tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75876699317803212312024-03-13T07:04:40.092-07:00On the Way by Mark AdairMark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-16981171299353515542011-05-28T12:20:00.000-07:002011-05-28T13:01:52.742-07:00The Father's Child (excerpt) #samplesunday(I've been sharing bits and pieces of The Father's Child for Sample Sunday. This week I'm posting one of my favorite moments between John Truman's best friends - Paul & Susan - from Paul's point of view. I hope you enjoy it.)<br /><br />“What about you, Paul? Are you happy?”<br /><br />“I am at the moment,” I replied, guzzling down my first mouthful of the best beer ever.<br /><br />Ignoring my deflection, she sipped on her cabernet, and continued, “You have money and power. You have a beautiful, intelligent woman. You are with your best friend. Isn’t this what you always wanted? You should be pretty damn happy, shouldn’t you?”<br /><br />“Wow, Susan. I’m impressed - a cuss word and a beer. I didn’t know you had it in ya.”<br /><br />She smiled. “There’s probably a great deal in me that you don’t know about.”<br /><br />"Like what?”<br /><br />"Oh, like a deep affection and concern for you.”<br /><br />Raising my eyebrows a couple of times, I responded, “Are you comin’ on to me?”<br /><br />“Now that you mention it, I have always wanted you. Why do you think I hung around John? Certainly not for his company. It’s always been you.”<br /><br />It would have been more believable without the contempt and heavy sarcasm in her voice and mannerisms.<br /><br />“I was just having fun. You know, you can be a real bitch sometimes.”<br /><br />She lowered her head and closed her eyes. A few seconds went by before she looked up at me. I could see water forming in her pretty, blue eyes as she said softly, “I’m sorry Paul. It seems like we’re always competing.”<br /><br />I knew exactly what she meant. I nodded; she continued.<br /><br />“John is the only reason we’re together at all and yet John is what we compete for.”<br /><br /><em>Man, she may be from another planet, but she can really cut to the fucking chase.<br /></em><br />I returned her stare. “Susan: John adores you, even worships you. And you guys…well, you’re perfect for each other – thinking all the time, analyzing everything, really smart, care about others. You’re both really good people.” I lowered my head. “The best two I’ve ever known.”<br /><br />Now it was my turn to tear up; I tried to fight them back. “I knew, someday, I’d lose out to you, but honestly, I have no idea how to function without him. And then this weird, bizarre thing happens to us called the New Dawn, and that’s after the weird, alien ‘sode. I don’t give a shit about any of it except for one thing: that I get to hang with John. I realized that with the New Dawn setup - as far as I understand Mr. T – my worst nightmare will never happen! If I stay, I’ll be with you guys, and Julia.”<br /><br />Susan reached over and took my hands in hers. We sat there for a few minutes and just allowed our tears to fall onto the table.<br /><br />“Paul, I’m really, really sorry. I misjudged you. You were right - I have been a bitch.”<br /><br />I laughed through my tears.<br /><br />“When I first left for New York, I fell apart. I mean, I really fell apart. I probably blamed you for our inability to move forward. I was really angry with you, but it wasn’t your fault that he didn’t come after me. It was his choice but I just couldn’t deal with that. I couldn’t believe he would let me go at all, and then to not pursue me. Anyway, please forgive me.”<br /><br />“On one condition.”<br /><br />“What’s that?”<br /><br />“Let’s order another drink and play some table football.”<br /><br />We spent the next couple of hours together just drinking, playing, and laughing – in a lot of ways it was like spending time with John, the pre-New Dawn John, except lighter. We talked about the past and about our times together with him, and then we moved on to discuss Julia.<br /><br />“Did you forgive her?” she asked.<br /><br />“I hadn’t thought much about it. We just haven’t spent much time together lately. I chalked it up to busy schedules and the weirdness of all this. Now that you mention, she fucked with me big time, and not in a good way.” I frowned. “I guess I’m still pissed off. Do you think I should forgive her?” I asked.<br /><br />She smiled at me. “This is kind of fun, isn’t it?”<br /><br />“Yeah, you may be an alien, but maybe all aliens aren’t completely without merit. Hey, it’s my job to avoid, deflect, and deny. Since when do you--”<br /><br />Then it hit me. Susan and I had talked through stuff, forgave each other, and the results weren’t too bad, not bad at all. <em>I learn something new every day.<br /><br /></em>Seeing the light bulb go on, she joined in, “Do you like being free?”<br /><br />“Man, you really are Kung Fu’s master.”<br /><br />We laughed together and then our conversation meandered back to the New Dawn and John. I could tell she didn’t want to press too much; I appreciated that. When we were about to finish up, she asked permission to leave me with one final question:<br /><br />"Paul, do you think he’s truly happy?”Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-91679149965772842182011-05-21T08:07:00.001-07:002011-05-21T08:13:44.280-07:00Anatomy of a Tweet by @markadairauthor http://ow.ly/4UZeS #amwriting #trend #blog #twitter #TheFathersChild Plz #RT<span style="font-family:verdana;">Imagine everyone – Mom, Dad, spouse, friends, nerdy guy behind the counter at the gas station, Shakespeare – communicating in no more than 140 characters. No impassioned soliloquies or extensive, well thought out arguments...just short blurbs, sound-bites if you will, chocked full of acronyms. Welcome to Life in Pithy Land; welcome to…<br /><br />“Twitter is an information network made up of 140-character messages called Tweets. It's a new and easy way to discover the latest news (“what’s h</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">appening”) related to subjects you care about.” -- Twitter Online Help.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Several months ago, my son introduced me to the Land of Tweets. My first reaction after the initial, brief visit? Frustration! I’m a novelist, not a headline writer! I can carry a single thought for pages on end, in theory. I never met a word I didn’t like…except for very - I’m not very fond of using very, very often because it very quickly loses the very soul of its very purpose. Point being: I felt confined by the arbitrary message length limitation. Like some unseen techno-terrorist cutting me off in the middle of my paragraph, over and over again.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I realize many of you don’t need a Twitter tutorial but for those who do and/or want to be entertained by a witty and interesting personality such as myself, please tag along. The most basic Twitter premise: in 140 characters say whatever you’d like and it will be broadcast to anyone who’s chosen to follow you.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So let’s quickly dissect this thing called a Tweet. If we take a look at the headline you’ll find several common components. It started with good old-fashioned text “Anatomy of a Tweet by” followed by a handle/username @markadairauthor. Next I included a shortened URL/ link to the blog site. I concluded my tweet with a series of hashtags (keywords preceded by #).<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When someone uses my handle I can see those tweets easily in my list of “Mentions”. I can search or follow hashtags on any subjects that interest me. For those following me or finding my tweet via the hashtag, the URL/Link is clickable, taking them to a webpage with more info. So handles and hashtags help me find a specific person’s tweets or specific tweets on a subject of interest. BTW, “RT” stands for retweet – requesting others to re-broadcast my tweet to their followers.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Technically, that’s about it. But why…why would I want to spend time in this strange little world of bite-sized conversations? Good question. First and foremost, twitter is social and many of our calendars reveal an over-scheduled, almost dizzying array of tasks leaving virtually no time for in-depth socializing. With Twitter I can give others access, via tiny windows, to my life and vice versa. And I can sneak in that tweet (sneaky tweety) from most any smart device during commercials or while driving down the freeway (just kidding, Officer).<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Secondly, it works quite nicely for headlines – short promos about my novels, works in progress, and promoting those of my writer friends. The trick here is to balance this with other more truly social interactions, and not run off my wonderful, intelligent, beautiful followers.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When I started down this road, frustration exceeded value. However, after meeting many fascinating men/women from across the globe, I’m seeing it differently. It won’t replace an evening at the pub with friends but it can #connect me with people who may someday become those #friends at the #pub. #love Plz #RT! </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-91211254085042626052011-04-30T14:43:00.000-07:002011-04-30T15:11:53.777-07:00The Father's Child, Chapter 3a #samplesunday<span style="font-family:times new roman;"><em>Bang! Bang! Bang, bang, bang!</em> Several rounds of automatic weapon gunfire pierced the din. The band stopped. Screams filled the void. A scream formed in my throat as well, but fear kept it from making its way to my mouth. I dove onto the landing a few steps above me and scrambled around the corner. Lying on my front, I peered around the edge of the wall and peeked through the rungs of the cherry banister. Smashing all three living room windows that ran from floor to ceiling, five masked men dressed completely in black made their entrance. Three more rounds of gunfire blasted overhead, and then silence. The leader of the men grabbed Susan, put a gun to her head, and began to speak to the rest of the group in perfect English with a strong European accent.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">”Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention. We will only detain you for a moment. We are looking for George Karwell. If you will be so kind as to bring him to us, your pretty friend may survive the day.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">He had the look of a seasoned military officer – tall, erect posture, and solid build. His words had been carefully chosen, producing the desired effect. His deep-set, dark eyes expressed the non-negotiable nature of his mission. It seemed clear that he would take every necessary step to complete his task with dispatch. The stunned and bewildered partiers cowered against the walls as he held Susan tightly and kissed her on the cheek. She looked up at the ceiling, her lips moving in silent prayer.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I wanted to jump down there and rescue her. I forced myself to stand; my legs felt like rubber. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Looking back at the silent crowd, he yelled with a slight pause in between each word, “I want him now!”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">George was still in the game room at the back of the house, furthest away from the living room windows. I knew he had to have heard the demand, and so I assumed he was weighing his options, maybe even the fleeting thought of sacrificing Susan and making his getaway. If George was anything, he was a survivor. </span><em><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Dammit George; get out there!<br /></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I had to do something. My heart beat so strong and fast that I was worried that the men downstairs would hear it…breathing too rapid, stomach queasy, knees starting to buckle. I reached out and grabbed the rail. <em>Get a grip, John!</em><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">With knees shaking, I turned around and made my way back toward my room.<br /><em></em></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Creak.<br /></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“Oh shit,” I muttered under my breath. I stood still, hoping that nobody had noticed. I waited about fifteen seconds and then continued on my way.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Entering my room I reached for the phone to call the police; it slipped out of my sweaty palms. Wiping them on my jeans, I picked up the phone and pressed 911; no dial tone. I fumbled through my desk and found my cell phone. I opened it up; signal strength registered nothing. I briefly reprimanded myself for not following through on my decision last month to install a satellite connection for my Internet work. Probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Kneeling down on the floor, I slowly crawled over to the windows and peered out: several men in dark clothing, roaming the yard with some type of weapons in their hands. They looked well-prepared and well-organized.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“Damn,” I whispered. I decided my best option was to make my way back to where I could track the events as they unfolded downstairs.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Less than a minute later, George made his way forward to the front of the crowd. He looked like he was trying to suppress the urge to throw up the two burritos he wolfed down an hour earlier. </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-2504423143451763642011-04-23T07:12:00.000-07:002011-04-23T07:21:49.656-07:00Confessions of a Kindleholic<span style="font-family:verdana;">Last night, like every night for the past several months, I meandered into my bedroom, checked the closets for spies from the paperbook industry, and slipped under the covers. Peering out from my hiding place, I quietly reached over and snagged the 7.5x4.8”, 8.5 ounce techno-beauty from my nightstand (aka ugly red chair). As my heart skipped a beat, I flipped open the black leather cover. After surveying my surroundings one last time, I celebrated the “all clear” by sliding out the light extender, and signing in to my sexy little ereading device.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hi, my name is Mark. I’m a Kindleholic.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I don’t remember the exact moment when I crossed over the line from oh-that’s-an-interesting-little-toy-for-non-literary-purists to food-optional-air-optional-kindle-required, but I do recall why I began the journey. Several months ago, a good friend challenged me to stop making excuses and get on with my writing career. After licking my wounds, I began exploring e-publishing and e-readers. My suspense/thriller, The Father’s Child, needed a place to spread its fledgling wings and soar out into the readersphere, and devices like the Kindle could help make that dream a reality.