Sempe Fido: Workplace Secrets Revealed

The drawing pictured above was made by Jean-Jacques Sempe. It is the first thing I look at , when I go to my desk in the morning. It's obvious that the little dog has been taking a bit of a beating. It is also equally obvious, at least to me, that he is far from finished and that whatever or whoever has tested him should not underestimate him. Also, he has just a touch of scoundrel and a mischievous whimsy about him, despite a round or two of setbacks. Sempe Fido (apologies to the Marines).

__________________

I have a sign on my desk; it says:

DON'T LET PERFECT RUIN GOOD

I borrowed this from the business writer Harry Beckwith as a daily reminder that being a perfectionist is a neurotic trait. If you want to get something done that might be helpful to other people and to yourself, get to work, have a high standard for the work, then get it out there. Do the best you can; if that is good today, instead of perfect, good. Done. Tomorrow's another day.

I don't have this next sign sitting on my desk or worktable, but it's in my mind anyway and related to the one above:

PRACTICE IS PERFECT

A great jazz player said: "If you practice scales religiously and practice each note firmly, with equal strength, certainly you'll develop a certain smoothness." Amen.

________________________

This drawing, signed KME, is a new addition to the desk. It is there to remind me not to always take myself or other people too seriously. It also reminds me that the Creator had a sense of humor, hence the buzzer at the moment of Creation, which by the way, is still going on as we speak. Lighten up, only Hollywood, Washington DC and the "Media" take themselves seriously 100% of the time, which is what makes them all so funny.

                                                                  _____________________      

I made a series of collages last year using the simplest objects I could find from everyday life. I based it on a book by Paola Antonelli, MOMA's Curator of art and Design, called "humble masterpieces."

I called the series Too Small To Fail as a reminder that the best design in art, business, government or education is often the simplest. The bandaid remains one of healthcare's best tools, for example. When humans get complicated, it's usually because they have lost their sense of humor and proportion. Don't.

In Icelandic, the word for complex also means "loaded with debt."

When I get too complicated or forget to look at life in a quirky or humorous way, like right now, I look at Too Small To Fail. Usually, it gets me back on track.

TSTF #5 Self Portrait 2009 

The Longest Game

The 2010 Wimbledon match between John Isner and Nicolas Mahut broke many records and at least one heart, Mahut's. Its 183 games rambled over three days and it took one last 980th winning point for play to finally cease after 11 hours and 5 minutes.

The score of the final 70-68 set will be remembered for many years and the formal records set by the match will long endure. And yet, there are at least two players in the world who were reminded of their own epic battle, which though it may have been officially eclipsed by Isner vs. Mahut, remains, in their minds, one of equal might and meaning.

I refer to my own enduring struggle against my friend Edward "MoonDog" Mulligan, which began in 1956 in a narrow alley behind his house in that tennis mecca, Forest Hills Gardens. At eight years old, we were, as yet,  too young to begin our formal matches at The West Side Tennis Club, which had a silly rule requiring us to be twelve for membership.

After both of us suffered various contusions banging against Mulligan's garage, his mother "suggested" that we find another, wider court. And so, we moved our early match series from concrete to asphalt.

We became known as the Spanky and Alfalfa of the makeshift tennis court circuit (this predates Mulligan's more colorful permanent nickname, the circumstances of which cannot be explained in a family blog). Mulligan was short, rotund, left-handed, slow, with nearly toe-head blonde hair. I was lanky, a righty, swift, with a cowlick, until getting a flattop at nearby Frank's Barber Shop and Racing Emporium.

One day our fathers took us to see our first match on grass in Forest Hills Stadium and our game was changed forever. Soon, we abandoned our hard courts for the lawn at Slocum Crescent, shown on the right. Fittingly, this court stands today as it was back then, as if in tribute to our competition.

At last, with the help of some oversight or perhaps a miracle, we were both accepted into the Club; our formal court battle commenced.

Occasionally, we would play other opponents offering me opportunities to scout MoonDog's game. To say that he was slow, in that word's usual connotation, does not begin to describe Moondog's "movements." Many of them were so subtle that only I, having had vast experience, could detect and anticipate them. MoonDog used this innate trait with cunning and brilliance.

