- 13:01 How do people sit down and write a novel with no more planning than "this feeling I had?" An outline feels mandatory - and damn hard to do. #
- 13:03 Best part of Twitter? Random questions! RT Jenn_ex anyone know if you can get the old wonder woman tv series on dvd? #
- 14:50 How is this song 29 years old? That's insane. I miss Squeeze. ♫ blip.fm/~7c8pj #
- 14:53 "What a beautiful face I have found in this place." One of the best band names ever ... Neutral Milk Hotel. ♫ blip.fm/~7c8wr #
- 14:58 Thinking about the late Jay Bennett. Rest in peace. ♫ blip.fm/~7c97d #
- 15:04 Not a big Dylan fan, but this song finds its way right to my soul. ♫ blip.fm/~7c9il #
- 15:18 Beautiful Springsteen song and a central part of Jerry Maguire. ♫ blip.fm/~7cabs #
- 15:28 Tonight? Heading to Press, the coffeehouse at CityNorth to see my boys from @randomkarma and @champagnetap play. #
- 20:38 Just went to casino and played an hour of 23. It's like blackjack but way more expensive. #
- 22:13 Been all over the Valley tonight. As usual, ADOT sucks. Construction on 101 and 202 makes east west travel a nightmare. #
- 23:10 Time to study the inside of my eyelids. With help from Tylenol PM. #
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Twisdom for May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The Space Between Head and Heart
My latest column for the Times. Could certainly use your insight. Shoot me an email at leiboaz@gmail.com, please.
Advice columns are a dime a dozen, you'll doubtless agree. And they're deadly boring, mostly because Dear So and So never gives the useful advice you'd offer if only someone paid you scads of cash to advise those in unrelenting agony over the unfairness of life.
For example, here's how Dear Abby would read if I'd been given the assignment.
Me, I believe there's wisdom in the multitudes, in having the minds of many solving the problems of one. You know, like those meetings you get sucked into at work, where 11 people sit around the big table crunching on Baked Lays and swilling Diet Cokes for an hour, "brainstorming" as a group until "the team" comes up with a workable solution?
Okay, you're right. Bad example. Those meetings inevitably suck. But I believe the principle of many helping one is sound and capable of giving birth to a new kind of advice column, a screed where (drum roll, please) …
You solve my problems!
Lucky for you people my whole life can be whittled down to precisely one problem, one pesky dilemma that has stood between me and happiness for a solid four decades now. And because I believe this problem is shared the world over, I'm willing to put it out there in all its glory, to see if you readers can solve it where the likes of Abby and Ann and Dr. Phil would surely fail.
Get your thinking caps on, because here goes.
Like I said, I know I'm not alone in this feeling, since I witness the same battle in others on an almost hourly basis. The examples are endless: The dieter who knows carrot cake is wrong, but cannot ward off the craving for a mouthful of frosting. The husband who knows that a stolen kiss – or worse – is cheating, but who gives in to the adrenalin of a momentary thrill. The drunk, the gambler, the addict, who knows down to the marrow that they're destroying their life, that they need help, that one more time is one more time too many, and yet fails to beat back their emotional demons, those feelings that say "yes" even when they know that "no" is the only acceptable answer.
Why do I see this conflict as essential, as the one battle that every thinking human being fights day after day?
Mostly because of how I define achieving maturity in a grown adult: It's owning the ability to consistently do what's necessary and what's right, even when that course of action is the last thing on Earth one feels like doing.
Not sure where you stand on having that ability, but me, I'd give myself a hard-earned B-minus. Hence, the need to put the question the masses. Besides believing in continually trying to grow up, I also believe in the wisdom of the many, the power of well-meaning folks around you to provide some insight you'd never glean on your own.
So have at it. Send me an answer at leiboaz@gmail.com. Doesn't matter what it is, only that you truly believe in it. I promise to print the best answers ASAP – and to do my best to take the best advice. Peace.