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Sporting my naiveté like a gold medal, I e-trotted over to Amazon and took a look around. I reminded myself that my over 25 years of technology expertise should make successfully uploading my file and becoming “e-published” a breeze. After many tears, some therapy, and a few choice 4-letter words repeated often and with great conviction, I’d completed my task. Now I wanted to see the results.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Thanks to Amazon, ebooks can be purchased once and then subsequently read on your smartphone, computer/tablet, and/or Kindle device. Within minutes, I’d purchased the first copy, downloaded it to my PC, and began reading. For those of you who’ve read long works of any sort on the computer, you know how tired your eyes can get trying to track the thousands and thousands of pixel refreshes. Knowing that the Kindle used e-ink technology that refreshes only on a page turn (unlike the iPad or Nook Color or computer), it took me mere minutes to rationalize my purchase…fine, it was seconds, but it seemed like minutes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">At this point in my process I wanted the device for only one reason: to check out the look and formatting of my new novel (see IRS deduction). When I pulled out the sleek pearl reader I thought I heard angels singing…turns out the neighbor dog had cornered a Siamese kitten. In any case, I love technology with a simple, intuitive interface and my new toy, I mean necessary business appliance, fit the bill perfectly. It’s pretty straightforward – a 6” diagonal grayscale screen covers the top 80% and a small keyboard with a few control buttons fills out the bottom. The right and left edges sport easy to access paging buttons (forward and back).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After I registered the device to the same email account I used for Amazon ebook purchases, it magically synced via WhisperSync, making any books previously purchased available on my Kindle (complete with bookmarks). Without further delay, I moved down to my new novel and selected it. I thought I heard the same dog terrorizing the poor little kitten but it turned out angels were actually singing…at least that’s the way I remember it. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">After I scanned through my book, I noticed that my new little friend could directly access the Amazon bookstore. How convenient! Several purchases later…well…my name is Mark, and I’m a Kindleholic.</span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-64587209503366704432011-04-09T11:32:00.000-07:002011-04-09T12:34:43.510-07:00The Father's Child, Chapter 2 #samplesunday<em>I wonder what the hell is keeping John…this time.</em> Everybody had arrived and the first round of drinks had been served – many of them by me, personally. The followers of each clique had found their leader and settled in. I had even finished my initial female fishing expedition, catching the beautiful and talented Jones’ twins, and wearing one on each arm. And yet still no John Truman. <em>Hell, some of these people traveled over a thousand miles, all the way from the West Coast. All Truman has to do is walk down the fucking stairs. </em><br /><br />It seems like I’ve spent half my life waiting for him. When we first met, back in the ninth grade, I just finished up another session with my advisor, Mrs. Gardner. She was a nice lady and sort of sexy in a teacher kind of way. I liked her, but I think she expected more out of me than I could give. She would say stuff like, “Mr. Eastman, if you would just put your mind to it” or “Paul, there’s more to life than girls” or “Mr. Eastman, it’s okay to apply yourself” or “Paul, I believe in you.” <br /><br />After a couple of years of this, one day she called me into her office. I didn’t think much of it until she went on and on about how she’d tried everything and how I didn’t care. She looked really tired. When she said the words “lack of academic productivity”, she began to cry. <br /><br />The next thing I knew I blabbered something about wanting to do better and needing some help. Those must have been the magic words, because she acted like she just received an I.V. of Red Bull. Before I knew what hit me, she said she had someone she wanted me to meet, thought we might be good for each other. <br /><br />A few minutes later she came back in her office, smiling from ear-to-ear, telling me it would be a couple of minutes before my tutor arrives. At that point, I didn’t care what or who or anything. I was just glad to see Mrs. Gardner happy with my situation, for once. I like it when people are happy. <br /><br />So we waited…and we waited…and she went on and on about how “wonderful” this new arrangement would be. Another fifteen minutes, filled with subtle glances toward the door, passed by. Finally, she got up and told me that she’d be right back. I didn’t mind waiting, especially when the alternative was being in class. I called a few girls, and then I overheard Mrs. Gardner talking to somebody in the next room. <br /><br />“Come on John,” she coaxed. “It’s okay. Just give it a try. All I’m asking is two weeks.” <br /><br />He stuck his head just around the doorway and peeked in at me. He didn’t look familiar – intense brown eyes, straggly brown hair, slim, average height, hands sunk deep into his pockets. He looked pretty wound up, so I smiled, and he seemed to relax a bit. <br /><br />Mrs. Gardner made the introductions: “John, this is Paul Eastman. Paul, this is John Truman.” I stood up and extended my hand. He looked at it, hesitated, and then shook mine. <em>Sweaty - nice touch, Johnny. </em><br /><br />“You gentlemen already have four classes together, so that should make this arrangement easier.” <em>Hell, I can’t remember everybody. </em><br /><br />And the rest is history: his brains combined with my personality and looks. Another unbeatable combo - Batman and Robin, the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Hope and Crosby, the Green Hornet and Kato, Guinness and happy, John and Paul. I really don’t think I would have survived high school without him, and vice-versa. <em>Someday I should thank Mrs. Gardner. </em><br /><br />Over the years, I’ve gotten pretty used to John’s quirks, like showing up late to anything involving other people. I try to cut him some slack, because I know social stuff seriously freaks him out, especially parties like this one. He’s always had some good excuse, usually about working on something important or not feeling well. But there is such a thing as party momentum, and with or without John, the party must go on. <br /><br /><em>Maybe if we just start playing, he’ll show up.</em><br /><br />I looked over at the band – bassist, drummer, keyboardist and saxophonist all in place. Just behind me stood three lovely ladies looking like a cross between the Supremes and the backup singers for Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” video. <em>Man, they look fine.</em><br /><br />Picking up my guitar, I sat down and tuned it for a couple of minutes. I looked back at the band. <br /><br />“You guys ready?” Nods all around. I glanced over at the stairs, shook my head, and then stood up. <br /><br />“Let’s do it.” Grabbing the mic, I tapped it a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. <br /><br />“Welcome to…Carpe Noctis!” The crowd cheered in response. <br /><br />“A one, two, a one, two, three, four.”<em><br /><br />“Doot, du doot, doot, doot du doot, doot, du doot” </em><br /><br /><em>The girls sound great tonight.</em> Our rendition of “Walk on the Wild Side” always went over big. We opened up every party with it. John liked it. <br /><br />I loved this part: just a minute ago, everybody was doing their own thing, hanging with their friends, drinking, laughing, all in their own little worlds…and then the music started. The conversations stopped, everyone turned my way, and the dancing began. The next thing you know, we were all on the same page, doing the same thing, together. For some reason, it reminded of that scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life” where Jimmy Stewart asks god to let him live and he suddenly realizes how special life is in boring old Bedford Falls. <br /><br />We usually stretched this song out pretty long, and tonight it seemed like everybody wanted it to go on and on. So, we did. Six or seven minutes had gone by, and still no John. <em>Come on dude, you can do it. Take a walk on the wild side. </em><br /><br />Several minutes later and we’re still playing the same song. <em>Dammit, John! Get down here! </em><br /><br />Through the smoky haze, I scanned the audience. They seemed to still be enjoying our extended version - joining in with the backup singers and getting louder each time around…everyone, but Susan. Our eyes met and we exchanged a brief knowing smile. She pointed up. I nodded. <br /><br /><em>Maybe she could get him down here – Martian to Martian. </em><br /><br />She headed out of the living room toward the stairs. <em>Nice ass. </em><br /><br /><em>“Doot, du doot, doot, doot du doot, doot, du doot” </em><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">(Thanks so much for reading Chapter 2. The Father's Child is available for a special price of only 99c on the following platforms: <a href="http://http//www.amazon.com/The-Fathers-Child-ebook/dp/B004DCB3W0">Kindle-US</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Fathers-Child-ebook/dp/B004DCB3W0">Kindle-UK</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/product.aspx?ean=2940011957208">Nook</a>, & <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39742">Smashwords</a> - Sony, Palm, Stanza, etc. Keep up to date by visiting <a href="http://markadair.com/">my website</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/markadairauthor">twitter</a>, or <a href="http://facebook.com/markadairauthor">facebook</a>. Cheers!)</span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-37172866751368995932011-03-05T19:40:00.000-08:002011-03-05T19:44:49.057-08:00Technology, a Lesson in Humanity #samplesunday<span style="font-family:verdana;">My past and technology’s history intertwine. Before I understood the ramifications of my decision I’d jumped into the technology field as a wet-behind-the-ears software engineer. Exciting days…and nights. The early adopters and creators like me found it exhilarating, exhausting, and addicting. Perfect for the obsession-friendly set. With a never-ending promise of new, it beckoned us to follow. And it delivered on its promise, transforming our idea of stability into one of never ending transition. Thanks to technology, change is no longer that occasional bump in the road of life. Change is life.<br /><br />A bit of history, if I may: I’ve watched the kings come and go. I’ve not only watched, I’ve bowed before their altars and lived in their inner courts. When I entered the field, the mainframes of IBM, Burroughs, Honeywell ruled the kingdom. Rooms packed with their mammoth circuitry, tape drives, and printers flaunted their permanent place in our society and in our pocketbooks. Like many emperors, they brought new laws and new ways of thinking about things. And like many rulers, they didn’t ask what we thought about it. They dared you to stand in their way, the generals making a Sherman-like march through the Confederate state of the way-we-used-to-do-it. The glory, the magnificence, the power! All hail to International Business Machines, may they reign forever.<br /><br />One day this sort of mousey, nerdy, introverted college dropout somehow managed to parlay his little toy operating system into IBM’s next step in dominance, the personal computer. The monolith knew how to manipulate the geeks. They may be smart, even genius, but they weren’t business people. And this Bill Gates would be no exception. They would use him, siphon off what they wanted, and then burn the rest. Besides, a personal computer?!?!?!? Hahahahaha. What a huge, friggin’ waste of time! We make real computers for real business. No one wants a computer in their home! Their unspoken motto echoed in the techno valleys, “Resistance is futile; you will be assimilated.”<br /><br />Surprise! Before you could say “the emperor has no clothes”, Microsoft banished the old guard while the world announced its undying allegiance to the new and sexier one. As did I. After years of living off IBM’s success, I dumped them like an old cell phone. Trading in my blue 3-piece suit on a fun, sporty red t-shirt, I switched so quickly I think it made my own head spin. For those of you who haven’t lived through the changes or haven’t been integrally connected to them, I hope you appreciate the enormity of what Microsoft introduced to the world. I know there are plenty of Redmond haters and I feel some of their pain. But regardless of who actually gets credit for creating the first GUI interface – Xerox, Apple, Microsoft, or some teenager in a basement who mysteriously died shortly thereafter – Microsoft put Windows in front of people and boldly led the way into a new paradigm in computing.<br /><br />And they put a human face on it. Quickly, tell me who ran IBM during the 70s, 80s, 90s, 00s? Anyone? Now tell me who ran Microsoft? William Henry Gates III showed us that someone who couldn’t comb his hair need not be ashamed because he could rule the entire world. He’s come a long way, especially after he married and his wife took responsibility for his personal appearance, but back in the day he impressed no one and cared nothing at all about that. I’m speaking as someone who’s been in the same room with him, only a few yards away. No, we’re not buddies, although I’m guessing he’s a quite interesting pal to hang around with. Almost overnight he challenged and defeated the century’s old, time-tested, business maxim that one must look good to be taken seriously. Do you understand the ramifications of what I’m saying? Maybe he didn’t intend to, but he made computing personal and approachable.<br /><br />Over the years I’ve attended many technology conferences. When I showed up at my first Microsoft Tech-Ed conference I felt a bit giddy. The technology rated a 10 on the fun meter for a technologist like me, but I will never forget sitting down in my first meeting. I watched this twenty-something guy with a pony tail, tat, earrings, t-shirt, jeans, and sandals amble up to the stage. In a surfer dude style he began talking about the guts of the technology like only a developer could. I wanted to run up and kiss him. For the first time in my career I felt a part of something…more than technology, part of a team of like-minded people.