Coffee with Milo

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A cup of coffee with a friend and a few strangers was a wonderful start to a great day not long ago.

—–

I’d like to say Hello to Randy Fowler. On Friday mornings he’s in his car on his way to the Restaurant Five in downtown Tuscaloosa with his dog Milo. He’s a regular listener to these commentaries and he reached out to me a few years ago when he liked one to offer a compliment. Turns out Randy’s daughter, Julie Otts, lives a few doors down from me here in Mobile. It’s a small world. Randy and I have visited a few times when he’s in town to visit his daughter, son-in-law, and grandkids.

Several weeks ago, I was in Tuscaloosa for my son’s Bama Bound orientation and Randy invited me to join him and Milo for coffee with his regular crowd one morning at Restaurant Five. I was welcomed as one of their own. We sat, we talked, we drank coffee, and watched all the dogs interact. These old friends have been meeting for coffee for years. They offered greetings to each other, shared inside jokes and laughs. They were wonderfully kind to me and invited me back whenever I’m in town.

That morning, as I waited for Randy to arrive, a very tall man walked past with a coffee and a doughnut and he stopped to talk. He was in town with his son, Grant Nelson, to meet with the Alabama basketball team. He was Nels Nelson. Randy arrived, invited Nels to join us for coffee and Nels did, sharing what life was like in his hometown of Devils Lake, North Dakota. We talked cold weather, the near-by Canadian border in Devi’s Lake, and buffalo. We talked javelin since another of Nel’s sons was a collegiate thrower and my son and Randy’s grandson also throw. Nels, like me, was genuinely appreciative of the warmness Randy and his coffee-drinking friends at Restaurant Five showed him. I’m sure Nels got back to the hotel and told his son – “It’s gotta be Alabama, boy. You gotta play here. It’s simply too friendly to believe. I’m coming back to just have coffee with these people, ya know.”

We were all told as children to not talk to strangers. That’s simply bad advice. Talking to strangers is one of life’s most sure-fire ways of making it a great day. However, it often goes against our inclinations. We worry about improbable outcomes. We misuse our imagination. We think, I don’t know them. What if they don’t like me? What if they don’t want to talk to me? What if they offend me? What if I offend them?

And my reply to all that junk? Who cares? So what. The risk is worth the reward and do you have to lose? Most people are much nicer than we imagine them to be. Our brains, our leaders, our media, whoever, wants us to think that everybody’s out to get us. They’re not. They’re absolutely not. It’s untrue.

Introduce yourself. React kindly to a stranger’s introduction. Find someone new to talk to. You’ll live longer. You’ll be happier. You’ll be glad you did. And you’ll have a great day.

Thanks again for the coffee, Randy, I still remember it. I’ll see you and Milo when I return in the fall.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Tinkle Bell

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I have an idea for a business. Make up words customers can’t understand then upcharge 75%.

—–

I think our dog is constipated. She rung her tinkle bell early early in the morning to go outside and she just roamed around the yard in a hurry with her nose down. I have no idea if this is what a constipated dog looks like. I’m assuming that’s her issue. She appears to want to do something but…can’t.

The tinkle bell hangs next to the back door. The dog rings it with her nose when she needs to go out. In the wee hours my wife or I stand bleary-eyed in the door waiting for her to do her business in the bushes. The dog’s been trained, Lucy is her name, by the way. Lucy’s been trained to ring the bell then do her business in the bushes, not in the yard. It took about six months of my wife demonstrating this process for Lucy for Lucy to finally catch on about what to do and where to do it. Those six months, by the way, were quite awkward with the neighbors, as you can imagine.

None of this would matter so much if I weren’t so very tired. I had my stroke about three months ago and it feels like every doctor in town has sensed an opportunity to run a test and send me an invoice. Yesterday at the doctor’s office the check-in document asked, “what are you here for?” I wrote, “something to do with taking a picture of the back of my heart through my throat.” Of course, there’s an official title for this test using a big giant series of important sounding words but I’ll get to that in a moment.

In a shocking example of a customer service failure, when I was called to the front desk the attendant had her very large computer screen turned with its back squarely facing me. I couldn’t even see her. My first encounter with a human in a place I didn’t want to be was not with a human, it was with the back of a computer screen with a disembodied voice somewhere on the other side. It was so shocking I took pictures of it on my phone. It was clear the computer screen was much more important than the patient. No reason to actually see me, or welcome me, or smile at me, or make eye contact which took me from not wanting to be there to angry about being there.

