, blah.



A village of armchair quarterbacks with only one hope, “Please, please can we be the first in line to get Michael Buble’ tickets, HBO on Demand, an IPad, nifty cool video games, a check back from the IRS and whatever else robs the man holding the sign that reads, “Free Common Sense.”



Icon, political hero, another face in the crowd, overrated, overplayed; still waiting to hear and do more…there’s no clear 100% long shot view of the woman named Hillary. She is what we are…a representative of the art of multitasking gone wild.



You can love her, not like her, disagree or physically support. You can walk with, two steps behind or blurt out words that belong in a bad Hollywood movie—inspirational doesn’t always mean we all have to be on the same page. I just find it fascinating that Hillary loves to work.



My mother is in her late 70’s and loves to work. I find her to be incredibly inspiring too. Angelina Jolie finds it in her heart to put more of herself into helping others than she does on the movie career that cleared the way for her to be recognized in a crowd of two. Being on the screen is nothing more than a computer folder linked to her name. Maybe one day, she too will be seen as more than just a home wrecker and or the unforgettably beautiful woman with huge lips.



You don’t have to win a popularity contest to be welcomed in the canals of change. The only thing required is the ability to offer yourself in ways that keep the ego at the door and the destination of your reasons for being so dedicated in a far away box because in the end the human in you has a bigger, brighter and more affective effect on life than being on man show on a stage much too big for the ukulele you’re attempting to play.



Ever wonder how those dudes on giant unicycles get down without breaking an arm or leg? Wouldn’t all this be more fun if we’d learn the secret then share it.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Monday, April 12, 2010

Temporary shouldn't be your everyday...

Think I’m serious about radio and writing?



Spend ten minutes with me in a forest of life filled naturally planted assorted trees blessed with needles and leaves and you’ll be gasping for the opportunity to escape from the thoughts and processes of a poet who vowed to never steal from the often assumed but never truly explained rings centered in the core of the greatest storytellers on earth.



Trees and me—Lennon and McCartney, Jagger and Richards…those long slender trunks stuck feet first into a chunk of mud do something to me that scream, “Nothing else matters…come sit next to me and we’ll spend the afternoon discussing the black squirrels that mysteriously appeared one day. We’ll watch as a Copperhead slithers by stealing nothing from you yet humankind believes it has the right to do as it does forgetting any snake has the ability to keep other pests away.”



In 1997 I wrote a letter to the National Forest Service begging for attention—my trees were quickly passing without explanation and there was nothing beneath them that would guarantee a new generation of growth. I remember writing daily in journals about my fears having nothing to do with me but rather other writers and musicians who might walk into the same area one day to pull from the air a lyric or rhythm to be shared with a willing passerby.



The Forest Service guided me the entire way—so much so the Boy Scouts of America volunteered to help plant over 17 hundred trees along a path that has now been taken over by White Tail deer, beaver, hawks, big loud owls, moles, water bugs and everything else an inner city forest isn’t supposed to have but we do.



Part of the journey required me to research the lay of the land—not how man came by one day and elected to flatten all he could reach but to dig deeper into the soil to locate nearly untold Carolina history. If enough of us took the time to listen to the wind as it tells the tales of who was there a zillion chapters before your grandparents, the thought about cutting down trees might in fact lead you to believe that everything you do is far worse than the government creating new thoughts and ideas then taxing your kids.



Not even five miles from my favorite place to write rests three incredibly large boulders—one is bigger than a house while another rests over an eroded hillside offering protection to anything and everyone willing to walk inside. During the 1400’s these stones and the trees that have come then gone served as a roof with four walls to a tiny nation of Native American’s who called this area home.



Before Christopher Columbus, the Pilgrims and Lewis and Clark taking off to discover the Pacific Northwest there was life in the rolls of the land that seems flat at first glance until the moment you decided to walk forward discovering that each time you tried to tell yourself to stop led to a discovery worth holding.



For those who would argue that life is but temporary—their story isn’t; nor are the rocks and single seed family of trees that still remain. If you spent ten minutes wrapped up in a coat of who stood here before you, there’d be no reason to take a summer vacation away from Carolina…what is hidden is beginning to call out to the people who are caught on the corner of walk and don’t walk.



The IPad sold just over 300,000 during its debut day. As one comedian said, “Wow…that means only 300,000 were able to grasp onto what they assumed they were missing.” For ten minutes the owners discovered technology at its Apple best while the other 48 billion in America patiently waited for versions two and three knowing one day the IPad will have what we’re truly missing, “A guarantee that we’ll be here tomorrow.”



Ouch!



Temporary are the materialistic articles that which we place in the chapters we write. Not even six months ago the hottest, craziest, had to have item was a ticket to Avatar. Oh yeah…fifteen bucks a ticket wasn’t bad at the time, you had a credit card…tack on the price of popcorn and a drink—with interest and the bank will make more than James Cameron.



Is the life of a tree temporary? I’m ready to argue. Most trees last longer than you and me. The only one who seems to be measuring are those carrying cutters and single handled rakes that are created to take the stress off the back. Yet I never hear a tree complain about how wind tends to bend it this way, that way and then way, way over here during storms that scare the ba-jeeb-bees out of the Copperheads and memories of nations nobody talks about anymore.



I began my day today wondering what I did yesterday. Three incredibly strong trees that no longer featured leaves and or needles to stop the heart of two people falling in love or someone trying to participate with the world so they walk through a forest to regain the inner strength to move on; each of the three trees have been beside me for 17 summers…that's when I moved in...they were there several pages before me...