<br /><br />Well, you know the rest of the story. The company from Redmond turned into a huge success, and then it grew to the point where it could no longer adapt, at least not quickly. Bill, the very human techno geek, stepped down; Steve, the business-like salesman, stepped up. They quickly reached the point where they overestimated their corporate place in the world and underestimated the hunger and passion of their competitors, and the technology addicted masses. In their lethargy they slid into the IBM trap of arrogance, spouting “Resistance is futile; you will be assimilated.” Meanwhile Google, Facebook, Twitter, Apple, and myriads of open source types busted their butts, working night and day, to perfect their niche technology in the world and then expand it to more mainstream concerns. However, it is important to understand that unlike IBM’s day, these large companies are much more interdependent - they need each other, and the rest of us appreciate the competition that keeps them at least somewhat honest. Quick aside: I happen to believe Microsoft may very well turn the corner and find its place in the new land of Social; I very much like my new Windows smartphone.<br /><br />Sorry for the longish post, almost 50 tweets worth, but there’s a point that needs to be made. Technology is a transitory enabler – the codependent of all codependents. It will never tell you or me to stop or slow down or think twice about our addictive behavior. It embraces and encourages us, whispering sweet nothings in our ear – consume, consume, consume. It makes grand promises yet it may not be around tomorrow to fulfill any of them. As an author I do appreciate how technology assists me in my journey of writing, publishing, connecting with readers and writers, promoting, etc. But I must remind myself that it is a tool, nothing more. It can’t love me or correct me (well, spell checker maybe). It doesn’t hug or kiss me. It has no facility to create art, music, or stories in and of itself. It mimics but does not invent. Technology is not human…in spite of our best efforts to humanize it. It makes a pathetic king and an even more pathetic god. And it can’t measure up to to the lousiest of friends who at least cares for us a little.<br /><br />It can teach us valuable lessons though. If we take a moment to sit in technology’s classroom and listen to its stories we can learn a great deal about humanity, such as: we like to be entertained; we enjoy being in control; we’re addicted to new; we learn technology quickly but not necessarily the ramifications of it. But the most important subject on which it educates us? What it can’t do and why we must turn to one another. In a way it calls out to us, reminding us that all of its glorious history of silicon efficiencies and entertainment-friendly facilities cannot compare to a single interaction with the stranger next to us…much less our friends and loved ones.<br /><br />Class dismissed. Don’t forget your homework. </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-68916109932285016642011-02-26T20:47:00.000-08:002011-02-26T21:31:58.400-08:00The Father's Child, Chapter 1 #samplesunday<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">In the spirit of SampleSunday (i.e., sharing free writing samples), I'm posting the first chapter of my acclaimed suspense/thriller, The Father's Child. Grab your favorite beverage, relax, and enjoy...</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Gazing out the second story window, I searched through the maze of treetops and roofs. Within seconds I had located the hundred-foot spire topping the Physical Sciences building at Bradbury College. Anxiety, tension, stress - life in general - all produce the same reaction: my eyes involuntarily drift up, seeking the tallest point in the vicinity. Something to do with escaping the craziness of this world…a place where the air flows…where I can breathe. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Tonight we would host our mid-term party, and the crisp, Midwestern, October evening fit hand-in-glove with our plans. A light snow had begun to fall, providing the perfect covering for our activities. This was our sixth bash, well seventh, if you count the last minute get-together our freshman year that turned out to have more uninvited guests than invited ones. At this point in our “career” we – Paul Eastman, George Karwell, and I, John Truman, collectively and colloquially known as the Beatles - had quite the rep for putting together the ultimate celebrations. Anticipated by the entire campus, they highlighted many a college experience. Every year the population grew by adding new, carefully selected, individuals or couples to our list. Even the majority of those who had graduated made special arrangements to return, a family reunion of sorts.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">In addition to managing the technology, my primary duty was to name the event. I liked to think that my Latin monikers helped create a sense of mystery and other-worldliness. In reality, I think Paul and George gave me the duty because it’s not that easy to engage a hyper-sensitive introvert in something that involves hundreds of people shedding their inhibitions. It may have been an honorary thing, but as with everything else in life I took it quite seriously. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I smiled as I remembered that even now my inspired title - Carpe Noctis - adorned the forty by seven foot black banner hanging on the outside of our Victorian dwelling. The residence belonged to my uncle. Living in London most of the time, he offered this place to me for my college home. Elite college and elite home made quite the attractive package. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">We finished with the final preparations about an hour ago. Looking at the street below I noticed that our “friends” had begun to arrive. I decided to sneak over to the top of the stairs where I could catch a glimpse, without being detected, of our first guests. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Stationed near the front door, Paul stood ready to greet everyone with his trademark isn’t-life-a-blast smile and the offer of a drink. Never let it be said that our hallowed halls were ever graced by a smoother operator than Paul. Even though I had seen him work his magic countless times before, each new performance reminded me of what an amazing artist he was. Seemingly without effort he could make you feel like you were his one and only friend, especially if you happened to be of the female persuasion. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“Hi, Susan. You look wonderful tonight, as usual.” He followed his greeting with a small kiss on her fair-skinned cheek. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“Thank you, Paul,” she replied. Pushing the strawberry-blonde tresses away from her eyes, she moved up on her toes and returned the kiss. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Don’t get me started on Susan - my first friend, my first crush, and the best person I’ve ever known. She may not be perfect, but after years of being around her, I have never found a flaw, at least nothing that would compare with my many shortcomings. My photogenic memory probably paints a more perfect picture of Susan than reality records - intelligent, beautiful, spiritual, down-to-earth, compassionate, funny, and sexy in a way that isn’t contrived or phony. However, I do believe the word “privilege” best describes my time with her. She made everything better, she even made me better. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“How are you?” she asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">”Isn’t it obvious?” he retorted with a smirk, nodding his curly blonde head.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">She studied him as if analyzing an interesting and yet disturbing painting, and then responded, “Yes, I guess it is.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Other guests drove up and I could tell Paul appreciated the redirection. Susan made her way into the living room. She wore jeans, a yellow tank top, and black flip flops - she looked good. Paul turned around with her coat in hand and headed towards the closet. I overheard him complaining to himself, “Man, that chick is so damn weird. Why the hell does John have to invite her? I think she’s an alien. She gives me the creeps.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Jerk</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">. Paul can be a real asshole sometimes, but I have learned over the years to take his unedited tirades with a grain of salt. At least he knows how to express himself. How freeing and simple it must be to say what you feel. I feel things strongly; I process them thoroughly. If I have time to organize my thoughts I can communicate them pretty well, but to just come out and say what’s on my mind, much less my heart? My quiver must have been absent the day they passed out that arrow. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Paul recovered his suave and charming demeanor just in time to greet the next arrivals. The stream of partiers now backed up fifteen deep on the sidewalk and overflowed onto Wellington Avenue. Laughter and energy filled the night air as most of the conversations centered on what happened to whom and how it was no surprise considering…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Still upstairs, I strolled across the wooden hallway and around the corner. On this end, the stairway provided an even better voyeuristic experience. I situated myself right above the landing that connected the upper stairs to the lower stairs. From there I could see George, his long black hair rubber-banded into a pony tail as usual. He stood in the center of the game room already surrounded by a handful of people, mostly men. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Among several valuable Indian antiques, the décor included a solid mahogany pool table, three high-end gaming computers, an ornate, antique sofa, shelves filled with books including hundreds with aging bindings, a wall full of TVs all coordinated together to provide one huge picture, and a stocked refrigerator in the guise of an old Coke machine. It was my favorite room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The group seated on the sofa and overflowing onto the floor hung on each word, entranced by his dark grey eyes. The adventurer began to describe his latest escapade, “There I was in Smith’s Pub, downstairs by the back door in the corner, finishing off a cold pint of Guinness. I was waiting to see if the meet would happen, you know the one between the two guys who had numbers instead of names? And that sexy brunette waitress with the strange piercings and the nice…uh…personality…what’s her name? Right, Genevieve…she comes up and asks me if I want another pint. I answer ‘yes’ even before I have any idea what she asked me. I mean, how could I say anything but ‘yes’ to her?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">George smiled and gazed up toward the ceiling, lost in a delicious daydream. He loved to tell the story. Moments like these overshadowed any risks associated with his spy games - this was the payoff. I think that all of us envied George’s abandonment of safety and his adventurous spirit. I probably experienced more nervousness as he retold his escapades than he did in living through the actual experience. On many occasions I cautioned him and tried to rein him in, and he always responded with a confident “Trust me, Johnny.” </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The crowd quickly grew to a dozen or so listeners as he continued. “Somebody should write a song about Genevieve.” Several of the men in the group smiled and nodded emphatically in agreement; one of the guys received a swift slap to the back of the head and a reprimanding look from the brunette sitting next to him.</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">George smirked. “Anyway, she shows up with my second pint and I’m thinking ‘hey, I don’t remember ordering that.’ And then I see this black guy that I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen before. It’s dark in there and he’s wearing a golf cap that shades most of his face.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“So I’m watching him and it seems likes he’s scoping the place out, maybe looking for someone. I remember saying to myself, ‘man, I bet this is one of the guys’ and I’m starting to get excited. Then I see Genevieve walking toward the bar, that perfect little derriere of hers swaying from side to side, and I’m getting even more excited. My thoughts are racing back and forth between, ‘if she comes back to my table it must be a sign that she wants me…needs me’ and ‘that other guy that just came in must be the other half of the meet’ and ‘man, she must be Aphrodite in the flesh’ and ‘life doesn’t get any better than this’ and …”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I retreated to the safety of my room. I would join the party later, but for now I used my latest software project as an excuse to delay the inevitable. Taking a break from my work, I quickly tossed down two Jack-and-Cokes, more Jack than coke, trying to muster up the courage to make my entrance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The silver plasma TV hanging on the wall caught my attention when the headline running at the bottom of the screen stated, “As we reported last week, the Federal Reserve Board chairman was found dead from a heart attack in his D.C. condominium. The President, with the consent of Congress, has moved swiftly to appoint and announce his relatively unknown replacement, Jack Timothy. The President pointed out that Mr. Timothy’s experience, Federal Reserve Board of Governors for the last twelve years, along with his impressive Oxford background were primary factors in coming to his decision. Mr. Timothy’s comments were brief, stating simply, ‘Our world is on the brink of an economic new dawn. I look forward to my role as chairman. I want to say thank you to the President for the confidence he has placed in me.’”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">If I timed it just right, a few drinks interspersed with a toke here and there could drown out my inhibitions as well as stave off the nagging daymares that forced their way into my mind. Unfortunately, in all the nervous anticipation I had missed that tiny window of opportunity. Sitting there with drink number two in hand, I could sense my thoughts scrambling, deteriorating. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Oh shit. I hate this.</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> My mental grip slipped as I once again lost the struggle to resist the latest onset of the recurring vision:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Four men, one whom I thought I should know but couldn’t remember, gathered around a small table in a dark corner of a small room. Their voices soft, almost hypnotic, spoke Latin with English or possibly Scottish accents. They discussed economic systems, political structures, social causes, theological constructs, and people groups as if they were simply pawns on a chess board. At some point in the complex, and occasionally inaudible, conversation the words </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Necessitas non habet legem</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> would rise above the others, triggering a morbid and sickening reaction in me – I wanted to throw up. I would try to look away, but the more I resisted, the stronger those words held me in their grasp and the further into the room they drew me. Finally, they would look up at me, vacant, zombie-like expressions in their eyes, point to the empty chair, and say, ‘Welcome.’”