Anyway, the drug they used to sedate me was milky white. I asked about it when I saw it in the syringe. They said, “It’s white because it’s lipid based.” What? If I ever start a new business, it will be one using words and providing explanations that mean nothing to the customers. Businesses that use their own language can charge more than businesses where customers actually understand answers to their questions. I’ll create a business, use some Latin-sounding words, drop them into customer conversations, and upcharge at least seventy five percent.

Anyway, the sedation lingered all day and at eight PM I fell into bed exhausted. Until the tinkle bell began ringing and I wished my wife had demonstrated for Lucy how to hold it.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Rahhhl Tihhhde, Y’all!

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My wife and I were at Bama Bound this week for my son’s college orientation.

—–

I am oriented. It’s official. My wife, my son, and I spent a day and a half in Tuscaloosa this week at Bama Bound – the school’s orientation for students and parents. Roll Tide! Or as my wife says “Rowl Tihhhdee, yall”. We heard a lot of that these past few days. I attended out of curiosity to see what a parent’s college orientation includes. Here’s my review. And since this commentary broadcasts from the University of Alabama, if you’re hearing it, it cleared the censors:

First, the director of campus security assured us there are many ways our cherub-like son could get arrested. He listed them all. There is no shortage. One included domestic violence from parents and children fist fighting on move-in day due to disagreements over dorm décor. Apparently, it’s happened. I’ll need to remember that in August when we move him in.

Next, there are 687 different student organizations including ones for watching Disney movies together and another made up of guys who gather solely to discuss trucks. “Rahwl Tidde.”

At one point in the business school session with my son, I suggested that this degree sure sounds like a lot of work and maybe we should just go to the book store buy a degree. He shook his head. Rolled his eyes.

I learned I must get my son’s permission to see his grades and to see where he’s spending our money. As the parent, the bill payer, the bailer-outer, the “hey, what’s going at school-er”, I’m not allowed to see his grades or how our money is being spent without his permission due to privacy laws.

In a parent’s only session, we had a group of students there to take any random questions we had. The room had some super-moms and Karens and some super-dads and we’ll call them Darrens. Super Karens and Super Darrens ran the show. They asked questions that I had never considered. We had to cut the session short. Suffice it to say that there are parents leaving no part of their children’s college experience for the children to enjoy or figure out on their own.

There is a part of me that wants to know where my son is and what he’s doing when he heads off to Tuscaloosa in August. There is another part that wants him to discover much of it on his own. For him to solve some problems and tell me about them when he comes home. So, somewhere between knowing everything and knowing nothing may be the Goldilocks zone. May be just right.

Leaving the event I stopped in the campus bookstore. There is nothing on God’s green planet that cannot be branded with an Alabama logo. At the register in a big cardboard bin were blank diplomas and a Sharpie marker. I’m now have a Doctorate in Average Parenting and he has a double MBA with a concentration in College Football. All for forty bucks. I’m going to display mine in my office and hold his until he gets that other degree in, I hope, four-ish years. 

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just Keepin’ It Real. Rahl Tyde!

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Gettin’ Out of the Funk

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I had a tough day the other day. Thankfully, I know a recipe that gets me out of them.

—–

My eighteen-year-old son is headed to Tuscaloosa next week for his Bama Bound orientation. My wife and I are going, too. I’m wondering why the parents need a college orientation so I’m tagging along. It’s about a day and a half worth of stuff. As a student, my Tulane orientation was this: “Don’t mess with the New Orleans police department during Mardi Gras,” some guy said from the stage, “or you’ll likely never be heard from again. Good luck at college. Don’t forget to study.”

Thursday my oldest daughter left for a month abroad as a part of her college studies. We dropped my youngest daughter off at Camp Mac near Talladega this week where she’s now a worker – she’s a counselor in training. We are paying for her to be there to work, by the way.

She and her twin brother turned sixteen on Tuesday. Long ago in a moment of parenting bravado, my wife and I promised our four kids we’d help them buy a used car when they turned sixteen, but they’d have to save a good bit on their own and we’d be a multiplier for whatever they saved. Today we are on the hook for two cars.

Suffice it to say it’s quite expensive around here right now. I knew these days were coming and…they’re here. However, there are moments of doubt when I wonder how this is all going to work, how it’s all going to get paid for and I get, well, a bit anxious.