Advice columns are a dime a dozen, you'll doubtless agree. And they're deadly boring, mostly because Dear So and So never gives the useful advice you'd offer if only someone paid you scads of cash to advise those in unrelenting agony over the unfairness of life.
For example, here's how Dear Abby would read if I'd been given the assignment.
DEAR ABBY: I'm a 56-year-old man with a lifelong dilemma – I was born on Christmas Day. Yep, December 25th. For my whole life, year after year, my birthday has always been second banana, and, worse yet, I get cheated on gifts because my friends and family double up. Recently, I've decided to move my annual celebration to June 25th, which is my half birthday. My wife and nine kids say I'm being petty. What do you think? Sign me … TIRED OF SHARING A BIRTHDAY WITH JESUSAdmittedly, my column wouldn’t be renowned for its compassion and fellow feeling, but it would be entertaining as all get out. And it would solve one of the big problems with advice columns: They're boring as hell. The trouble is, my approach wouldn't solve the other problem I have with advice columns: The fact that their perspective is so narrow. Personally, I don’t want my problems solved by one middle-aged lady from Illinois. Nor do I want to go on TV and have my issues dealt with by an old white guy with a porn mustache and a voice that sounds like Huckleberry Hound.
DEAR TIRED: Shut up. No one likes a whiner.
Me, I believe there's wisdom in the multitudes, in having the minds of many solving the problems of one. You know, like those meetings you get sucked into at work, where 11 people sit around the big table crunching on Baked Lays and swilling Diet Cokes for an hour, "brainstorming" as a group until "the team" comes up with a workable solution?
Okay, you're right. Bad example. Those meetings inevitably suck. But I believe the principle of many helping one is sound and capable of giving birth to a new kind of advice column, a screed where (drum roll, please) …
You solve my problems!
Lucky for you people my whole life can be whittled down to precisely one problem, one pesky dilemma that has stood between me and happiness for a solid four decades now. And because I believe this problem is shared the world over, I'm willing to put it out there in all its glory, to see if you readers can solve it where the likes of Abby and Ann and Dr. Phil would surely fail.
Get your thinking caps on, because here goes.
DEAR READERS: I'm a 44-year-old man who's caught between two warring entities. On one side, there's my mind, my personal mental hard drive, storage system for facts and lessons and logic. It's home to everything I know. Standing opposed? That would be my heart, domicile of my emotions, home to joy and fear, love and guilt, and everything else I feel from one minute to the next.
They never seem to agree, these two. Doesn’t matter if I'm talking about staying on a diet, asking a woman out on a date, balancing the need to save money with the desire to shop, or getting out of bed to go to work on a Monday morning. My life very much resembles a perpetual standoff between mental Israel vs. emotional Palestine. My brain has a plan, a path to the right thing to do, meanwhile my heart has a set of feelings and wants that don't seem to subscribe to the mind's logic.
The question: How do you bring the two into balance? How do you get them to agree? Sign me, ONE CONFLICTED SOUL AMONG MANY.
Like I said, I know I'm not alone in this feeling, since I witness the same battle in others on an almost hourly basis. The examples are endless: The dieter who knows carrot cake is wrong, but cannot ward off the craving for a mouthful of frosting. The husband who knows that a stolen kiss – or worse – is cheating, but who gives in to the adrenalin of a momentary thrill. The drunk, the gambler, the addict, who knows down to the marrow that they're destroying their life, that they need help, that one more time is one more time too many, and yet fails to beat back their emotional demons, those feelings that say "yes" even when they know that "no" is the only acceptable answer.
Why do I see this conflict as essential, as the one battle that every thinking human being fights day after day?
Mostly because of how I define achieving maturity in a grown adult: It's owning the ability to consistently do what's necessary and what's right, even when that course of action is the last thing on Earth one feels like doing.
Not sure where you stand on having that ability, but me, I'd give myself a hard-earned B-minus. Hence, the need to put the question the masses. Besides believing in continually trying to grow up, I also believe in the wisdom of the many, the power of well-meaning folks around you to provide some insight you'd never glean on your own.