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The vision ended and, as usual, my transition to unpleasant physical manifestations began. First the cold sweats followed almost immediately by piercing pain that seemed to dance around in my skull – base of my cranium, behind my eyes, top of my head, nasal cavity, inside my ears, and then start all over again. Like every other time, the experience culminated in a single drop of dark red blood falling from my nose. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Man, this really sucks.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Ten minutes later the physical manifestations completely subsided. These episodes started when I reached puberty. After an embarrassing eighth grade incident involving my presentation on the roots of Latin and the drop of blood spilling onto the white, tile floor, I learned to detect the early symptoms and avoid further public humiliation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">A few minutes more and the joint began to have the promised effect. A nice relaxing buzz filled my head as I made my way back across the hallway and positioned myself, once again, at the top of the stairs overlooking the front room. </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The party proceeded according to script. Everything necessary for the perfect evening planned and in place - cool people, cool band, cool drugs, all gathered together in a cool place. I was even beginning to feel cool…sort of. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >I can do this.</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> I inhaled a slow, deep breath, and exhaled with force and a new determination to join the fun. I had won the battle and I willed my right foot, attired in blue Converse, to take the first step – shaky, but so far, so good. Now, the left one, the right one, the left one…</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >oh shit, I need to sit down.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:verdana;">(Thanks for reading. If you would like more, you can visit me at <a href="http://markadair.com">my website</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/markadairauthor">twitter</a>, or <a href="http://facebook.com/markadairauthor">facebook</a>. Also, The Father's Child is available for a special price of only 99c on the following platforms: <a href="http://http//www.amazon.com/The-Fathers-Child-ebook/dp/B004DCB3W0">Kindle-US</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Fathers-Child-ebook/dp/B004DCB3W0">Kindle-UK</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/product.aspx?ean=2940011957208">Nook</a>, & <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/39742">Smashwords</a> - Sony, Palm, Stanza, etc.)</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >.<br /></span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-91606062887704686162011-02-05T10:24:00.000-08:002011-02-06T08:00:37.568-08:00It's All About Me...hmmm<span style="font-family:verdana;">Agent after agent, publisher after publisher, writer after writer, they all tell the same story. The glory days of hiding out on a small island in the Caribbean, sipping on rum, cranking out the occasional novel, and picking up the generous quarterly royalty check have officially come to an end, never to return. In this new world a writer, regardless of publishing route (traditional or indie), must promote, promote, and then promote some more.<br /><br />Now, my parents raised me to help others - love your neighbor and all that. They taught me that it’s more important to give than to receive. They lived a life of never drawing attention to their many self-sacrificial deeds. When I first headed down the self-promo path it felt awkward to say the least…maybe even a little wrong. Figuring out creative ways to tell people they should buy my book seemed to prostitute creativity itself.<br /><br />To put it another way, after a couple hours of promoting, I feel like a good long bath is in order. Or like I’ve been impersonating a three-year-old - jumping up and down yelling “look at me” trying to get his parent’s attention. I know some of you are thinking this guy’s an American from California, that’s ALL they know how to do! Point taken. However, I’ll just come out and say it: I’m not a huge fan of self-promoting, at least not the impersonal attention-grabbing headlines version of it.<br /><br />Just to be clear, it’s not that I don’t believe my writing worth a read, because I DO, very much so. I believe my suspense/thriller to be entertaining, thought-provoking, emotionally powerful, and on a very basic level beneficial for anyone who takes the journey. And others have confirmed that. The main character, John Truman, struggles with pretty much everything, but in the deep places of his heart he yearns to know one thing: who is he and why is he. I truly think you should read it. Not because it’s the greatest novel of all time (that’s purely subjective anyway) but because underneath the suspenseful and thrilling ride it gives the reader permission to look inside and ask questions about fundamental issues in our lives…questions that need to be asked, explored, and answered.<br /><br />Over the past few months I have managed to justify my self-promoting behavior by making the argument that reading my novel is an intrinsically worthwhile exercise (which is true). I also tell myself that I’m not in this just to make a buck (and that’s also quite true), so I can strike mercenary in its most technical definition from my list of motivating factors. Furthermore, I believe in each and every person following their dreams and doing what they most love, including me. So writing, for me, makes the world a better place.<br /><br />On a related note, I do, very much, want to help others and see them succeed. I’m a community guy regardless of whether the community is down the street or down the e-street (shout out to my UK writer mates). I strongly believe that when one downtrodden, marginalized, oppressed soul finds freedom and love (i.e., succeeds) that we ALL gain, each and every one of us. So I’m quite comfortable pulling out my machete to assist other writers in carving out a path through their getting-noticed jungle. Besides, when I do become uber-successful I want to live in that nice place with other battle worn soldiers, sharing one another’s joy and stories…and reaching out to help the next one take that step up the ladder.<br /><br />So I’m finding, or trying to find, the balance in this self-promotion-based paradigm. I believe in my calling, if you will, to write...and that what I’ve created will more than return the time-money anyone invests in it. I believe in helping others and I believe their creations to be worth the investment as well. That’s where the light goes on and everything comes together for me.<br /><br />This Sunday, Superbowl Sunday, a group of fine writers from across the globe will be working hand-in-hand to promote one another. We will be tweeting/retweeting #samplesunday, highlighting fine (and free) writing samples from talented writers. And I will smile as I watch the It’s-all-about-me paradigm exit stage left to make room at center stage for the more powerful, worthwhile, and fulfilling It’s-all-about-us.<br /><br />Happy Sunday! Cheers.</span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-7071845630748642632011-01-16T08:59:00.000-08:002011-01-16T09:39:46.234-08:00Where Do You All Come From?<span style="font-family:verdana;">Hi there. Last week I ventured into the analytics of 2010 hits for my blogs - On the Way and </span><a href="http://markadairzap.blogspot.com/2009/05/chapter-1.html"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ZAP</span></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">. To my surprise I discovered that you, my wonderful friends, live all over the world. Take a look:<br /><br />1. Countries (21):<br />Australia<br />Brazil<br />Canada<br />Czech Republic<br />France<br />Germany<br />Hong Kong<br />Italy<br />Japan<br />Jordan<br />Latvia<br />Malaysia<br />New Zealand<br />Norway<br />Russia<br />South Africa<br />Switzerland<br />Thailand<br />Uganda<br />United Kingdom<br />United States<br /><br />2. States in the U.S (41):<br />Alabama<br />Arizona<br />Arkansas<br />California<br />Colorado<br />Connecticut<br />Florida<br />Georgia<br />Idaho<br />Illinois<br />Indiana<br />Kansas<br />Kentucky<br />Louisiana<br />Maine<br />Maryland<br />Massachusetts<br />Michigan<br />Minnesota<br />Mississippi<br />Missouri<br />Montana<br />Nebraska<br />Nevada<br />New Jersey<br />New Mexico<br />New York<br />North Carolina<br />Ohio<br />Oklahoma<br />Oregon<br />Pennsylvania<br />Tennessee<br />Texas<br />Utah<br />Vermont<br />Virginia<br />Washington<br />West Virginia<br />Wisconsin<br />Wyoming<br /><br />Interesting, don't you think? </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Thank you for coming such great distances to stop by and chat. Always good to see you, my friend.<br /><br />Cheers,<br /><br />Mark </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-40569217371452841812011-01-07T12:35:00.000-08:002011-01-07T14:55:19.931-08:002010 in the Rearview Mirror<span style="font-family:verdana;">Over the years, I’ve managed to avoid looking in the rearview mirror, at least in public. Not sure if it’s because I have so much unfinished business or maybe I’m concerned about the less-than-sterling results of the self-critique or maybe I struggle with grasping the value of the exercise at all. Regardless, new years are a good excuse to try new things, right? So at the risk of swerving off the road and hitting a large oak tree, and for the first time in public, I’m glancing up to the mirror that shows what was…or at least what I choose to remember.<br /><br />Each year I allow goal carryover from previous years – a long running tradition. Some of these goals, born decades ago, have managed to stay on my list even though I see some progress every year. At the beginning of 2010 I began to see some light at the end of one of these multi-year goal tunnels.<br /><br />Like many of my friends, I live two lives (at least). I play the responsible, mature, bill-paying, good friend role; I also play the passionate, freedom-loving, all-or-nothing writer/artist role. For most of my life the former ruled my actions while the latter watched on with confusion, pity, and frustration. I made many promises to the writer…and I’ve broken many promises to him. And yet he refused to be corralled by the tactics I employed over the years - everything from ignoring him altogether (see denial) to feeding him small bites of hope in the form of expected next week/month/year activities…oh yeah, and the “when I have a bit more free time” excuse.<br /><br />This year I wanted to get my suspense novel, The Father’s Child, out into the hands of readers…one of those carryover goals. After a couple years of patiently working through the traditional publishing paradigm – agent queries, manuscript submissions, contests, many conversations, etc. – a friend challenged me with the insanity-is-doing-the-same-thing-over-and-over-again-expecting-different-results criticism. Out of nowhere, the writer dude inside steps up and says “Enough is enough. Time to either get on board or get out of the @#k#%&* way!” Did I mention feisty and R-rated?<br /><br />Well, one thing led to another – additional editing, researching ebooks, setting up a social media presence, cover artwork, etc. Much of it a blur. But in the end, a little over a month ago, I browsed over to Amazon.com and there it was for the whole world to see, read, and hopefully enjoy. Chalk one up for the writer dude. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />Before the year ended, my novel had traveled up to the Top 50 Techno-thriller rankings on Amazon. Although it’s much too early to reasonably evaluate the success of my foray into the new publishing world, I finally made good on my promise to the writer in me. I never pledged best-selling success or a life of limos, but I did agree on numerous occasions to give him at least a little of my best time, energy, and love...knowing full well that once I released him from his prison, it would be impossible to get him back in there.<br /><br />So in my rearview mirror, I see the out-into-the-hands-of-readers goal reached in 2010…a HUGE goal…but more importantly I set someone free. Honestly, he’s not that easy to live with – demanding, obsessive, creative to a fault – but when I close my eyes at night I no longer have to end my day with “Maybe next year.”<br /><br />Here’s hoping that you have a prosperous, healthy, and wonderful 2011! </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-40166989582828667952010-12-19T10:37:00.000-08:002010-12-20T15:34:32.793-08:00Ornamental Chaos<span style="font-family:verdana;">So we're pulling out the Christmas tree ornaments...well, when I say "we" I mean the part of "we" that doesn't include me –currently my wife and my eldest daughter. Not that I'm not into it or too spiritual or something. It's just early - i.e., before noon on a weekend day. Their unpacking seems to lack any organization as they follow paths that I can neither follow nor understand.<br /><br />And then the memories start to flood in, each with its unique story and history…much of it historical fiction at this point. The thing about memories: most of them connect to emotions, sometimes strong. Not just vanilla emotions, all sorts of different types, styles, flavors, and magnitudes. Most of them good, but not necessary easy. A tapestry of feelings representing decades of past Christmastimes and the years that preceded them.<br /><br />Our ornaments, like the associated memories and emotions, run the gamut from picturesque, near perfect to torn and tattered. Covering every time period – childhood, newly-married, young parents with young children, life with teenagers, etc. – and the many places we lived…and the friends.<br /><br />Just as the melancholy tries to settle in the cowbell appears…and then the silliness starts – “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer” silliness. </span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Even though tomorrow starts a new work week, that kind of seriousness will not be tolerated…not yet. Like an eggnog inebriated Gandalf, Today stands strong, staff in hand, shouting, “You shall not pass” followed by a tiny giggle.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> We laugh about the Christmas we lived in a motel and turned the TV into our Christmas tree.