I noticed that other opponents frequently underestimated him. He had extraordinarily quick hands and could, when absolutely forced to do so, cover ground with a series of what must be called rapid baby steps. Also, occasionally calling the lines in an ungenerous fashion assisted his game. He had a habit of making remarks, while changing sides that could unnerve lesser competitors than myself. "Are those your First Communion shorts? 'Cause they look a bit tight" was one favorite.

MoonDog could make a walk to pick up a second ball for serving into a kind of Himalayan Expedition, on which an opponent's only desire was to seek rest at some unseen Base Camp, thus losing concentration.The wait between his first and second serves, complete with many bounces, could be an hypnotic event, causing a receiver's racquet hand to remain still, as if its nerves slept, while the serve spun past for an ace.

 

Over the years, I developed a zen-like focus, a fierce concentration on my purpose that only many, many years of therapy could provide most of MoonDog's opponents. Mostly, we just played each other. At fifteen, we dispensed with normal game and set scoring and began what is, we believe, the real longest set in tennis history. Even we do not recall the score, although Dog has made it clear on many occasions that he assumes he always led by a good margin. That, of course, is nonsense.

We played our set on grass, Har-Tru (en tous cas), red clay, indoor armory wood, indoor armory linoleum, all-weather hard, actual dirt. We played  in rain with specially "customized" warped rain racquets, insuring eccentric spins. And once, we even played in hail the size of gum-balls.

Perhaps our finest hour was when we bravely and somewhat secretly played for two straight days and parts of the night, telling our respective parents that we were at the other's homes. We slept in a maintenance room underneath the old Forest Hills Stadium, until Owen "Ownie" Sheridan, the head groundskeeper made a somewhat uncontrolled protest over our playing on his precious stadium court that he was preparing for the imminent "Nationals." Photos of that year's First Round show patches of lawn already worn by our two pair of Dunlop lawn tennis shoes. 

Inevitably, after many years, there came a time when we could no longer prolong our set by playing singles. MoonDog simply could no longer cover the court without risking serious injury to himself or the net-post, and my arm finally began to give out after so many years of slicing serves wide to his backhand in the deuce court. We instinctively knew that doubles would not suffice.

We devised one last game to be played on the ancient, fading center court at Forest Hills, beneath the very stands where we had seen our heroes play years before.  Ceremoniously, we entered the court by descending the brick steps, down which many of the greats had walked: Tilden, Budge, Gonzalez, Gibson, Hoad, Laver, Evert, Seixas, Hantze and many more.

Unfortunately, but perhaps fittingly, at a set a-piece and 8-all, it began to rain too hard for even us to continue. We scrambled under the Stadium by an old concession stand. There seemed to be only one way to decide things: a spin of the racquet. Mulligan grabbed his racquet first and quickly spun it calling "M or W?"

"M," I answered. "M' it is," responded a stunned MoonDog after  slowly, of course, bending to check the outcome. Our long battle, our marathon had come to an end at last. A winner had been decided, not by determination, patience or artistry, but by gravity.

Or so I thought. Later, upstairs in the old locker room, while I sat on a bench pondering my win as MoonDog took his traditional long, casual shower, I noticed his racquet lying at the end of the bench with its handle bottom facing me. On it was a large "S" for Spaulding.

In the excitement of my victory, I had forgotten: MoonDog, a true sport and champion,  had never used a Wilson in  his life.

Summer arrived in the northern hemisphere yesterday at 7:28 AM. A bit of research reminds us that Earth revolves on a tilted imaginary axis at 23.5'.

We also know that Earth's orbit around the sun is elliptical (AKA: Eccentric) and not the perfect circle as shown above:

In other words, we are tilted and we are elliptical, which may explain quite a few things that have been happening recently, like losing every racquet spin-for-serve, Carl The Consultant's mysterious failure to contact me for months., and a college that stubbornly clings to the tilted, eccentric idea that I am wealthy.

Since we are tilted and elliptical, it stands to reason, at least to my way of reasoning, that we humans have internal seasons just like our eccentric little planet. Some days, we are frozen icicles hanging from a limb. Other days, we are a tea rose straining for the sun.

We are tilted, even when we look straight.

We are elliptical, although we think we are perfectly round.

We humans also have a tilted, elliptical season that we might call Fog, which arrives at a certain age. We set out one morning in our little red life-boat, and, suddenly the horizon dissolves, up merges with down, we have no "direction home," as St. Bob put it in one of his electric psalms.