So have at it. Send me an answer at leiboaz@gmail.com. Doesn't matter what it is, only that you truly believe in it. I promise to print the best answers ASAP – and to do my best to take the best advice. Peace.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Pretty @#^%$#@ing Cool ...
I've been darn lucky to win a bunch of journalism awards over the past 15 years and last week I got one more, from the Arizona Press Club. Frankly, I got excited about this one, because these days writing columns is more a hobby and less a job. I don't do it for the money, but more to have the feeling of people reading it.
Anyway, a bunch of folks have asked me which column won. Here it is, from the December 2008 Scottsdale Times:
Every so often, you witness one of life's transcendent moments, a sublime sliver of eternity. False pretenses fall away and the true essence of Man reveals itself for all to see. For yours truly, this happened a few days ago at my local Bank of America ATM.
The scene? Early on a Saturday, inside Fry's grocery. A long line of sad-faced bank customers stand by to transact their meager financial business. A man in saggy sweatpants steps to the automated teller. He inserts his card, fingers the touchscreen. And then, madness erupts:
"#^&@*%+#$@!" screams Mr. Sweats. And again: "Un-%$^%#^@-ing believable. $%^#@#!&^. ##%$^*^#. I can’t believe the (anatomical reference deleted) on these people."
I'll spare you the finer points of this diatribe, Dear Reader, except to say that there apparently had been a hold placed on a deposited check and some disappointment regarding our hero's available checking balance. That's really not important, though, because here our story takes a surprising turn.
"Watch your mouth," urged a 20-something Good Samaritan standing in line. "There are women around."
To say that Mr. Sweats took umbrage at this warning would be putting it too mildly – by about half. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, $#$@@$% 'em. And %#&^# you too. ^$^%&#$ all of you."
The gents' debate continued like this for some time, and it was riveting stuff, with threats of mayhem that would have made the Al Qaeda network proud. But the highlight of it all, the reason for this column, came courtesy of a white-haired lady spectator, a "call Central Casting and have em' send down a grandma" sort of woman, 75 years old at least, with a purse the size of the Blarney Stone slung over her arm.
Says Granny: "Why don't you both shut the $%%#^ up?"
There was laughter and even a smattering of light applause. Me, I would have high-fived the lady, but (a) I was worried I'd break her arm, and (b) I was caught in the throes of an epiphany.
Profanity really gets a bum rap in this country. That was my startling realization. For all the talk of swearing degrading the English language, of curse words being the last refuge of the unimaginative, sometimes a well-timed @#^%$#@ is exactly what's necessary.
Minus the foul language, Granny's line simply wouldn't have been funny. Nor can I imagine checking the Dow these days without having a full of arsenal of swear words at my disposal. I'll defer to no less an authority than Mark Twain here:
"Under certain circumstances," Twain is credited with saying, "profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."
Hey, who am I to disagree with the author of Huck Finn? Plus, as anyone who's ever watched Shaquille O'Neal shoot foul shots or the Arizona Cardinals blow a fourth quarter lead will attest, sometimes Shakespearean prose simply doesn't do a tragedy justice.
Speaking of sports, I can't believe – in a world where cable TV and satellite radio are rapidly becoming king – that no network has unveiled an R-rated play-by-play broadcast hardcore fans could pay extra to enjoy. Think about it: The Suns are playing the Spurs in the playoffs and Tim Duncan drains an improbable three-pointer to kill our hopes of a championship.
On one network, you have Al McCoy holding forth: "Heartbreak hotel, Suns fans. That's a tough loss for your Phoenix Suns."
On the other channel, you have a guy saying what Al is surely thinking anyway: "Are you, ##$%^^@ing kidding me? What kind of #$#%$^ is that? Sweet sassy molassey, that's the most $^@!$%& ridiculous shot I've seen in my #@$%^& life. God, I $%$^&* hate the Spurs."
That's what it sounds like at my house, I promise you.