And I’m certain there is no parent that hasn’t experienced something similar. Regardless of the size of the family or the size of the income, parents wonder how they’ll make ends meet. My father sure did. He’d walk through the back door of the house at the end of his workday and we’d ask how his day was and he’d say, “slow” with an uncertain look on his face. Standing in front of him was my mother, my two young brothers and me. Mouths to feed. Clothes to buy. College tuitions.

And I had one of those moments this week. In times past those moments immobilized me, but trial and error has taught me a recipe for getting through them. The key is to recognize what’s happening and get started on the recipe.

First, I remind myself that I have a perfect record for getting through difficult days. I’ve had many before and yet here I am. One hundred percent perfect record. Two, I need to get outside. Something about being outside. I can’t explain it. Three, I need to do some exercise. Any exercise. Get the blood pumping. And at this point I usually feel the stress dissipating. Four, have a good conversation with someone. Anyone. It gets the focus off of me and gets me out of my head. And five, reread the good books and relisten to the good stories. I just jump in and out of the books and stories randomly to remind myself of the messages. And I did all of this. Every bit of it earlier this week. And it worked. It usually does.

I love my recipe. I hate that I have to use it. But I gotta be honest, thank goodness it’s there.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Blessed

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Some social media posts have been gettin’ to me a bit…

—–

The caption read “blessed.” The social media posts were of a woman surrounded by her friends wearing designer clothes. Another of her on a private plane drinking champagne with friends. And another sitting in a suite with friends at a world-famous event. Perfect hair. Perfect teeth.

Blessed, it read.

Blessed? Really? I think what she meant was “More blessed than you.” Or maybe she misspelled blessed and it should read “Boast.” When Christians want people to see how well they’re doing, they post a “humble brag.” I think the new alternative to the “humble brag” is the “blessed boast” and social media is where it happens.

Social media is where self esteem goes to die. It’s where comparison happens constantly and comparison has always been the thief of joy. And if you want to feed from a comparison trough, social media is the place for it. It takes some wisdom and maturity to keep comparison from destroying self-esteem. Most young kids don’t have it. Heck, there are many days I’m not sure I do, either.

And before you argue, social media has its good points, too. Anyone looking on Facebook on their birthday knows what I mean.

But the blessed boasts get me. They’re never pictures of someone blessed to simply not be dead. Or blessed to be able to build wonderful things. Or blessed to be able to comfort those who are suffering. Or blessed to be able to make a donation that will help out the less fortunate. On social media, they’re always blessed to be in a first-class seat. Or blessed to be wearing a Rolex. Or blessed to own a nice new car. Here’s the recipe: Take a photo of yourself with things or doing things only the top one percent of society can access then hide behind God and your oh-so humble spirituality by captioning it with “blessed.” I’m pretty doggone sure God spits or throws a lightning bolt in disgust when he sees blessed boasts.

The way I understand it, the spiritual gifts we’ve been given, our “blessings”, are our unique talents and skills from our creator, if you believe such things and I do. Once we discover these talents and skills we are to use them to serve our creator and others. Our blessings are talents given to us to use for the betterment of one another. People who know this, and do this, are, in my experience, universally happier than the rest of us. They’ve found their calling and through their calling they are a blessing to us all. Blessing are not and have never been things.

I don’t mind the photos of my friends with fantastic items or doing fantastic things. But let’s be honest and caption the photos accordingly. How about “Oh my goodness. What a day. How did I get here? How lucky am I?” Or “I don’t have as many friends as the picture suggests but it’s a great day and I’m having a ball.” Are you blessed? Maybe. But your new Porsche has nothing to do with it.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

 

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Trophies

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Recap and thoughts from a client call a few week’s ago. We were discussing a problem they’re having that all of us had a hand in creating.

—–

“I didn’t realize it would be so hard.”

That’s from a conference call with the leaders of a mid-Atlantic hospital system a few weeks back. We were talking about their young, newly minted doctors. I was putting the finishing touches on a workshop for their spring leadership conference.

It seems that medical residency has gotten much easier. Less stress. Less sleepless nights. Less intensity. Less rigor. Once residency is over, the newly minted doctors are shocked at how hard the real work of being a doctor is. They’re demanding more money. More vacation. Fewer hours. When asked why, they say “I didn’t realize the work would be so hard. I need more.” The hospital is making major exceptions for the new doctors and it’s causing big problems. They told me of doctors leaving patients mid-procedure because their shift was over, assuming someone will show up and finish.

“What in the world is wrong with kids these days?” was my immediate response. But that’s misplaced blame.