Still,  the unseen water keeps us buoyant despite our deepest fears. We begin to trust in a Higher Power, although we do not know which way is really Higher. It's the reaching out that counts, not the direction.

Then, the Fog clears. We are not lost; We simply misplaced ourselves  for a while: how long exactly does not seem to matter much.

We are tilted and elliptical, but it is summer, and we are spinning, revolving, looping around the Milky Way.

Here is something not tilted. There is a tribe in the far northern hemisphere whose word for summer is....

Amnesia.

I cannot remember their name.

They Say It's Your Birthday

And indeed it is.

Sixty-two. 62. LXII.

Amazingly, this feels pretty good. Why amazingly? Apparently, certain corporate HR departments, executive recruiters, and other assorted knuckleheads believe that being sixty-two is pretty much the same thing as having already entered the afterlife.

I am here to report that it is not so. As Eight Ball says, Decidedly Not So.

The birthday card above right is a piece I made in 2008 called Far, Near. I do not always completely understand the narratives in my visual work, but this one seemed to be saying that at times life is a long dusty journey, at others it's all joyous, shiny and comfy. Whatever. I still like the way it looks; I mean the life and the collage.

What will I do to celebrate my birthday? Glad you asked. First, I am composing this birthday card. Then, I am going to yoga class with my wife, AKA, Darling Girl or DG. If you don't think that's a great present in itself, you have not been paying attention here.

The piece above right is called "7." I just gave it to my great friend, Kitty, who has been a huge supporter of my modest attempts in the studio. She may even be able to do this move; I cannot.

Next,I am going to play tennis. I am considerably better at this than at yoga, having grown up across the street from fifty tennis courts, instead of an ashram.

Come to think of it, Forest Hills Stadium was a kind of spiritual center for me, and it's hard not to think about it on my birthday. Please indulge me.

After that, I am going to the beach. I made the "card" on the right, called Island Time, after a trip to Harbour Island (BRI) in 2008. It is currently in a private collection (Okay, I gave it to my daughter). Although I will not be going to the beach at BRI today, I am incapable of sitting on any beach without thinking about that one. No offense, but please don't try to find it.

Then, to top off the day, I am going to slowly roast a lamb on my trusty Weber, then finish it off in the oven. I will serve it with the magic chimichurri sauce, which I made yesterday, according to the nearly sacred process as described by Francis Mallmann in his book, Seven Fires. 

These times are not for timid people. The world intrudes upon our personal lives and our personal/family lives impact the world. We mistake recklessness for risk and, suddenly, millions are unemployed and pelicans take an oil bath. While looking into our TV, cell phone, and computer screens for big answers to big questions, it would be good to note that we still drive our huge hulks into town to buy a weenie and generally try to trade two seconds ahead of our neighbors. 

The Speaker of The House, Thomas "Tip" O'Neill, once famously said, "All politics are local." My birthday-corollary to that is, " All politics are local, but all local politics are now global."

At 62 or 26, we would do well, I think, to remember that as we continue along, Far and Near.

Ed Note:  All collages shown, Copyrighted by RareBurghers Studio. If you would like to have  a 5 min. tour of Forest Hills Gardens, please go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSVbqroIL2w

We highly recommend Seven Fires by Francis Mallman to anyone who wants to make chimichurri or to cook a steak perfectly, which to say, medium-rare. The collage pictured above, Imagine, really is in a private collection.

Just Asking

The ones who seem to know You best say,
as a matter of faith, that You never give anyone
more than they can handle.
But, just lately, I've been respectfully wondering:
how do You measure it, exactly?
Is there a Tailors' Union there?
A Heavenly Corps of Engineers?
Does the measuring helper ever go on vacation?

Just Asking.

The doctor today, who took that snip
near my ear to test? The one who,
seeing my concern, remarked, "You
look like a lucky guy." Oy.
Could you please pay special attention
to him. He may need some help.

Carl, the consultant who asked me to make a
job-proposal to him last December.
Is he up there with You?
I can't find him anywhere and
he never responds to my emails or calls.
If You have him, please ask if he liked
the proposal, just so I know, and see if
he left someone new behind to ignore my calls?

Just Asking.

