Somewhere in Corporate America

He only has a few strands and knows exactly where each of them should be. Right now, one is out of place. It's supposed to be a bridge between opposite sides of the shrinking horseshoe, and for some reason—did he walk by a vent?—it's starting to fall.

He's busy. The emails keep coming, the meeting is approaching and there's a deadline looming for the small part of his day that involves actual, deliverable work. This rebellious follicle is a distraction. He can't see it. He feels it. He must fix it.

Not that anyone else will notice. His looks are not what they hired him for. That's code. Delicious, complicated, clean code that makes applications hum. Code he cannot write when he is not focused.

So he reaches into his desk drawer, leans back in his swivel chair and, somewhere in Corporate America, a bald man combs his hair.

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Searching for the Future on a Vermont Highway

The radio is clear and loud, the ride is smooth, and the road is open, but the future is coming and he is a young man without a plan. He needs to pause. Contemplate. Introspect. He is not good at any of these things.

He turns off the tunes to force some silence into his brain and rolls down the window for a little fresh air focus.

And he talks to himself. "What do I want to do for work?"

"I don't know."

"What do I want to be doing five years from now?"

"I don't know."

"Where do I want to live?

"I don't know."

The reflection is over.  If he had answers, he wouldn't have the questions. So he rolls up the window, turns the radio back on and keeps driving into the night. In the moment he is happy. The future is coming with or without a plan.

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My Life of Crime: Break-in in Brooklyn

Get back here, thief. Get back and take my damn CDs. And my stereo. Do you honestly like my roommate's music more than mine? Why'd you steal his CDs and not mine? Hell, you even stole his laundry bag and didn't take one thing from my room. I understand why you didn't want my speakers—they were heavy. But ignoring my computer while taking his broken old VCR? That's offensive. It was a Mac, too, not some cheap PC. Probably a classic you could've sold to some nerd on eBay for good money. It made sense when those guys who stole my car radio didn't take my tapes. Nobody's going to pay for crappy old fraternity party mixes. But you, you're just rude. Insurance will cover what my roommate lost, and pay for the door you ripped off its hinges. But you hurt my feelings, and there's no insurance for that.

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My Life of Crime: Assault in the Capital

Adams Morgan, Washington, D.C., Midnight-ish.

It cost 35 cents to have me killed. At least, that was the joke.

The homeless guy wanted money and my buddy gave him some change. I didn't. Then things escalated.

The homeless man said my friend had "a bigger heart than the rest of you combined." He called me racist. He said I deserved to die. He'd killed before, in Nam, and wouldn't hesitate to do it again. Especially a racist like me.

Around the third time he threatened to kill me, a nearby bouncer appeared saying, "Jimmy, what are you doing?" He flagged down a cop car and within seconds they were running through traffic, guns out, yelling, "Drop the knife!" Before I could move Jimmy was splayed across the hood of a car, frisked, and cuffed.

The Assistant D.A. called it assault with a deadly weapon. Jimmy was forced into a veterans home.  

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Things I've Learned From My Parents During Their First 50 Years of Marriage

Be yourself. Create shared hobbies. Collect stories. Reminisce. Have faith. Cherish family. If you can, have two sinks, two cars and a big bed. 

It's OK to disagree in front of the kids, but don't fight. Love takes many forms—sometimes it's a clean dish or a fresh cup of coffee. You can love someone and still want to throw them in a vat of boiling oil (Dad just learned Mom said that). 

Have your own friends. Have couple friends. Eat dinner together with the TV off (unless it's a really close game or a really good Star Trek). Accept—don't just tolerate—what you cannot change. 

Being bored together is an art. Predictability is helpful; variety is essential. Surprise each other. Remember that you, too, can be annoying to live with. Stay interesting...and interested. 

The argument's not over until the laughter returns. Never let the laughter stop. Perfect never arrives. Yes, you snore.  

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Terlingua Woman Pt. 4: Survival Skills

She knows the river and she knows the desert. Her calloused, thick fingers say she knows how to use all the tools in her garage too.

The desert, she reminds us, is danger. "If you're hiking and need to pee, jus' turn and pee. Don't wander off the trail looking for privacy because there ain't nothin' out there tall enough to give you privacy anyway and it all looks the same. You'll never find the trail again and we may never find you either. We lost our survivalist last week."

She rents us two canoes for the price of one — "The water's too low for you guys to share" — and drives us to the put-in. She'll pick us up in three days. If we're late, she'll wait. If we're early, we'll wait. A tiny canyon wren fills the rocks with his song as time slips by like the Rio Grande itself.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

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Terlingua Woman Pt. 3: Border Crossing

You see the world differently when the ground around you gets so hot even beetles start to sweat. In Texas along the Rio Grande, far from air-conditioned malls, backyard pools and iced frappuccinos, her leathery skin is thick and rules reveal their flaws.

"If you see somebody walking across the desert with a backpack on, you know they're smuggling drugs," she tells us. "Everybody else is too poor to need a backpack."

"The people who live out in the desert, I mean really out there, the Mexicans will break into the first house they see and steal their food." They're not bad people. Just dying of hunger and thirst.

"To protect their homes, folks'll leave food and water out on the porch. Some add a note saying 'help yourself.' And if you write that note in Spanish, they'll even do the dishes."

It's just a fact. Who is she to judge?

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

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Terlingua Woman Pt. 2: Grandmother's Wisdom

Not much grows around Terlingua and nothing much happens. "If you want to get arrested," she says, "You're gonna have to try. Because the sheriff doesn't want to drive all the way to the jail any more than you do."