A shoe box in my daughter’s bedroom is full of ribbons from her days as a young swimmer. They range from 6^th to 11^th place. She was never a good swimmer. She always got ribbons. Today she laughs at them. “Participant trophies,” she says, rolling her eyes. Let’s be clear: those ribbons are a parenting trend. Parents like you and me bought them and gave them out. We thought it was the right thing to do. Today, my kids are older and think participant trophies are silly. But the trophy’s impact remains with them today and it’s this: Any amount of effort, regardless of outcome, deserves recognition. That’s what a participant trophy is. The greater the effort, the more elite the participant, the more the recognition needed.

The young doctors in my client’s hospital system are no different. They’ve been taught by people just like you and me that since it’s hard and since they’ve put in a big effort they deserve more. Medical residency’s historically rough road has been flattened and paved for them.

“They’ve worked hard, let’s help them out,” some residency director, and likely a parent, said at some point. And incremental creep continually makes the road easier.

And it’s not just doctors, it’s everywhere. Add Covid money plus work from home and suddenly doing little and getting paid for it is possible.

I was clear with my hospital client: this problem is not solvable in a half day workshop. I can give them a new way of understanding the problem that will give them a start in changing their culture. The truth is, though, this is a societal problem that began long ago. The workplace solution is to model the behavior you want to see and make it the defining part of your workplace culture. It will take time. I told the doctors on the call, if you thought the final chapters of your career would be easier as the next generation steps in and takes the lead, it probably won’t. I’m sorry. But remember, it’s a problem that we – all of us – created.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.

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Our World Needs a Prophet Today

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We need change. And someone who can bring it.

—–

Another mass shooting last weekend. By the time this airs, there will likely be another one or two. It’s awful that these events no longer horrify us the way they should. I hardly read the story anymore. The details are all too familiar. A young male. An assault weapon. A troubled background. A history of affiliation with hate groups. Concerns by neighbors and employers of mental instability. And, boom. I’ve warned my children: at some point in your life, you’ll experience a mass shooting. Know what to do, I’ve told them.

Our politicians blame guns, blame parenting, blame hate groups, blame mental health, all trying to out shout each other. All hoping NOT to solve the problem, but, instead, all hoping to get reelected. Bluster. Pomp. Self-righteousness. Self-important. I’ve said it before: If it weren’t for politics these people would be unemployable.

Our world needs a prophet today. Someone who steps forward and offers a compelling alternative view of our reality that creates change.

Traditional faiths tell us that in times of chaos, confusion and disharmony, a messenger arrives, shouting from the edges, from the craziness of our world, showing us we’ve lost our way. There’s a better way, they say. We need that person now.

Prophets have always been outsiders but never strangers. They’re on the edges but are active in the customs and the  traditions of the group they’re trying to reform. They see a truth that has escaped those of us in the center who gain traction by attacking each other. The prophets call attention to something different, something more important, and often, something obvious – right in front of us – that we can’t see.

However, aside from a tight group of early adopters, profits are reviled. They threaten the status quo. And those who benefit from the status quo act quickly to silence them. Pastors and priests make careers out of teaching the Bible’s lessons of the prophets. Rest assured though, if a prophet showed up and questioned the value and the teaching of churches and pointed to a new, inclusive path to eternity, those very same pastors and priests would attack.  

But how would a prophet’s voice break through? Who could it come from? It won’t be a politician. Campaigning saying we’ve lost our way makes that person unelectable. It won’t be on social media. That person would be cancelled. It won’t be in business. That person would be accused of only trying to make money. And it won’t be through entertainers. THAT person would be cancelled. So who? And how? And from where?

Our world needs a prophet today. Someone to refocus us. To remind us of what’s important. No prophet ever said, “Hey. I’ll do it. I’ll be your prophet.” They took the job reluctantly, feeling inferior to the task, but compelled by change that needs to happen. Our world needs that prophet today.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.

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Jazz Fest Recap

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Lots of sights and sounds at New Orleans Jazz Fest.

—–

My wife, a college friend and I stood amidst the peace and quiet of Jazz Fest in New Orleans last weekend along with what must have been 100,000 of our closest friends. It was a sight.

When my wife and I told our friends we were going, they reacted the same was as when I told them we were going to Mexico for spring break – “Oh no,” they said. “That’s dangerous over there. You’re going to get shot.” During my thirty-six hours in New Orleans, I never once felt unsafe. To the great disappointment of my schadenfreude friends, we returned to Mobile unscathed. Which has led me to the conclusion that many of my friends are ninnies and are best left at home.