Besides language more accurately reflecting the real world, swearing has another potential upside – uniting us at work. I kid you not. A 2007 British study published in the Leadership and Organization Development Journal claims as much. According to Professor Yehuda Baruch, profanity not only cuts down on job-related anxiety, it also knits together colleagues.
"For some people, the use of profanity is a way to create collegiality," Baruch told ABC News. "For others, it's a way to relieve stress. …This is a message to managers. When people feel better, the group feels better. It's a win-win situation."
What else is there for me to say except to utter a hearty "@#!&*^ yeah?"
Besides, swearing can also be very profitable. Witness the case of Dawn Herb, a mother of four who hails from Scranton, Pa. Last October, Herb, 33, began cursing a blue streak at an overflowing toilet in her home. Little did Herb know that her neighbor, an off-duty Scranton cop by the name of Patrick Gilman, could hear her through the open bathroom window. A verbal cursefest ensued – not unlike my ATM debacle – except this one ended up with Herb arrested for disorderly conduct.
For a while, she was facing 90 days in jail and a $300 fine. Then the ACLU got involved, a judge found Herb not guilty and threats of a lawsuit for false arrest began to fly. The net result? Last month, the city of Scranton settled and paid Herb $19,000 for her trouble.
Is that crazy? Absolutely. ##%^ crazy. But in the final analysis I have to agree with one of Herb's attorneys, an ACLU staff lawyer named Valerie Burch.
"What may be profanity to some is poetry to others," she said via press release. "Both are constitutionally protected expression and the police can't charge people for either."
Charge people? Heck, nowadays they actually pay people to curse.
The judge's take on the above? “Leibowitz does what only great humorists do: takes one small incident and builds an entire story around it, complete with a laugh-out-loud line involving a granny who fights fire with fire. Excellent!”
Anyway, a bunch of folks have asked me which column won. Here it is, from the December 2008 Scottsdale Times:
Every so often, you witness one of life's transcendent moments, a sublime sliver of eternity. False pretenses fall away and the true essence of Man reveals itself for all to see. For yours truly, this happened a few days ago at my local Bank of America ATM.
The scene? Early on a Saturday, inside Fry's grocery. A long line of sad-faced bank customers stand by to transact their meager financial business. A man in saggy sweatpants steps to the automated teller. He inserts his card, fingers the touchscreen. And then, madness erupts:
"#^&@*%+#$@!" screams Mr. Sweats. And again: "Un-%$^%#^@-ing believable. $%^#@#!&^. ##%$^*^#. I can’t believe the (anatomical reference deleted) on these people."
I'll spare you the finer points of this diatribe, Dear Reader, except to say that there apparently had been a hold placed on a deposited check and some disappointment regarding our hero's available checking balance. That's really not important, though, because here our story takes a surprising turn.
"Watch your mouth," urged a 20-something Good Samaritan standing in line. "There are women around."
To say that Mr. Sweats took umbrage at this warning would be putting it too mildly – by about half. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, $#$@@$% 'em. And %#&^# you too. ^$^%&#$ all of you."
The gents' debate continued like this for some time, and it was riveting stuff, with threats of mayhem that would have made the Al Qaeda network proud. But the highlight of it all, the reason for this column, came courtesy of a white-haired lady spectator, a "call Central Casting and have em' send down a grandma" sort of woman, 75 years old at least, with a purse the size of the Blarney Stone slung over her arm.
Says Granny: "Why don't you both shut the $%%#^ up?"
There was laughter and even a smattering of light applause. Me, I would have high-fived the lady, but (a) I was worried I'd break her arm, and (b) I was caught in the throes of an epiphany.
Profanity really gets a bum rap in this country. That was my startling realization. For all the talk of swearing degrading the English language, of curse words being the last refuge of the unimaginative, sometimes a well-timed @#^%$#@ is exactly what's necessary.
Minus the foul language, Granny's line simply wouldn't have been funny. Nor can I imagine checking the Dow these days without having a full of arsenal of swear words at my disposal. I'll defer to no less an authority than Mark Twain here:
"Under certain circumstances," Twain is credited with saying, "profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."