The only excitement is the annual Texas Chili Cook-off finals, and it's huge. A town of maybe two hundred people swells with thousands of chili makers, tasters and fans. A few years ago the winner cheated and snuck out the back before anyone realized it. "Good thing," she admits. "They'd a killed him."

She warns us, "If you don't like drinkin', cussin' and sex, don't come."

"And if you do come, whatever you do, do not start drinkin' with the little old grandmothers. They been drinkin' since before there were grandmothers on this earth, and they will drink you under the table!" She laughs but doesn't tell us about her grandkids.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

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Terlingua Woman Pt. 1: Her Home

The only remarkable thing about her house is that it sits behind and slightly below a large concrete platform. The giant slab was designed to be the foundation for the house itself but her Mexican mason, the area's best, got confused while she was off guiding a river trip and started building the walls on cement poured for the patio. With cinder blocks already stacked three-feet high and the sheriff threatening to enforce the mason's 30 mile visa...

 "But I am 30 miles from the border," she said.
 "No, you're 32."
 "Well there ain't nothin' in those two miles but desert."
 "Tell you what. I won't stop by for coffee for two weeks. Tell your guy to hurry up."

...she had little choice but to accept a house in the wrong place. So there she and her husband live, renting out canoes and letting strangers camp in their scruffy little yard.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

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The Old Lady vs The Snow Bank

She was stuck. Somebody had dropped her off to visit a friend. The plow had cleared the streets, and somebody had shoveled the sidewalk, but there was no way from one to the other. Back and forth she walked along the road, an old lady in a jam. Just another victim of a snowy winter.

When I saw what was happening I asked if she needed some help. Yes, she admitted.

So I clambered over the berm to the sidewalk. She took my outstretched hand. After one unsuccessful step she stopped, held out her other hand and said, "I need both. How pathetic is this." So I grabbed both her hands and pulled gently. She stumbled over to my side and thanked me profusely.

As I protested that it was no big deal she said, "If you ever here me complain about it being too hot, punch me in the face."

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A Broken Leg at Big Birch

Big Birch, now preposterously called Thunder Ridge, was the perfect place to learn to ski — hardly bigger than a leaf pile, easy, empty, and safe.

But when I rounded the hairpin (in my 7-year-old head) turn at supersonic speed (ibid) and hit a patch of grass, my ski stopped dead, my binding failed, and my tibia cracked.

My Dad, a beautiful skier in the early, upright style, raced to my side. He gave his poles, my poles, and my skis to my mother, picked me up by the armpits and took off down the trail, not letting my tears or sobs slow him down.

At ski patrol, he thrust me forward like an offering. "My son broke his leg."

"That's not how we recommend you handle it, sir," was the polite, surprised reply.

It took me years to ski without fear again but I have admired my father's response ever since.

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My Celebrity Encounters

A guy I grew up with quit the Dave Matthews Band. He said he has no regrets.

Judah Friedlander had a mean free kick. We played soccer together.

My tongue was on the floor and Uma Thurman still didn't notice me.

Arnold Schwarzenegger is nice. He didn't know me and still said "Hi."

Eddie Van Halen is nice too. When I opened the door for him he said, "Thanks."

As a kid I was in an after school special with J.D. Roth. Is he technically a celebrity?

Picabo Street never introduced herself when we chatted for twenty minutes. I guess she assumes people recognize her. She's right.

I went to the same midnight mass as Gregory Peck and John Kerry once. No handshake.

Will Smith owes me five bucks. He was filming on the Brooklyn Bridge and my cab got delayed in the traffic. At least, it looked like Will Smith.

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To the Girl on the F Train in 1996

You had a face that could make a young man dream, and I was just a young man. The minute I got close to you an irresistible urge began rising inside of me. My lungs tightened and my breath grew short. I could think of nothing to say.

We were face to face on the way to work. And to the future. Were you as kind as you looked? Did you notice me too? What could have been?

The train was so packed that our feet barely touched the ground. My arms were pinned to my side by strangers. Hundreds of strangers, and all I remember is you.

The urge kept rising. My chest felt ready to explode. And explode it did. With a big, phlegmy cough right in your face. I couldn't even get my hands up to cover my mouth.

I had bronchitis that day. And I am sorry.

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One Morning in the Charlestown Dog Park

The labradoodle didn't notice the commuters shuffling by. He didn't hear the hum of traffic on the Zakim Bridge or notice the trains rolling into North Station. The cold rain meant nothing. All that mattered was the tennis ball. The only thing he wanted in this world was for his owner to throw that ball across the lawn with the chucker stick.

He jumped and spun as his owner fussed at the car. What's taking so long? His barks turned to pants and his pants turned to pleas. Throw that ball! I need that ball!

She cocked her arm, flicked her wrist and the ball flew. He flew after it. It bounced high. He jumped and caught it as it fell. He began to sprint back. Then he stopped on a dime and pooped, never letting the ball out of his mouth. Sometimes you just need to live in the moment.

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Kickoff Conversation with 2015

Welcome! We're all excited you're here. I want to chat about goals and expectations to help you make the most of your time with us, and help us get the most out of you, too.

First, you need to focus on execution. Many Years are really busy but somehow don't get their to-do lists done. Talk is cheap. You need to finish things. 2014 always struggled with this.

Which leads to number two: time management. I know I'm 9 days late here, but that's kind of the point. I need your help staying on track. There's only so much time in a Year. You have to prioritize and plan constantly.

Finally, aim high. Some Years, nothing really changes. That's OK since life is good, but let's raise the bar. I've got some ideas, but I want you to drive this. What do you want to do? Think big!

Let's talk next week.

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