I’m hoping heaven is a lot like the Gospel Stage at Jazz Fest. A cool breeze blew through the tented area. People were happy to slide a chair or two over to make room us. Most importantly, there were chairs. And, wow, the music. Argue if you want, but there’s more energy coming from the Gospel Stage than any other Jazz Fest stage. When you’re singing about the glory of the Lord, energy comes naturally. And when this middle aged, overweight, thinning haired white guy rose to his feet waiving his palms in the air to show that the spirit was moving…well, I couldn’t believe myself. It was very out of character. But I felt it. And I loved it. 

One thing I don’t love are large sweaty shirtless men. Or even small sweaty shirtless men. And there were a lot of them at Jazz Fest. They were everywhere. We left the Gospel Tent to wander the exhibits and try the food…and they were everywhere. One of the hardest movie scenes to watch ever is the scene from Along Came Polly when Ben Stiller’s character plays basketball and, well, rubs up against a big sweaty guy. If you know what I’m talking about, you know. That was my fear. Shirts should be required when you’re standing in crowded areas waiting for the acts to start. And when the music starts, the shirtless men more than others, become quite the charismatic dancers. I minded my own business, but I kept them in my periphery hoping I wouldn’t have one of those Ben Stiller moments and have to wash my entire body in molten lava or, more likely, decide my life was simply no longer worth it.

After watching Jon Cleary play some fantastic funk music, we turned to leave and hordes of people were filing in to see Kenny Loggins finish out the day on that same stage. You gotta respect Kenny Loggins but, for me, his music isn’t good enough to risk proximity to gobs of sweaty, shirtless, charismatic dancing men. Not my scene. But in they marched, packing the area, eager for Kenny Loggins.   

They were excited to get Footloose as they headed into the shirtless Danger Zone. Don’t Fight It. This is It. And as for me not seeing Kenny’s show, I’m Alright.   

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.

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TLAs and FLAs

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Today’s Keepin’ it Real – the language of insiders.

—–

I made a short statement the other day and my son immediately replied, “That’s cap.” C A P. Cap. I’m unsure what it means. It’s either “that’s the gospel truth” or “that’s a boldface lie.” I thought about it for a moment and decided I didn’t want to know.

For centuries generations have used hairstyles, vocabulary, music and clothing to separate themselves from adults just like my kids are doing today. We called things “cool” or “grody” or “sick.” Today my kids use Cap and ‘lit’. When I say someone was ‘lit’ it means they were very overserved. With the kids today, ‘lit’ means cool or fun or hip or exciting. There’s a part of me that wants to adopt this language to try to stay young. There’s a bigger part of me that says stay away.

My daughter and her friends use the word ‘like’ as an opening quotation mark. For example: “She said like I didn’t do it and I immediately said like it was you. I saw you. And then she said like, Well, that’s cap.” And again, I’m clueless.

The stay-at-home women in my part of town have starting using the expression “all the things.” It means just so much of everything. “I’ve got so many chores and errands and the kids need me and you know, all the things.” All the things. Listen for it. It will be coming from a SUV driver in yoga tights.

Sociologists have studied that shared words and, specifically, acronyms self-identify people as part of an in-crowd. At a financial services conference I was amazed by the overflow of TLAs and FLAs. Attendees bandied them back and forth to say to each other, “I am an insider” and to remind outsiders like me that I’m an outsider. Financial services love their TLAs, and when find a  tidy TLA won’t do, they go to FLAs. Three letter acronyms and four letter acronyms, by the way.

In a conference call a few weeks ago I was immediately told through the use of insider language that I was an outsider. It was a passive aggressive masterpiece. The TLAs and FLAs numbered in the dozens. The guy leading the call was letting me know he’s my alpha. It wasn’t like he was a silverback gorilla standing on a rock and beating his chest to declare his dominance but it was very much like a silverback gorilla standing on a rock and beathing his chest to declare his dominance.

The evangelicals have an insider language, too. This may offend some of them, but you’ll recognize the use of the word ‘just’ in your prayers. “Father God, just just wrap us in your love and just heal our hearts with your manifest of greatness and just feed us with the bounty of your loving kindness as we just work to serve your steadfast love and just just keep your son in front of our eyes…” I stop listening and start counting. I can’t help it. And I’m pretty sure if the universe’s editor in chief were to speak to us he’d say ‘what’s with all the justs? The reason I don’t answer your prayers is I lose focus counting.’

I’m Cam Marston and I’m JUST JUST JUST just trying to Keep it Real. And all the things.

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