<br /><br />Boxes open, more ornaments magically appear. The chairs, the coffee table, the floor disappear under the dizzying array of bulbs, bells, candy canes, the snowman pencil topper, angels, the 3-legged Rudolf, Santas, Nativity scenes… and the tiny pillows embroidered with the words love, peace, and joy.<br /><br />Cheers! </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-23580042815894459572009-12-09T11:37:00.000-08:002010-12-12T14:28:59.974-08:00Waka Waka Waka…<span style="font-family:verdana;">A short while back I had a conversation with a friend about dreams vs. reality...the limitless sky vs. gravity's hold on everything, eventually pulling all that we know back to earth.<br /><br />I confess that I'm a hopeless romantic. What I wonder is: does the hopeless trump the romantic or does the romantic trump the hopeless? I want everything...there, I said it; I want everything good...for everyone. Now I can either give up trying, submit to the inevitable power of gravity, or continue to believe that somehow, someway in this crazy place we call Earth that it can work out.<br /><br />Why can't I have it all? Why can't everyone have it all? It may seem absurd to even pose the question...and maybe I'm just not smart enough or wise enough to accept the truth - when I jump from the plane, the sky will not catch me and protect me from gravity's hold...falling, falling, falling...Not a scientific study by any means but I would say that almost everyone I know can search their past or present and find events or seasons that have reduced, or sometimes completely eliminated, their ability to enjoy life...to play and run and dance and laugh...<br /><br />But if that forever defines us, why do we not just give up? I see people - friends, neighbors, strangers - wake up in circumstances owned by the gravity of difficult realities. I see physical, emotional, spiritual diseases ravaging lives like an out of control California fire. Men, women, and even children without shelter...food and safety. Relationships dissolving, dreams dissipating and, in general, entropy (moving from order to disorder) pushing out the heavens that once seemed near enough to touch. Why do we choose to continue?<br /><br />Here’s one reason I don’t give up: if I give up on the dreams and the visions of my neighbors and friends, and even my enemies, then I have to give up on my dreams and visions as well…give up on the very idea of dreams and hopes and visions. It either matters or it doesn’t; it’s either real or it’s not. And if it’s real, if it matters, then it applies universally.<br /><br />I’m looking out the second story window from my apartment. I see the damp streets, gently washed from a night’s rain. I see several large and strong and proud evergreens that seem to say, “long after your gone, Mark, we’ll still be here.” Sunday brings a quiet, a peace, an emptying of the crazy basket. Sunday carves out a place for me to see what I don’t usually see.<br /><br />In the middle of the greenery and the low hanging cloud cover and the tired-looking apartments and the cars and power poles and wires and ravens, there’s one tree – spectacular yellow/orange coloring aligning with the season change. This one tree, sprouting long before I sprouted, grew unhindered toward the sky, for years and years and years…until early this year.<br /><br />Someone in some important office at some important location determined that more than a third of it, a huge chunk, should be cut away making room for 2” wires of some sort. Some guys in white construction hats reduced this breathtaking ages-old image of beauty reaching toward the heavens to a…a PacMan look-a-like.<br /><br />Here’s another reason I don’t give up. Several months later I’m sitting on my sofa writing this note and staring at the tree. From what I can tell, the butchering of the tree’s appendages deterred its dreams and visions in no way whatsoever. Bizarre looking? Yes. Deformed? Yes. Deterred? Nope…hopes and dreams and visions intact, it just stretches onward and upward like its rhetorically asking, “I’m a tree; what else would I do?”<br /><br />“waka, waka, waka…” </span>Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-69891162121477378552009-05-24T13:47:00.000-07:002009-05-24T13:55:09.321-07:00Workoutage Meets the Donut WomanFor the past several months, I’ve studied several different workout regimens. My analysis, finally rescued from my emotions and delivered to my brain, required no PHD or Masters in Physiology to understand – workout is good for Mark; not workout is bad. Six or seven weeks ago, I decided to listen to my inner caveman/personal trainer and engage in workoutage (a technical term invented quite recently by some experts from some university who studied something quite significant for a substantial number of years)…<br /><br />Sorry, “simply having a wonderful christmas time” keeps running through my mind. “Sim…ply having a wonderful christmas time. Sim…ply having a wonder…” How do the synapses come up with such creative expressions of my internal workings? We’ll cover that exact topic in a future episode of <em>On the Way – a one way technical journey into my mind.</em><br /><br />So this morning I head to a little place that we exercise fanatics like to call “the workout room.” I’d just returned from the Juice Shack with a colossal size veggie drink in my left hand and a fruit drink in my right, feeling pretty good…pretty, pretty good (nod to Larry David). In order to not lose you lay people, let’s just say after doing a little of this and a little of that, I bounced/stumbled over to the leg press (oops, probably lost a few of you there). Suffice it to say, a leg press requires a complex combination of power, speed, precision, sophistication, beauty, and finesse…oh yeah, and legs.<br /><br />Some of the machines, including the leg press, face a wall of windows allowing the regular folks to walk or drive by and marvel at the workout experts in action. About half way through my second set (I call each and every movement of any body part, including breathing, a set), I saw this red-headed woman sporting a light beige jacket stroll across the alley. Her right hand tightly gripped a white bag of donuts; her left hand surrounded a large cup of coffee. She looked happy and content.<br /><br />I smiled at her; she smiled back. Knowing that she came by just to get a glimpse of a real workout specialist engaging in workoutage, I executed another perfect (my definition of any movement where I don’t end up on the ground) press for my audience of one. Without a moment’s hesitation, she shrugged, executed a perfect lift of her donut bag, followed by her cup of coffee, and then repeated the exercise…<br /><br />Touché, donut woman. Touché.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-49595468640340791172009-05-12T17:06:00.000-07:002009-05-15T15:34:15.075-07:00A FriendWhen I outlined my 2009 goals, making a new friend somehow found its way onto the list. I don't know if living in a new area provided the impetus for that addition or whether I just felt that intentionally making a new friend would be good for me. In any case, it seemed important at the time so I added it to the list. And I had no interest in just another acquaintance. A friend, by my loose definition, is someone I can call in time of need and someone who would call me in time of need. Either that or anyone who would buy me a beer (or a glass of wine) from time to time, and vice-versa.<br /><br />A couple of days ago I received some news that both shocked and deeply saddened me. A friend of mine from Florida, who I worked closely with for 5 years, passed away. Most of you have lost a friend or family member, making my loss of words to adequately describe my feelings probably understandable to you. I really liked this guy...this husband and father. He died before he reached 50. I enjoyed his company and his friendship. God only made one of him. <br /><br />I wanted to cuss, but none of the cuss words I know (and I'm intimately acquainted with plenty of them) come even close to saying what I wanted to say...what I needed to say. I'm still angry and hurt and shocked and angry...and ANGRY! Paul, the Apostle, once asked the question: Death where is your sting? I'll tell you where the hell Death's sting is: right here with the ones who grieve and struggle and are left behind. My friend may very well be in a better place, but we're not...I'm not. I used to have a room in the house of my life where this friend lived and breathed and had the keys to, and vice-versa...now I don't. I do have the memories…and healing will come, but no matter where the logic train begins and ends my heart will never be the same, this side of heaven. He's gone and no matter how hard I try I will never, ever make contact with him until I pass on as well.<br /><br />In some ways what disturbs me most only incidentally connects with my friend's death. I despise how his departure reminds me that I too will pass on...my loved ones as well. I hate knowing that I have very little to say about when or how I, or the ones I love, move on from this world...and I hate not actually knowing when or how. To put it bluntly, this whole death thing just creeps me out. I don't agree with it and I don't like it. I'm anti-death. Blame it on God, blame it on the Devil, blame it on man, blame it on me...it doesn't change anything...theology doesn't fix it...explanations don't make the tears and the hurt cease.<br /><br />When I look at the flip side of the I-don't-know-when/how-death coin, it motivates me to engage life more fully. Much of what I hope to accomplish in this world has yet to be started in earnest, and I don’t want to end my days in that same predicament. Each moment seems a bit more precious, more important…just more. I want to savor it and then drink it in deeply, without reservation. I want to see my fiction writing career become more reality and less of a dream. I want my writing platform to provide the foundation for connecting with others. I want that connection to result in change, and joy, and healing for all of us…forever and for good.<br /><br />Others feel my friend’s loss more fully and more intimately than I - his wife and children, other long-term friends. All of us who knew him have memories, and mine are all good. He always treated me with respect and kindness. We laughed together...often. He made me feel special...important...significant. None of those times disappear, but the next times with him have vanished from the realm of life here on Earth. <br /><br />I don’t think I’ll ever really understand or accept the whole now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t routine. The stages of grief according to some experts consist of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I kind of get that but part of me will always be in denial about this death thing. I mean, it’s not like I’ve experienced death and lived to tell about it like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day (one of my favorite movies). How can I not be in denial at some level regarding something I haven’t experienced or couldn’t possibly relate to another life event? Loss sucks but Death sucks big time.<br /><br />In any case, I raise the glass to my friend. A man who made my life better...a man who made me better. Maybe achieving my goal of adding a new friend to my world will help soothe the pain, and bring some healing. Maybe. Knowing that the possibility of a deep hurt like losing a friend could await me down the road dampers the excitement a bit. I know this much: if I could spend one more moment with my recently departed friend, even if I knew it to be our last, I would want that opportunity…and I would spend that one more moment with him…with my friend.<br /><br />Cheers.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-49997142346318767712009-05-03T16:15:00.000-07:002009-05-03T17:49:54.065-07:0050-TO-1This morning, I sat down on our red living room sofa. My wife showed me the sports section of the Press Democrat, our local paper. The results of the Kentucky Derby along with a half-page picture of Mine That Bird, a 3 year-old gelding, filled the front page. I don't follow horse racing, although I occasionally stumble onto one on TV. Interested in the underdog story, I decided to find a replay of the race on the Internet.<br /><br />Watching the contest between these animals running at full gallop…well, poetry in motion falls terribly short of an adequate description. It seems like the physics alone would make their incredible pace impossible. And yet their four legs move in perfect timing and precision while carrying the remainder of their muscular bodies along with a jockey, altogether totaling several hundreds of pound.<br /><br />This horse had no chance to win. During the race, he found himself in last place…LAST PLACE!!! Why does a horse, 50-to-1 shot, running in last place against horses with more pedigree and raw talent than he, all the sudden decide not only to compete but to win the Kentucky Derby by 6 3/4 lengths – the largest margin of victory in over 60 years? It's like he couldn't even read. The horse didn't realize that the odds of him winning and the odds of me winning the same race without a horse were fairly even. <br /><br />A couple of things questions/issues into my mind: 1) how can I be that horse (a reverse of the Mr. Ed show) and 2) what drove this whole venture? My response to the first issue would be to walk right up to Mine That Bird, look him straight in the eye, and tell him that he’s my hero…that he single-handedly blew away all my excuses for not succeeding in anything…and that forever more I will remember this race (along with the first Rocky movie) whenever I need a shot of encouragement or incentive to get off my butt and engage my dreams…<br /><br />Having processed the first, my mind swiftly pounced upon the second issue/question. When I think of horse racing, I think of years of lineage and work along with millions of dollars invested from sheiks and other persons with funny hats. I think of generations of horse love and expertise and training. I think of someone who would trade their soul to breed a derby winner. Expecting something along those lines, I read further into the article trying to discover the impetus for the miracle. Instead, I found this quote, hidden on page C3, from one of the owners:<br /><br />“This just shows what can be done with two buddies who have fun together and like to go to the races and dream a little bit.”<br /><br />I assume he spoke of himself and another male human, but he could have been talking about himself and the horse for all I know. And it seemed like if the horse could have spoken English or any other language we could understand, he might very well have responded with the same quote. From where I sat, the horse and the owners looked to be on the same page. They loved what they were doing…it was fun.<br /><br />Here’s to Mine That Bird: thanks for reminding me that pursing what I love makes everything possible. <br /><br />Cheers!Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-3387837536075540672009-04-17T14:44:00.000-07:002009-04-17T16:25:30.259-07:00Not Thinking, the Grateful Dead, and GodThis week I've been thinking about stuff...yeah, I know what you're thinking, but this is different. I've been thinking about not thinking...so much. Thinking about rest and sleep and other activities where thinking drifts out of gear and into neutral, at least in theory.<br /><br />Have you ever tried to not think? Try it. Right now, stop thinking. I heard that. Stop thinking!<br /><br />I don't know about you, but the more I try to not think, the more thoughts crowd into the vacated space I just cleared out. Like throwing a huge bucket of water on some nice innocent gremlins to settle them down - the two become five, and then twenty something, and then thousands of them are taking over a small town, watching movies, and marching in sync...what was I trying to do again?<br /><br />So today, I decided to stop thinking for a while. Just give myself, my mind, a short vacation on a nice tropical island in the South Pacific. It could have been a couple seconds, but probably more like a couple milliseconds before my mind drifted into a memory from days gone by...<br /><br />Once upon a time, my wife and I lived life from toke to toke...and did pretty much whatever the hell we felt like doing. For example, one day we loaded up the car and headed toward a town a couple hours away to catch the all important Grateful Dead concert. We heard an ice storm might be heading our way, but a couple of joints later and the ice storm didn't seem near as dangerous or scary...almost seemed an appropriate accompaniment to our grand adventure - turn the music up and all will be well.<br /><br />We made our way onto the interstate heading North into the darkness, feeling pretty relaxed…pretty darned relaxed. Thirty minutes later I commented about how few cars there were on the road, and what’s that stuff that keeps making a tick, tick, tick sound as it hit our windshield. And then it started really coming down. I had trouble seeing more than a couple car lengths in front of me. Finding myself behind an 18-wheeler spewing even more frozenness at me, I moved into the passing lane and almost ended up in the median. Sweating my way through getting around the truck, things only got worse.<br /><br />A few hundred swerves later, and a little late, we pulled into the parking lot at the concert. Noticing a group of police affectionately welcoming each concert goer with a nice pat up and down their bodies, we decided on the most strategic hiding locations for our bags of pot. I mean, come on, no self-respecting deadhead would even consider not bringing something to share with the crowd. Seriously! Surviving, and even enjoying, the physical attention I received from the cute female cop, we headed to our seats…which of course were taken by someone else who had no idea what planet they were on much less where their seats might be.<br /><br />We didn’t care. Nobody cared. It was all one happy family - “hey maaan”, “have a hit, dude”, “this is awesome”, “I think I’m in heaven”, “don’t bogart that”, “I know you”, “sorry about that, I thought my hand was in my pocket, not yours” etc. We squeezed in like a group of brothers and sisters, a stoned out of our mind family. I looked up at the stage, through the smoke-filled haze. I could see Jerry singing like he was in his living room and forgot that the rest of us were there. I loved it, we all loved it…even the cops loved it…a pretty docile crowd…yeah, that’s it, docile.<br /><br />I still remember thinking it was special. Everyone there had fought through dangerous conditions just to be there. The Grateful Dead tourist didn’t even try…only the hardcore fans…the real brotherhood. And when they started singing, “I will get by, I will get by, I will get by, I will survive" everyone perked up…well, perked is probably too strong a word, but most of us stopped passing joints long enough to join in on the chorus, “We will get by, We will get by, We will get by, We will survive…”<br /><br />The concert ended much too early for everyone who hadn’t yet passed out. We filed out of the building and onto a solid lake of ice. People fell down left and right. Everyone laughed and then smoked some more. Every car without chains waited its turn to be pushed out of the parking lot by the few trucks with chains. And I’m not exaggerating. Maybe 45 minutes later our turn came and the truck pushed us a hundred yards or so out of the parking lot and into the street…also made of ice…and we headed back to wherever we came from.<br /><br />Which, of course, brings me back to my main point: we did get by, we did get by, we did get by, we did survive…somehow. The miraculous evening ended with no serious injuries or deaths recorded in next day’s newspaper, which did record that the freeways and all the major roads had been officially closed down by the highway patrol several hours before the concert began. Think about it: thousands of stoned, at the very minimum, fans make their way through deadly conditions to hang out together for hours on end while becoming even more stoned than when we started. Then that super-stoned, and now exhausted, group of barely functional individuals headed out to our cars, started them up, realized they were in the wrong car and had someone else’s keys, found the person whose keys they had somehow accidentally ended up with, entered the right car, spun their tires for ten minutes, waited for the truck with the chains, were pushed a hundred yards on a solid sheet of ice which eventually shoved them out onto another huge solid sheet of ice, and made it home or to somebody’s home…in one piece.<br /><br />That fated night, the Grateful Dead, under the leadership of the amazing Jerry Garcia proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that God does exist and that he cares about a bunch of complete idiots who wanted nothing more than to risk their lives and the lives of others to see a concert.<br /><br />Nice job, Jerry. Nice job, God.<br /><br />See what happens when I stop thinking?Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-62702619078842742212009-04-03T16:51:00.000-07:002009-12-05T09:25:47.206-08:00The In-LovesIn the late 70s, I met Stacy. Alive, vibrant, sweet to the core, beautiful, funny, smart…I never knew what hit me. The next thing I realize we had just finished our walk down an aisle together and committed ourselves to one another…for life.<br /><br />In the early 80s, I met Jesus. Not church, not religion, not moral fiber, not doing the right thing, not being the right person, not anything even resembling anything else...and I gotta tell you, I fell for him - hook, line, and sinker.<br /><br />I've been in love, for real, only twice in my entire life. When I met my wife (technically she wasn't my wife at the time...and yet in some other reality I think she already was), and then the second time when this guy, out of nowhere, invaded my hurting world, my brutal emotions, my vacillating conscience, my fear of life and death, my thinking - good, bad, and ugly...and said, "I want that one…the one cowering in the dark corner."<br /><br />As I write this, I’m listening to a bit of musical melancholy entitled Circle (Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians)…over and over. I’m not in love with her, although I’ll admit to a small crush. She’s singing, “…I quit; I give up. Nothing’s good enough for anybody else, it seems…Being alone is the best way to be. When I’m by myself, it’s the best way to be…when I’m by myself, nobody else can say goodbye…everything is temporary, it seems…”<br /><br />If I spent the rest of my days on this planet working full-time at expressing what the In-Loves have meant to me, I’d finish my time here a mere few feet into the marathon of that work. When Edie sings about the circle of change and loss and starting over and hope and disappointment, it strikes a chord with me – philosophically and experientially.<br /><br />For me, this coming Sunday, April 12, is all about the rarest of the rare, the purest of the pure…that which doesn’t change…the non-temporary, the eternal. Profound personal days rarely come my way, or I rarely notice them. I grew up in a tough world where profound personal days meant profound and personal hurt, loss, and pain. I eventually chose to be by myself…it was “the best way to be…it seems.”<br /><br />Healing came, and comes, in all sorts of different flavors and seasons and avenues - the looked for, prayed for, begged for, the dream…the unexpected, the unrealized, and even the nightmare. But it comes. Even though the count of vessels bringing mercy into my life may have reached the thousands or millions, the In-Loves stand apart. She and He never left, never departed…never looked in distain at the wreckage. He and She somehow knew that more than anything else in all of creation, I needed someone, anyone, to stay with me…walk with me…believe for me…hold onto to me…always…no matter what.<br /><br />I’m not a big believer in serendipity…let me correct that: I’m a huge believer in serendipity, I just don’t believe it happens, ever…okay, rarely. But 2 days from now the major celebrations of my In-Loves happen on the same day – Easter is my wedding anniversary. I can’t help but think that somehow this day, these very moments, were arranged many, many, many years ago. That one day I would wake up, the stars and the celebrations aligned, and truly appreciate how the aroma, the texture, the color, the flavor, the sound, the reality of true friendship chased me, embraced me, sustained me, and held me…day after day after day…<br /><br />Happy Resurrection Day, Jesus...my friend. I love you.<br /><br />Happy Anniversary, Stacy…my friend. I love you.<br /><br />P.S. After reading this, it occurred to me that I did fall in love 3 other times. Maybe not the traditional sense, but from the first moment when I discovered that each of my precious children swam around in Stacy’s growing tummy, I fell in awe and in love with each of them…and remain forever so.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-77973418456007141202009-03-28T16:30:00.000-07:002009-03-28T17:42:10.104-07:00A Tale of Two Seasons<strong>Winter</strong>: I went to work. It was hard. I left in the dark and came home in the dark. Is it always dark? I looked dazed. Someone joked, "These are not the droids you're looking for." Finally hearing the words, I responded, "Okay." Everything felt heavy - my body, my mind, my emotions, even orange juice felt heavy. Why in the world would orange juice feel heavy? The work day ended, but the night never ended. Grey, grey, and more grey. Cold seeped into my bones...never quite warm - more clothes, more layers, more covers. Laughter diminished, sensitivity to hurt increased. My bones ached. Hope quit. Creation groaned. Blah, blah, blah...sleep.<br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Spring</em></strong>: A tiny green blade comes up through the crack in the sidewalk, spreads its arms and stretches after its long slumber. Blossoms from a thousand different trees and flora fill my senses - the aromas of oranges, the spectacular light greens, yellows, oranges, and blues of plants who I know intimately but not by name, softness of new born leaves and toddler flowers. People smile; I smile...no reason in particular, just smiling to be smiling. As Elf said, "I like smiling. It's my favorite." or something like that. I love it that someone thought up such zaniness as Elf.<br /><br />God awakens from his slumber.<br /><br />The light returns - blinding, penetrating, warming, uplifting. Sunshine on my shoulder makes me happy - I agree with John Denver. I agree with everyone...everyone is right, and nice, and beautiful, and we will all "live happily ever after in springfield of meadows" (quote from an early <a href="http://fare-forward.blogspot.com/">Jessy Lauren Smith</a> work). Springtime proves Jessy has a bit of prophet in her and proves something good in every single person on the face of the planet.<br /><br />Sun dresses, surfer shorts, flip-flops, t-shirts. People run and jump and dance and act goofy...and smile some more. The young couple on the bench flirt – poking, joking, jostling, holding hands. I pass an old guy on my walk downtown and he's grinning from ear-to-ear...he's not stoned...he just likes the day and the day likes him. I do believe it really likes him. It likes all of us. It bends down to kiss our brow with love and pat our forehead with kindness.<br /><br />Gentle breeze embraces me, swirling around my body, lifting me up higher and higher and higher. My muscles relax and my mind stops spinning. The sunlight washes the scales from my eyes, my mind, my body, my emotions...even the orange juice. I don't care that the whole orange-juice-scale metaphor breaks down on hundreds of levels…because it doesn’t matter…nothing matters but the new moment overflowing with love and freedom and joy and light and music and goodness…and smiles.<br /><br />I believe again.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-73312113953693011792009-03-15T08:16:00.001-07:002009-03-15T10:56:59.365-07:00You Should Have Seen UsLate yesterday morning, my wife and I talked ourselves into a visit to our building's fitness center. The small exercise room boasts a bit of everything - a good representation of Nautilus lifting equipment, treadmills, elliptical machines, and the all important mirrored walls to help us take in the majestic view of our bodies building before our very eyes. Oh yeah, and windows to the outside world so they too can watch in shock and awe.<br /><br />Historically, I've been more of a swimmer than a fitness room junkie, but time waits for no man/woman and the convenience of an exercise workout mere minutes away never fails to draw me to its bright and shiny environs. So we head down there, almost skipping with excitement, ready to attack and engage and sweat and raise our heart rate and other tough things like that...knowing full well that if we lasted 20 minutes including 10 minutes of rest time, we would consider it a newspaper-worthy accomplishment.<br /><br />Upon entering the miraculous, body-transforming world of fitness we encountered almost no one. Rarely do we see more than a few other future Mr./Ms. Universes...which I’m sure has something to do with our intimidating physical prowess and reputation. The young twenty-something couple working out on the 2 elliptical machines barely acknowledged our arrival. Decked out in their latest attire - grunge meets Apple Computer - their IPods filled their ears with their favorite playlist.<br /><br />After recovering from the disappointment of a broken routine that usually started with the elliptical, we decide to tackle some of the weight machines. A few technical adjustments and several conversations later, I press forward with my arms on the bench press. I don't remember the exact weight, but suffice it to say double-digit weights and I are no strangers. The placement of the machine points me directly at our competition - the young couple. Even though their music blasted to the point that I could hear it through their earphones, they somehow manage to interact with each other – talking, planning, laughing. <em>Bring it on – we can do that, no problem.