But, However, Still ...

Without question, the largest looming issue in my current bi-coastal quandary is connected to my Act Three friendships. Because much as I want to witness every milestone in my new grandson's California life, leaving behind the friends I've made since 2010 is an unpleasant prospect.  

It would also be difficult leaving immediate family left here on the East Coast, but with one sister and three nieces already spread across the U.S., I've had years to cope with that reality. Now, with fewer years in front of me than behind, it's unsettling to envision day-to-day life without regular interaction with my newest tribe.  

Would I make new friends? Of course. How? Likely via some of the same techniques used when I moved here sixteen years ago. I'd join - or start - a book group or two. I'd volunteer, get involved with a local activist group, find people who enjoy hiking or being outdoors. My wife would try to connect with folks who love gardening and I'd try to locate musicians and other aspiring writers. One of the upsides to the Internet is how easy it can be now to connect with people that have similar interests. And staying in touch is also much easier than it used to be.  

But, however, still ... 

Troubled by a Question

"Since death is certain, but the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing?" - Pema Chodron

That formulation and provocative question have been on my mind for some time now. Perhaps the word "most" is what continues to bedevil me. How to be that specific? 

I recall when first stumbling across Chodron's words - used as the epigraph for a wise novel I was reading at the time - my reflexive answer to her question was family.  I suspect many people would say the same, don't you? But over the ensuing months, as I carefully examined how I often choose to spend my time, my answer started feeling less authentic. The chasm separating reflex and reality steadily grew, accompanied by a lingering unease.  

Today began uneventfully. Then, while still trying to find my rhythm, that question returned full bore and I wondered: Who am I if family is not the answer? The rest of today? Best not to dwell on that. 

 

To the Class of 2026

Invited to deliver a commencement address, what do you think would be most valuable to say to graduating college seniors in 2026?

My address will emphasize the three bullets below. The complete text is ready to be delivered the moment Harvard invites me. I decided not to include the full form here for two reasons. First, it keeps the post to a manageable and likely-to-be-read-in-full length. Second, years of studying and teaching public speaking have consistently reinforced for me the "power of three". No need to adhere to this arbitrary guideline when you comment. 

* Be kind. 

* Put down your phone regularly. 

* Before repeating or further publicizing something you read on the Internet, heard in a podcast, or learned of via social media, take some time to verify its accuracy.

Full Harvard-ready text available upon request. 

       

Resetting the Bar

No point being indirect. A Flower Traveled in My Blood (2025) is the best non-fiction book I've finished so far this year as well as being one of the best of its type that I've ever read. 

Subtitled The Incredible True Story of Grandmothers Who Fought to Find a Stolen Generation of Children, author Haley Cohen Gilliland expertly tells this riveting tale without sentiment or flourish. I guarantee the indefatigable grit of this group of Argentinian women will move and inspire you in equal measure. I was never out of the spell. The last time I can recall being as intensely involved in a book like this was while reading Patrick Radden Keefe's account of the troubles in Northern Ireland in Say Nothing (2018).

Earlier today as I finished Gilliland's tour-de-force, thoughts I'd entertained about extolling a different worthwhile book of non-fiction in my next blog post were immediately scuttled. For me, this book reset the bar. When my club discusses it at our July meeting, it will be difficult to stay in my usual role of neutral moderator. A Flower Traveled in My Blood is a home run.

Reflections from the Bell Curve: 2nd Attempt To Capture The Sports Market

The Whole "Work in Progress" Bit

Let's face it. When it comes to the whole "work in progress" bit, some of us have further to go than others. 

Although on some days that cliched expression fits how I'm feeling about my personal growth, on other days it feels like a cozy rationalization I'm using to excuse redundant bad behavior. For me, the one surefire way I've found to stay on the path to wholeness is to be sure I consistently surround myself with grounded people. People more concerned about being kind than they are about being right. People that strike me as having a solid core of decency and grace. People who - by the everyday example they set - bring me joy. 

The other people? That depends on the kind of day I'm having. Some days I can better tolerate people who remind me of myself on my worst days because it's encouraging to see - by comparison - that I have grown, at least a little. Other days I'm far less patient with those vexing spirits and have to catch myself from responding in kind to their judgmental statements, anger, or reflexive cynicism. And responding that way is an easy trap for me to fall into with my own temperamental tendency to judge as well as to anger easily.

In a recent conversation with a gentle soul who soothes me every time I hike with him - one of those folks from the second paragraph above - I stumbled across a re-framing insight about that work in progress trope. Rather than automatically resorting to a judging label for folks who trigger me - those referenced in the third paragraph, people I normally try to avoid - I've landed on a new strategy for those encounters. I'll try to remember that those folks need to do more work. This seems fair, given how far I've got to go on my journey.         