And, the two women who phone-interviewed
me in April? Did they both lose their jobs?
They might have, because neither of them
ever respond. Please help them get their
messages returned, when they begin to interview.

Golfers say that even You can't hit a one-iron,
and, this next request is also extreme, but any possibility
that You could help me understand the
residential real estate business better?

Just Asking.

Thanks for beginning to mend
my Darling Girl's heart.
Does her asking me to Friend her
on Facebook mean that I may have
to wash the dog alone next time,
remember where I put things now,
fix the ceiling where the AC leaked, and
try to refrain from being funny about serious stuff?

Just keep it all coming, but please
think about that measuring thing.
And, say hello to St. Alan Watts, who said:
" There is nothing anyone can do
to be anyone else than who they are,
or to feel any other way
than the way they feel at the moment."

Which is a pretty good thing to be

Just saying.


Ed Note: Still The Mind, by Alan Watts, New World Library, will not explain the BP spill, Greek debt, the mortgage mess, dippy CEO's or anything else for that matter. It will not make you wiser, richer, or funnier. But, it will please you in a quite remarkable way. 

Prince Cedric

One of the Readings at a wedding we attended on Saturday June 5th was from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. The first reader spoke in English and the second, the German godmother of the groom, read in her native language. Somehow, the German version sounded more lyrical to me, perhaps it was the style of the reader and the tone of her voice. What does it mean when German begins to make more sense to you than English, despite the fact that you cannot read or speak German?

It must be another of those whacky life-transition things that keep popping up when I least expect them to do so.

As it happened, I had never read The Little Prince, although I had a boxed copy sitting on the shelf awaiting the right moment. I'm sure you have one waiting on your bookshelf as well, right next to the boxed dvd-set of Sex And The City. Last evening, I sat on the porch enjoying the cool, dry air and read the book for the first time.

This is a nice story about a Prince who visits Earth from his own planet and comes across a pilot who has crashed his plane in the desert. I am not here to report that reading the short book in itself was a huge life-altering event. I have had enough huge life-altering events recently, thanks. But, I did come across a particularly curious statement, spoken to The Prince by a fox, related to the passage read at the wedding"

"....Here is my secret. It's quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes."


That would sound true in any language, certainly including the French of de Saint-Exupery's original version (although he wrote it, naturellement, in New York).

While I was reading the book on the porch, a young man walked up the driveway from the lane on which we live.  He was a young African-American man wearing a tie without a jacket with his shirt hanging out, carrying some papers in his hand.

Let me say right here that the odds of encountering such a man on my porch in a lane epynomously described as "Hidden" are roughly equivalent to those of a crashed pilot encountering a small prince from another planet in the desert. I'm not saying that it should be that way, just that, honestly, it has been that way here for quite some time.

Naturally, I readied myself for a sales pitch and began developing various ways to say "No Thanks."

Cedric quietly introduced himself, explaining that he was trying to improve his life by representing a company and offering magazine subscriptions at very affordable prices. He passed me the material that he was holding for inspection, but by this time I had fully developed a response that would send him on his way, and, truly, the last thing we needed was more magazines, I honestly thought.

By the time Cedric had made it back down the driveway and out of site, three things occurred rapidly: 1. I recalled the words of the fox and the spirit of what I had just read, 2. I realized that Cedric was simply transitioning and seeking a break just like me, and 3. my wife steals New York magazine from reception areas. So, I quickly called Cedric back to the porch and asked him to sit down, while I went inside to get my checkbook (okay, so even I can't handover cash in the middle of a possibly transformative experience).

For the record, I ordered 138 issues for $76. Since I  have more than a passing knowledge of the floundering magazine industry (which explains why I was sitting  on the damn porch in the first place), I realized that New York might be defunct well before Number 138 would arrive and that, if by some miracle it should arrive, it would do so at an as yet unknown future address. But, as the fox might have said, "So what?"

My eyes had told me to make short work of this fellow intruding upon my quiet evening on the porch, while my heart told me that I had spent part of my day and many, many other recent days trying to get someone to see my true value and to take a chance on me.

May I offer some advice? Read this little book, if you must, but, more importantly, see someone today with more than your eyes. Cedric and many others would really appreciate it.

Ed Note: This is dedicated to Mr. Cedric Medearis: Bon Courage, and please try to get beyond the magazine business as soon as possible.