For me, they stood proud the day I was married in the forest behind my house and every picture I've held features their bright beautiful bark covered smiles and waves.



Branches weighing a million pounds began to fall. Woodpeckers no longer stopped for breakfast, lunch and dinner…it was if Mother Nature had been hired to haul away these storytellers and ultimately they’d fall to the ground in the arms of rabbits needing a new place to leap over, dogs that required a new echo to bounce off their barks, for writers to sit on during puzzling sentences caught somewhere in their head or heart or termites needing a new diet.



Three trees that have been with me since the moment a writing instrument elected to seize control of an imagination that never sleeps…and today, their circles are neatly stacked in piles in the very forest that protected them during unexpected battles with the cold or major league downpours connected to hurricane Hugo and before. I gave each limb a new beginning—a place to rest, I know how bad my legs hurt standing up for a few hours…can you imagine almost 40 years?



Were the trees temporary?



To someone who has never been to the forest I vowed to protect…yes. To a poet whose words are preserved in boxes, presented on web pages and or shoved onto bookshelves worldwide…those trees are forever—because somewhere, sometime, in a chapter I assumed would never exist…the energy from those trees will pop off that page and inspire a new writer to share a thought that could change the shape of the wind.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com

Friday, April 9, 2010

Crash and burn or fields of gold?

Robert H. Goddard wrote: It’s difficult to say what’s impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.



Growing up on Ryan Avenue in Billings, Montana sent the signal to a passerby that anyone living there did so by reason of no choice. The homes were badly aged, backyards nothing more than roofless places to store unwanted materials, be it wood from fallen homes or tractor parts and pieces that were supposed to be used on machinery assumed still useable.



I have no clue as to how much energy I've wasted in the canals of impossibility. The only thing I’m left with are the memories of a kid with an oddly shaped head of hair holding onto a fist full of wanna-be’s. Not dreams but unspoken visions that constantly talked to me by way of challenge and or guilt…do it or walk quickly to the next page keeping a firm grip on the reputation of being a quitter.



Big Red was my escape…a should’ve been burned up rusted out Schwinn the father figure welded together because his brick and ditch jumping sons were inspired to be greater than the greatest, farther in fury and guts than local hero Butte, Montana’s Evil Kenevil; a man who knew impossibility by its first name—he shook fate by the hand and gladly accepted the role of being a high flying tornado jumping eagle catcher.



Me? Once free from the air during an unexpected crash into an undiscovered tree, the thought of setting impossibility aside ignited other journeys that included tipping the giant dog house over on its side so I could leap into the top like an Apollo mission. I’d sit inside for hours talking to NASA and they would respond, “Astronaut Arroe, you are cleared to take a moon walk.”



“I’m a little nervous NASA…it might be me but I think there are pigeons waiting to eat me on the outside of this Apollo mission.”



“Negative…our Kodak cameras aren’t picking up any movement. Please do all you can to grab a moon rock and then come back home.”



Stop right there. A moon rock in my backyard was a horse apple. My imagination was broadcasting to the world that this vivid real as real trip to the moon was all about grabbing a chunk of yuck. I had to face the impossible and make it tomorrow’s reality.



Such bravery got me nowhere. Jumping nearly broken bikes, picking fights, leaping from dog houses designed to lift my feet to the moon did nothing by way of creating a career. I was completely under the spell of, “Get me the hell out of here.” Living in such an ugly house is what fed my heart pounding desire to put the ditches in front of me and do all I could to reach the other corners of the world.



As impossible as it felt as a kid to dump the dump…the keys to the front door were finally presented when Wolfman Jack blazed through two incredibly tiny speakers purposefully shoved under my barely soft feathered pillow to do nothing more than keep me from having to think in the dark. If there, the mind is too active, a crowd of one suddenly becomes a rush of everything impossible making way for Evil Kenevil to leap from behind the curtain exclaiming, “I’m from Montana and we are the king of the world!”



Thanks to the public library system, I created a 100% broadcasting outlet in my bedroom; an honest to God radio station that could be heard three blocks to the left of Ryan Ave. Not only did I land on the moon…the horse apples began to talk.



It’s difficult to say what’s impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.



Where’s your fire? Who cooled it? Yet we’ve never learned that a fire never dies, ashes smolder in ways that turn once beautiful forests into rippled chapters from hell. Who you are and what you became are rarely the same, so we spend our middle aged years reaching back to a young face that wasn’t supposed to crack and when you stare into his or her eyes the lines echo, “We lost, sold out, elected to travel an easier way to a moon that never existed.”



A midlife crisis is nothing more than taking something difficult and impossible and making sure the dream of yesterday is still the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.



Sadly, most midlife crashes are taking place fresh out of college. The very thought of achieving what you set out to accomplish is the impossibility. People rarely think of the enormous amount of money spent on education because we’re hell bent on the idea of paying off the loan...then we fall in love and becoming something no longer seems important.



Duke may have won the NCAA basketball crown for a fourth time but how many of their students have attained success with their degrees? Was becoming the manager of a McDonald’s part of the deal? Is it the ditch Big Red needs to jump before the aggressor is given that uncontrollable urge to splurge in a loudly displayed cheer gifted with hundreds if not thousands of invisible high fives?



It’s difficult to say what’s impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.

Somewhere in your backyard is a doghouse begging to be tipped over because your fingertips need to locate moon rocks.



arroecollins@clearchannel.com