<br /></em><br />We pull out our mp3 players. I crank up my LG cell phone/mp3 player. Mick Jagger belts out “I’ll never be your beast of burden…all I want is you to make love to me…am I hot enough; am I rough enough…put me out, put me out, put me out of misery…” My head bobs, shoulder dips, foot taps...energy level rises as if to say, “I could do this all day.” The couple picks up the pace. Their walk becomes a run, their laughs become borderline hysterical, and then the girl turns to face the guy. She continues to work out, listen to music, and talk/laugh with her buddy while running full speed SIDEWAYS on the elliptical! I shake my head in disbelief. I almost stand up and applaud…seriously!<br /><br />A few minutes later the guy gets a phone call. He says something about being late to meet someone and heads out the door. The girl spends another 10 minutes running like gravity doesn’t exist – no struggling for air, no perspiring, nothing but smiles…and then she gathers up her stuff and dances out of the room.<br /><br />All alone, already tired and sore, Stacy and I move on to the vacated machines, and begin the end of our workout. We enter our routine into the equipment – a full 10 minutes. At one tenth the pace of our predecessors, our legs start stepping and our arms pull back and push forth. She says something; I say “what”; she ignores me; I realize she’s singing softly. I crank up my player as Tracy Chapman sings out, “If you saw the face of God and love, would you change…” My head bobs, shoulder dips, and I start singing. Stacy smiles; I smile. She sings louder; I sing louder. I laugh; she laughs …you should have seen us.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-91348356872863588052009-03-07T15:07:00.000-08:002009-03-07T15:53:36.350-08:00Walking in RhythmI just completed my second week, and my first full week, in a new job writing software and stuff. It's not my first choice in terms of how I like to spend my days (i.e., it's not writing) but it brings good things into my life that I need. Historically, it has taken me a while to establish any sort of rhythm in new life situations. The first week or two I'm usually so overwhelmed that I honestly don't know what I'm doing most of the time, much less how to do it. I manage to go through some motions but I have no real rhythm, if you know what I mean. There’s new people, new working space, new equipment, new routes to the restroom, new lunch breaks, new hours, new expectations, new organizations, new interpretations…and at best, I walk with a serious hitch in my giddyup.<br /><br />My simple goal during those incubatory periods is to survive – not impress, or even be productive…just survive. Well, I did it! I survived, and in the process I worked my way into a level 1 comfort zone (out of 5 or 10 of 1000). Why do major life transitions such as moving to a new town or starting a new job generate loads of gobblygook in my mental and emotional systems?<br /><br />In my new situation, I’ve run into several people who have lived their entire lives within an hour of their current home. Their roots grow deep, and I can see the resulting life reflected in their eyes. They know something I don’t know. They have something deep within them that I do not. It’s like a deep subterranean stream running with cool grace. They walk in a rhythm that attracts me to them...I envy them. Strangely enough, many of them envy me. When I tell of my travels to distant lands, various living locales, unusual job experiences, scattered family members (geographically and psychologically), and life risks that I’ve taken, they look at me like I’m from another planet – Planet Brave. Not knowing whether my history reveals bravery or avoidance I usually do not comment on their observation…although at some level, I probably enjoy the awestruck responses from those who learn of my risk-friendly approach to life.<br /><br />In any case, I have discovered something in the past couple of weeks: I like living within walking distance to my work and to my town. Now, I travel by foot quite a bit, and it settles my soul. Maybe it’s my way of trying to follow those substantial souls down their well worn life paths. Maybe I’m making a fresh start of traveling deep instead of long. Maybe someday, for the first time in a very long time, I’ll find myself walking in rhythm.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-81615258978361719222009-02-20T18:13:00.000-08:002009-02-20T20:37:36.253-08:00Transition-Transition-Transition-WD40An old counselor friend of mine once postulated that the true rhythm in life looks more like transition-transition-transition-transition-transition than living-living-living-transition-living-living-living-living-transition. I've spent much of my life trying to find a living-living-living-transition type existence...to no avail. I have fought it and yet I think somewhere deep down inside I have always known that he was right. The harder I try to manage my life into a placid lake with merely a rare and gentle ripple, the more I find myself tossed to and fro in a sovereign sea of transition much bigger and stronger and smarter than I am.<br /><br />Now, I don't mind conceding the philosophical argument or even the reality of transition-transition-transition, under one condition: my new life outlook must be accompanied by a huge, friggin can of WD40. My father used to jest that life and WD40 were inseparable…and that WD40 could cure anything. My wife and I have lived transition-transition-transition for some time now and I feel like my emotional surface has been too sticky or clingy or Velcro-y. It occurred to me that if I could get access to my soul or spirit or emotional being and spray a large can of WD40 right there on the surface where life interacts with my personhood, that living on the slippery slopes of transition-transition-transition might be less traumatic and more fun.<br /><br />For example, we just moved to an apartment in downtown Santa Rosa, CA. It’s great! Really, it’s way cool, but still it’s a bit sticky or clingy or Velcro-y to move into a new place and meet new neighbors and start a new job and not accidentally pee in the kitchen in the middle of the night because the bathroom used to be where the kitchen now stands…or whatever a kitchen does. You know? I’m really thrilled, as is my wife, that we ended up here…I’ve wanted to move to NorCal for many years. And yet the waves of different and sometimes unpleasant emotions come and go, often without the courtesy of any notice whatsoever. What’s up with that?<br /><br />So, as we venture into our latest transition, I have but one plan…a daring, bold maneuver that must, that will prevail. I’m heading to Costco to purchase the 48-pack of WD40. Of course, I will also purchase the especially tiny straw (make that 3000 especially tiny straws) specifically designed to allow the miraculous liquid to seep deep down into my emotional makeup. If that doesn’t work (perish the thought) I may need to replace the kitchen trash can with a fancy new toilet.<br /><br />Obviously, I can’t leave you with that less-than-pleasant picture and I’m running out of time, so let me throw out one last question: could trust and faith be the WD40 for our spirit or emotions...what about relationships...or humor? Wow, that really needed a better segue, didn’t it?<br /><br />Cheers!Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-90915106268232915992009-02-02T13:40:00.000-08:002009-02-02T17:11:06.010-08:00Ellie's Mutt Hut & Vegetarian CafeMy wife and I have managed to hang out in motels for the better part of the last 5 months. I don't know if you've ever done such a thing, but it's weird...way weird. Instead of neighbors, you have guests. Instead of a bedroom, a living room, a dining room, a den, a patio, a lawn...you have A room - one small, bedroom-sized room. Instead of privacy, you have serious/forced bonding. Instead of an address, you have a P.O. Box. Instead of a kitchen, you have nearby restaurants.<br /><br />Speaking of restaurants, Ukiah, a small town of 15,000 in Northern California, hosts several unusual-in-a-good-way eating establishments. They each showcase their unique take on the world without apology...I like that. They are what they are. Among their one-of-a-kind offerings, Ukiah boasts the first certified organic brewpub, a bakery adjacent to the courthouse with tasty sandwiches including the ever popular "The Verdict" and the ever tasty "Grand Jury", and possibly the world's most market-challenged restaurant, Ellie's Mutt Hut & Vegetarian Cafe.<br /><br />If you're like me, and you probably aren't, your first guess at Ellie's specialization might be something like a vegetarian cafe that is dog or pet friendly...think Northern Colorado. Well, that would be a nice guess, but incorrect. Actually, Ellie's Mutt Hut & Vegetarian Cafe (thank God for Copy-And-Paste functionality) supplies the locals with 2 very different and yet delicious items - hot dogs and vegetarian sandwiches. Yes, I'm serious. Really, I mean it. I am not kidding, not pulling your leg, not tugging on Superman's cape, not spittin...sorry, wrong list. Ellie's specializes in the areas best hot dogs and vegetarian dishes.<br /><br />Work with me here. Imagine this: you wake up after a good night's rest, wipe the sleep from your eyes, stretch out a bit, mix in a few yawns, and then the light goes on. "I've got it! I'm going to start a new restaurant that will make the most amazing hot dogs (with or without chili and cheese) and...hmmm...what else...that won't be enough to make a living from...if only I could...wait, another epiphany...hot dogs and vegetarian sandwiches and meals...IT'S PERFECT!!!!!"<br /><br />But wait, there's more: "All that's left is to come up with a name...something that demands their attention and makes their salivary glands run like the Mississippi River...but that's too much to ask...how can I, a small town girl named Ellie come up with the perfect name for such a perfect restaurant...it's impossible...unless...unless...I've got it: Ellie's Mutt Hut & Vegetarian Restaurant!!!!! It's perfect! They will line up to get in!"<br /><br />And they do! They line up to get in! How does that happen? How did that happen? Furthermore, how does anyone encounter such a place and not believe in God? Come on! I love Ellie's Mutt Hut & Vegetarian Cafe. Their hotdogs are pretty darn good and their vegetarian offerings are even better, in my opinion. They also serve some delightful and "healthy" pancakes identified on the menu as Johnny Cakes. My wife and I frequent the place, not only for the food but also for the steady stream of local personalities that make a habit of hanging out at Ellie's.<br /><br />A couple of days ago, my wife and I grabbed one of the 2-person tables at Ellie's Mutt Hut & Vegetarian cafe. We ordered a couple of Johnny Cakes and 2 scrambled eggs to split between us. Quick aside: after splitting meals for many years, we've discovered that you don't tell the waiter you're splitting, because they charge you a split fee, knowing that only a professional should attempt such a feat. So, we're finishing up our meal and the couple seated at the table directly behind my wife stood up to leave. Their 3-year-old (I'm guessing the age) daughter sporting blondish-brown curls stood up as well. We waved at her and she waved back. In support, her parents instructed her to say goodbye. Wearing a serious expression, as if tasked with a national security mission, she took their orders to heart and began her task.<br /><br />Surveying the field, she started with those who are closest, and said "goodbye" to my wife and me, followed by a sort-of-wave-kind-of-a-thing. Riding on the waves of her initial success, she began making the rounds. She worked her way up to the front of the restaurant tossing her goodbyes and waves to each and every person, including the ones behind the counter working at the restaurant. Her confidence and panache grew with each successful attempt. Finishing up, a smile of satisfaction and accomplishment glowing from her tiny face, she headed toward the exit where her parents waited patiently and proudly. In a matter of 2 minutes she had affected or infected everyone there with her fearless and focused exit performance. I hadn’t seen that many smiles in one place in a long, long time. Out of the corner of her eye she spied the one last and quite oblivious couple seated in the far corner near the other exit. Still heading toward her parents across the way, she added a final, well-projected goodbye aimed straight toward the preoccupied couple.<br /><br />Here’s where it gets funny. They completely ignore her. From where I sat, it looked like they were discussing something of great interest to both of them and they simply didn’t notice her, at all.<br /><br />So the little girl set her feet and tried it again. This time a little louder. “Goodbye!”<br /><br />No response.<br /><br />Leaning forward up on her toes, she shouted one more time. “GOODBYE!”<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />Now, at this point, I’m thinking of getting out of my chair and interrupting the couple in the corner. I’d become emotionally attached to this little girl and her goodbye mission. I wanted 100% success for her. An A+. A perfect score. And then she surprises me. She turns on her heels, nods her head slightly, and marches toward her parents. The 3 of them exit together, happy as clams. The only thing that disturbed more than her not making her last conquest was the realization that I had been out-matured (just made that up) by a 3-year-old. Without flinching she gave it her best shot. When she finished, she walked away, satisfied with her efforts, and never looked back. Dang! If only life were that simple…<br /><br />Anyway, “cheers” to Ellie’s Mutt Hut & Vegetarian Café for doing the impossible – terrible marketing name plus the most ridiculous combination of food specializations imaginable, and yet succeeding in a big way. And “cheers” to the 3-year-old girl who taught me more about life in 2 minutes than I’d learned in many a day.<br /><br />Later…<br /><br />P.S. On a couple of my visits to Ellie’s fine eatery, I noticed a few people eating carrot cake for breakfast…or dessert of breakfast. I wonder how the <a href="http://whatisbreakfast.blogspot.com/">What is Breakfast Committee</a> would rule on that dish.Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-87719942236907681162009-01-29T09:47:00.000-08:002009-01-29T14:29:36.176-08:00What I thought; What I saidI admit it: more often than not, I don't say exactly what I think...at least not initially. My interview, two days ago, exemplifies that personality <em>fault...feature</em>...trait. Here's the highlights from that meeting (<em>my thoughts in italics</em>):<br /><br />"Hello, Mark. Nice to meet you. How are you today?"<br /><br /><em>Why are there three of you and only one of me? That water looks good. I’m thirsty, but I need to pee, again. I hope at least one of these guys would be a good character in a book.