It Isn't Gonna Be That Way

                        "You've traveled so far, the wind in your face,

                                     you're  thinkin' you've found the one special place,

                                      where all of your dreams will walk out in line,

                                        and follow the course you've made in your mind.

                                         Well, it isn't gonna be that way...."

                                           -Steve Forbert, It Isn't Gonna Be That Way

Our lives change instantly: in the doctor's or bosses' office, on a road, in a plane, catching a train. Suddenly: "It isn't gonna be that way."

One moment you settle on the couch to watch the game, and before you can figure out that day's strike zone, your Darling Girl says,"I'm exhausted. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest, and there's a pain in my left arm." It was the elephant that did it for me.

Three strikes and you're out and getting into the car, ever so calmly headed for the Emergency Room. Except that neither one of you has brought their cell. Has it come to this, my friends? We turn around and retreat from such a race to retrieve our phones? Yes. Good thing too, as it turned out. (Advice: keep a charger in the car at all times).

                            "you're thinkin' you've found the one special place."

Here's a little secret: if you want to get fast attention at the E-Room counter, even if you've stubbed a toe, just mention your Darling Girl's severe chest and arm pain. She will find herself in the cardiac room in seconds, tied to various monitoring machines, while people in green coats stick things in her arm, on her chest, while placing nitro under her tongue. Nitro? Wasn't that the thing that was always blowing Wile E. Coyote to smithereens? No matter: she's in.

If you try this, after a while you can re-direct attention to that stubbed toe.

Or, not, as in my DG's case

                    "Where all of your dreams will walk out in line."

There are certain phrases that resonate in American culture; "heart attack" is certainly one of them, even if it's proceeded by the qualifier, "very mild." Believe me, when they say the words about your own Darling Girl/Boy, you both begin to pay attention and no longer wonder how the Yanks are doing. You've got your own strike zone to worry about.

Here's another secret: an "emergency" happens very, very slowly.  After the initial drama, long periods go by before usable information is exchanged. Extremely professional people seem to disappear for hours, although it's really just minutes. At some point, you realize that neither of you is going home anytime soon, and that you have been out-texting your eighteen-year-old daughter consistently for the very first time; small victories are good victories, no matter the circumstances. Besides, being the male of the species, you crave distraction from the crisis in front of you.

                       "And follow the course you've made in your mind."

Healthcare has become an abstraction for most of us, a series of op-ed stories or pages of billing explanations that come in the mail, which appear to be composed in esperanto. But, if you are very lucky, as we are, you might live near a hospital that looks and feels like a Four Seasons hotel, maybe even better. If you have to stay overnight, this is the place to do it. Even Congress couldn't ruin it.

Eventually, one of you has to go home, and that is a very lonely ride. You are no longer a bundle of nerves, the adrenalin has worn off, and you fall into a zone much like the "suspension of disbelief" required when viewing science fiction movies. In short, you want to be a responsible adult, but actually you are a being from another planet, a cross between a zombie and The Blob. While your DG is scared and has people attending to her, you are entering a zone you've never before inhabited. Luckily, your children realize this and just let you bobble along, while they hold your hand.

                       "you think you can live and dream your own fate."

As in Hollywood, this has a happy ending. The ambulance takes her to another hospital, led through holiday traffic by a State Trooper. The elephant is resting now, a victim of that nitro. A handsome cardiologist with a drawl immediately has her confidence and schedules a "procedure." Blockage is cleared by one "stent." And you take her home the next day. In time, she will actually be much healthier.

Sixty hours, during which you were both on hospital time, which seemed like sixty days. After you arrive home together, it seems as if only an hour has passed, since the umpire was setting his strike zone and the elephant walked into the room.

It isn't gonna be that way. But, it is going to be some way for years to come. And that, my friends, is a very good thing indeed.

Ed Note: I first listened to Steve Forbert's song in 1978 and immediately went out to buy the album/LP (above). I have been listening to it ever since, not only because it's just a good song, but because it is so painfully and, at the same time, gloriously true. Many thanks to the Greenwich Hospital E-Room staff, the Yale New Haven Hospital staff, Dr. Craig Thompson, and Barbara The Room-Mate. Health is Wealth.

Listen at,  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6XGjxjETis