A Tale of Complete Trust & Faulty Memory

Reflections from the Bell Curve: #16: The Mt. Rushmore Series

When I published the post above in October 2013, I'd seen Fargo once - with my wife - not long after its 1996 release, eighteen years into our lifelong partnership. What follows is a brief tale of complete trust and faulty memory.   

From 1996-2013 my wife had repeatedly quoted a line of dialogue from the Coen Brothers' modern-day masterpiece. She'd said this line over and over with such total certainty that as I finished constructing Mt. Rushmore #16 - without first verifying - I decided to use "Whatcha got in the chippa?" as the last entry of four in that post. Such was my confidence that sheriff Frances McDormand said those exact words to homicidal Peter Stormare that I used the verb "deadpan" in my post describing McDormand's delivery. I'd heard my wife say the words so often I could hear McDormand while composing that post thirteen years ago. (BTW, those of you who have seen Fargo will readily recall Stormare's nearly mute psychopath, perhaps the creepiest creep the Coen Brothers have ever conjured, and those two twisted minds have conjured a memorable slew of them over their long film career.) 

Fast forward to several nights back, my first re-watch of Fargo. As the gruesome scene near the end of the movie unfolded, imagine my surprise as McDormand confronts Stormare, blood spewing from the woodchipper - Steve Buscemi's remains - and says nothing remotely similar to that line I'd used in my Mt. Rushmore. Before that re-watch I would have bet anyone McDormand asks Stormare "Whatcha got in the chippa?" Indeed, I would've gone to my grave swearing these were the exact words used. Over the years, I myself had repeated that line to others in different contexts, sure beyond any doubt that McDormand had said it. Such is what complete trust - and thirty years (1996-2026) of both hearing and repeating a line of non-existent dialogue - can do. 

Call this our married version of "Play it again, Sam." Except, Ingrid Bergman says those four words - just not in that exact order - speaking to Dooley Wilson in Casablanca. McDormand does say woodchipper - in the penultimate scene in her police car - but none of the rest. She doesn't deadpan at all; that was my invention. But under oath, I would've sworn differently.      

Skip This List

Though any "greatest" list is inherently subjective based on who is compiling it, to have even a scintilla of credibility, isn't it fair to ask that the compiler(s) has actually toiled in the field - just a little - especially when their list is likely to be widely read, like one published in say, the New York Times? In other words, doesn't any list of "greatest" authors or "greatest" filmmakers or "greatest" plumbers - no matter how subjective - carry more weight when created by someone who has actually written a book, made a film, fixed a toilet? 

In early May, I was excited when a good friend brought to my attention a Times piece called The Thirty Greatest Living American Songwriters. If anyone cares to know how much this travesty incensed me, contact my wife, who suggested medication as my rant approached an hour in length. Is apoplectic an exaggeration? I think not. I have not included here a link for this absurd piece of music journalism lest you waste precious time reading it.

But I did research each of the six contributors to see which of their songs I'd heard. Guesses anyone? And then - to help calm myself down - I listened carefully to Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel) for perhaps the thousandth time. While reveling in the artistry of Billy Joel's modern-day masterpiece, I briefly considered writing a letter to the Times editor, a suggestion my wife made to me somewhere around the thirty-minute mark in my toot. After deciding not to waste my time, I calmed down some more by listening to These Days and By the Time I Get to Phoenix. I knew I'd get around to writing a blog post about the garbage I'd just read but wanted to wait for a clear head. Two + weeks listening to songs by the three most egregiously overlooked songwriters from this insulting list was the perfect recipe for soothing my raging beast. I also listened to some stuff by the songwriters unfamiliar to me from that same list. Before I write of that experience, more calming down is required. Stay tuned and caveat emptor.       

Here's the thing: If you've never spent time carefully analyzing the songwriting craft of the two compositions mentioned above by Jackson Browne and Jim Webb respectively - putting aside the massive, consistent body of work both of them and Billy Joel have produced over the past fifty years - you can't call yourself a reputable music critic. Just try and create something as majestic as any of those three songs, Mr. or Ms. New York Times contributor. I'm waiting. 

Conversational Ping-Pong

"Only connect." - E.M. Forster

Few things get me as reliably juiced as conversational ping-pong. When did this most recently happen to you?

You feel heard even though the back-and-forth between you and the other person is rapid and nonstop. You bounce from subject to subject, but the conversation somehow remains focused. Your energy and attention never flag. You don't want it to end.

Sometimes I walk away from these one-on-one encounters with books to read, movies to watch (or re-watch), or music to listen to. More often, I de-brief the experience via writing; I desperately want to retain the buzz these moments of intense connection deliver and writing about them seems to help with that.  

But even if no books, films, music, or writing spring from an instance of conversational ping-pong, one thing is guaranteed. I look forward to the next time.