<br /></em>"I'm fine. Thanks for asking."<br /><br />"First of all, let me tell you about our organization. Most of the IT staff...do you have any questions about that?"<br /><br /><em>It's really nice outside. If I lean to the right just a little, I can see 2 clouds in the sky. The one on the left sort of looks like a giraffe tearing off leaves from a tall tree (the cloud on the right). I like giraffes...and elephants...probably elephants better.<br /></em>"No thank you. That was very helpful."<br /><br />"Mark, let me ask you a technical question: if you had a SQL Server database...how would you do that?"<br /><br /><em>In the big scheme of things, do you really think that your question has any relevance? Database, schmatabase. Wouldn't a better question be something like: why are we sitting around here doing this when we could be out changing the world for good or at least enjoying ourselves?<br /></em>"That's an excellent question, Ted. I can think of at least 2 possible solutions to the question you posed. My first choice would be to create a stored procedure that mimics..."<br /><br />"Good answer, Mark. Let's move onto something more complex. What if the application and database layers were merged by a programmer who was in a hurry and you needed to..."<br /><br /><em>M e r g e, merge...merge...that's a weird word...the more I think about it, the weirder it gets. Maybe a good name for a book where aliens intermarry with humans - THE MERGED. Nah, that's just stupid. Wait, if everyone lived under water, it could be called THE SUBMERGED…stupid on steroids. Stop smiling!<br /></em>“Interesting problem. I would probably reverse engineer the processes back into their original…”<br /><br />“Just one last question, Mark. With all your years of experience, why do you want to work on these projects with us?”<br /><br /><em>Question Mark…that’s funny. Honestly, I would rather be a best-selling author who makes his living writing and connecting with readers. I like people and I like you, but let’s face it: I’m just a mercenary who needs money to pay bills. I put up with software development and it puts up with me. If there was any way to not work here, I would definitely choose that. But since it seems to be the only feasible option available to me that meets my requirements (i.e., 40 hour week, technology I’m comfortable with, the probability that I can do this job and still have some time and energy to do other things), I think I should man-up and do what I need to do.<br /></em>“I was hoping that you would ask that question. From what I can tell your technology platform and needs fit perfectly with my many years of experience and expertise. I think I would be a great addition to your staff… Also, I have a full life outside of work – I write fiction, I’m married, etc. – and the work here seems like something I could apply myself to during the day, be productive, and when 5:00 comes around still have some mind and energy left to engage the other important areas of my life.<br /><br />“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mark. You are more than qualified for this position. Thank you for being so upfront and forthcoming with us. We have other interviews this week and will probably make a decision this Friday. You should hear from us no later than next Monday.”<br /><br /><em>I wish I would have been more forthcoming. “More than qualified” = overqualified. I really, really need to pee. Yay, we’re finished! They seem a bit tired. I wish they were happier…I wish everyone could be happy. All things being equal, I actually would like to work here…I like them…I feel for them. It was a pleasure meeting them.<br /></em>“Thank you for your time. I know you have plenty of work to attend to and this cuts into your day. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to hear from you soon. Thanks again...oh, one more thing: can you tell me where the restroom is?”Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-78818468632674437652009-01-24T09:49:00.001-08:002009-01-24T14:05:16.396-08:00Local and OrganicYesterday, my wife and I visited a local diner. In every sense of the word it fit the description of a diner - fake blue leather booths a bit too tight to squeeze into comfortably, service both prompt and friendly, more food choices than they could possibly execute effectively including four or five specials, and an unusual smell which I've yet to identify. I enjoyed the entire experience.<br /><br />As I studied the computer printed signs hanging in several locations inviting patrons to bring their laptops and enjoy the free Wi-Fi, the server handed each of us a menu. The moist aftereffects from the quick wipe down on both the seats and the menu brought a small smile to my face. Expecting to see the usual diner fare, a small graphic caught my attention - Local and Organic. Immediately I thought "that's my favorite" not yet knowing what it was that was both Local and Organic.<br /><br />Now I could go on and on about the significance of a local and organic economy and worldview…everything from helping the environment to stronger communities and healthier people, not to mention the evils of the alternative – good all around. And someday I’m sure I’ll do just that, but last night I had a dream or a scenario about an up-and-coming job interview that just must be told. In order to frame this properly I should mention that I’m in a job hunting process and state of mind. Having fallen short of convincing the collective bill-collecting populous that I am indeed a pre-NY Bestselling author whose lottery-like fortune sits just around the corner, I’ve resorted to pursuing (that may be too strong a word) a position in a fine organization who could benefit from my substantial expertise, experience, and wit…or something to that effect.<br /><br />Along those lines, last week I interviewed at a company that was rather fond of itself. Don’t get me wrong, everyone I met seemed intelligent, articulate, and highly credentialed. They did have a right to be proud, it just seemed like their good self-impressions may have exceeded the reality they exposed me to. They set me up on a full day of interviews with various people in their organization. I started at 8:30 in the morning and went non-stop until dinner finished up a little after 7PM, meeting with no less than 15 people during the day! Is it just me or does that seem over the top? Putting someone through a process of 11 grueling hours with only 2 brief respites to the restroom, impressed little and exhausted much…although the bathrooms were very shiny.<br /><br />My next foray into the job-hunting market begins next Tuesday at 3:00PM. A nearby City government needs a software guy/girl to do something or other. Instead of 11 hours of the gauntlet they require a mere hour and a half of my time to determine whether or not I meet their standards and fit best in their group. Which brings me to my dream/scenario thing. In the half-awake, half-asleep moments of my morning today I rehearsed my interview process with the City and it went something (embellished to make more interesting) like this:<br /><br />A panel of 3 people sat around a table that looked like it was stolen from a middle school cafeteria and dragged top down over Highway 101 for a few hundred miles. Introductions all around and I tried to remember each of their names so I could address them personally during the interview, and especially when I would say goodbye at the end. I took my seat in the middle – an elderly grandmotherly type on my left, a young, energetic buck across from me, and a person on my right who might have been either male or female sporting a nice smile for someone missing most of their teeth.<br /><br />Like a tennis match, the young buck served a complex technical question with both velocity and precision placement, hoping to catch me off balance and score a point. I returned a quick, strong answer and I was up 15-Love. The guy/girl smiled at me as I heard Van Morrison singing <em>Someone Like You</em> in the background. The crowd roared, which turned out to be the elderly lady snoring. So far, so good.<br /><br />Almost three sets later, we had each won a set and the tie-breaker would decide the outcome…everything in the entire universe depended on the next question and answer. The elderly lady sat up straight in her chair like an ancient and yet powerful queen on her throne. She turned to the young buck and began asking her question. He interrupted her and pointed her in my direction. She nodded, turned to face me, and tossed the question ball high into the air delivering what looked like the perfect ace:<br /><br />“Gerald, why do you WANT to work for the City?”<br /><br />My palms sprung leaks; my mind spun in circles – <em>why did she call me Gerald? do I WANT to work for the City? what were their names? i think my left leg is asleep.</em> The male/female stopped smiling and Eric Clapton stopped singing <em>Hello, Old Friend</em>. Ready to concede game, set, and match to my most worthy opponents, I closed my folio. I stood up, shook their hands, and thanked them for their time, forgetting their names. Heading to the door, a barely perceptible hum caught my attention. All three City employees joined in and their humming became a song. I turned just in time to see them join hands and begin a macabre dance of the zombies. As I opened the door to leave, the deafening scream/song <em>We are the Champions</em> rung in my ears.<br /><br />In my struggle to stay the tears, I desperately searched for something good to think on…anything that might ease the pain of defeat. Working backwards from my interview, I reviewed my day and came up with nothing pleasant…nothing to stem the tide of depression. At my wit’s end, ready to bow to loss as the rightful king of my life, a picture floated through my mind. A bit fuzzy at first. I strained to see it, to remember it. Finally, my mind’s eye focused and the small phrase beamed brightly in the darkness.<br /><br />Like a soldier on a critical mission, I about-faced and re-entered the interrogation/interview room. With a yell I smashed my return into the corner of the court, silencing the terrible din of dancing and singing:<br /><br />LOCAL AND ORGANIC!<br /><br />Him/Her smiled as <em>Silly Love Songs</em> played through the loud speakers. Elderly Lady nodded off, mumbling something that sounded like, “Good for you, Gerald.” Young Buck nodded his head respectfully, stretched forth his racquet-shaped hand, and announced, “Good match. Welcome aboard. You’ll fit in just fine.”Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7587669931780321231.post-71324373740916494902009-01-15T17:11:00.000-08:002009-01-16T13:07:34.800-08:00Rah Rah Rah Be True to Your SchoolI'll just come out and say it: I'm a fan of the University of Oklahoma (OU). There, I said it. If I remember correctly, I missed only 1 game this year that the OU Sooners football team played. In addition to the many locally televised games, I saw 2 live in Norman, Oklahoma and a couple at a sports bar an hour away because nobody around here thought it worthwhile to broadcast those games.<br /><br />The Sooners fought hard to make it to the national championship game against the Florida Gators, only to lose in the last quarter (heartbreaking). A few weeks before that, Sam Bradford, OU's staring quarterback, received the Heisman Trophy for the best player in college football. Only a sophomore, Sam had proved his worth as the best at the collegiate level.<br /><br />Projected as a top 10 draft pick, he had a big decision to make - return to OU as one of the many poverty-stricken students or make an estimated $75,000,000 in contract money with the pros. Think about that: 75 million dollars to play football! He would be set for life; his family would be set for life. Heck, he could help everyone in the town of Norman. And, he gets to play football!<br /><br />All the experts knew that Sam couldn't and wouldn't resist the fame and fortune of the NFL. If I was in his position, I can't imagine saying 'no' to all that, could you? January 15 (yesterday) was the last day for undergraduate college players to declare eligibility for the draft. Sam, hair unkempt and wearing a red jacket, looking like he just rolled out of bed, made a short statement (paraphrased):<br /><br />I love OU. I grew up dreaming about attending the University and playing football here. I like my teammates and I want to be with them again. I see no reason to cut this wonderful experience short. I'm coming back next year. (He smiled from ear-to-ear and the crowd applauded.)<br /><br />What? He could be a multi, multi, multi-millionaire in a matter of a few months...live in a fancy house with servants, drive a fancy car or have a limo, help out family and friends, have his people contact their people, etc...and he wants to stay at OU with his friends. The stunned reporter asked the obvious question: what do you like so much about being here?<br /><br />His answer: Everything.<br /><br />I've thought a great deal over the years about happiness, fulfillment, and success. I've spent countless hours and more energy than I could afford trying to change circumstances to fit into my this-would-make-me-happy box...to no avail, really. And then I see this unassuming, humble, happy, content, young man choose that which makes him happy and content over and against the bright lights beckoning him to mega-stardom. In this day of shortcuts, I'm stunned...and proud of him for taking the road less traveled.<br /><br />We all make choices, don't we? We all have a framework or a decision-tree for making those choices...sometimes healthy, sometimes not. Mine seems quite complicated at times, although over the last few years it has simplified and become healthier. It really helps me when I run into someone who knows who they are and has enough faith to believe that there is a time for everything under heaven. Not only having permission to enjoy the moment or the season, but also a sense of calling to do so.<br /><br />According to everyone who knows him, Sam has great parents and he enjoyed a wonderful and love-filled childhood. Many others, including me...not so much. And I can tell it - his roots grow deep into rich, dark soil. He knows how to make choices that sprinkle good, clear water on that soil, eventually seeping down and bringing life to those roots in his spirit. They say the most important decision you can make in life is who you choose as your parents. Sam chose well. : )<br /><br />When I heard him say "everything" my soul responded with a huge YES! What a place to be in life where someone asks you what do you like about your present situation and you answer, "everything." I imagine Slingin' Sam Bradford's life is not perfect, but there seems little doubt that he thoroughly enjoys it, and embraces it. And he has the good sense and the trust to bask in that good place while he can.<br /><br />I want more of that.<br /><br />Thanks Sam. Rah, rah, rah be true to your school...Boomer Sooner!Mark Adairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18013485931162489683noreply@blogger.com2