Hey, who am I to disagree with the author of Huck Finn? Plus, as anyone who's ever watched Shaquille O'Neal shoot foul shots or the Arizona Cardinals blow a fourth quarter lead will attest, sometimes Shakespearean prose simply doesn't do a tragedy justice.
Speaking of sports, I can't believe – in a world where cable TV and satellite radio are rapidly becoming king – that no network has unveiled an R-rated play-by-play broadcast hardcore fans could pay extra to enjoy. Think about it: The Suns are playing the Spurs in the playoffs and Tim Duncan drains an improbable three-pointer to kill our hopes of a championship.
On one network, you have Al McCoy holding forth: "Heartbreak hotel, Suns fans. That's a tough loss for your Phoenix Suns."
On the other channel, you have a guy saying what Al is surely thinking anyway: "Are you, ##$%^^@ing kidding me? What kind of #$#%$^ is that? Sweet sassy molassey, that's the most $^@!$%& ridiculous shot I've seen in my #@$%^& life. God, I $%$^&* hate the Spurs."
That's what it sounds like at my house, I promise you.
Besides language more accurately reflecting the real world, swearing has another potential upside – uniting us at work. I kid you not. A 2007 British study published in the Leadership and Organization Development Journal claims as much. According to Professor Yehuda Baruch, profanity not only cuts down on job-related anxiety, it also knits together colleagues.
"For some people, the use of profanity is a way to create collegiality," Baruch told ABC News. "For others, it's a way to relieve stress. …This is a message to managers. When people feel better, the group feels better. It's a win-win situation."
What else is there for me to say except to utter a hearty "@#!&*^ yeah?"
Besides, swearing can also be very profitable. Witness the case of Dawn Herb, a mother of four who hails from Scranton, Pa. Last October, Herb, 33, began cursing a blue streak at an overflowing toilet in her home. Little did Herb know that her neighbor, an off-duty Scranton cop by the name of Patrick Gilman, could hear her through the open bathroom window. A verbal cursefest ensued – not unlike my ATM debacle – except this one ended up with Herb arrested for disorderly conduct.
For a while, she was facing 90 days in jail and a $300 fine. Then the ACLU got involved, a judge found Herb not guilty and threats of a lawsuit for false arrest began to fly. The net result? Last month, the city of Scranton settled and paid Herb $19,000 for her trouble.
Is that crazy? Absolutely. ##%^ crazy. But in the final analysis I have to agree with one of Herb's attorneys, an ACLU staff lawyer named Valerie Burch.
"What may be profanity to some is poetry to others," she said via press release. "Both are constitutionally protected expression and the police can't charge people for either."
Charge people? Heck, nowadays they actually pay people to curse.
The judge's take on the above? “Leibowitz does what only great humorists do: takes one small incident and builds an entire story around it, complete with a laugh-out-loud line involving a granny who fights fire with fire. Excellent!”
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Vacation Twisdom, May 4, 2009 (Special Florida Edition)
Notes from the beach and other South Florida locales ...
dl
- 06:26 Is it sad that I wake up and immediately grab my iPhone for an email/social media inventory ... while on vacation? #
- 06:41 Look at it this way: There's only one Monday morning each week. And it'll be over soon. #
- 07:32 If an awesome meal generates "food porn," then this beachside cafe breakfast is a "food snuff film." Ocean's gorgeous though. #
- 07:45 The Atlantic Ocean says it loves Monday morning. yfrog.com/08qrcj #
- 08:18 The need for perfection can be perfect hell. #
- 11:16 Haircut on vacation. Good idea. Meeting lonely Haitian barber named Edwidge. Swell. Looking like I'm in the midst of chemo. Priceless. #
- 13:35 After nearly 48 hours in Florida, I give up. Catching pm flight home tomorrow. Saw parents, pals. That's enough for me. #
- 19:00 Love the crowd shots in Boston. Lots of fat, grimacing Celts fans. #
- 21:31 Craig Sager. Master of the Reportorial Obvious and the Sartorial Hideous. #
dl
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