Too Much Bottom

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What my wife and I saw on my recent business trip to a Bahamas resort was more than enough.

—–

My wife and I spent four nights at a Bahamas resort on a business trip and here are my observations. Here’s what I saw.

First, I remember hearing that most traffic accidents happen within five miles of the driver’s home. Seems inverse of what you’d expect. The reason? When you’re driving through your home territory, you’re so familiar with the roads, the traffic, the scenery and such that you let your guard down. The familiarity and the routine make you vulnerable to carelessness. When you’re out of your home territory, you slow down, take notice of what’s around you, and are cautious.

The same can be applied to people at a vacation resort. We were all strangers in an unfamiliar place, carefully navigating around each other in sometimes tight quarters and sometimes long lines, like drivers navigating unfamiliar roads. We were all polite and accommodating. Everyone was on their best behavior.

And the resort was huge – 2500 rooms – on 1000 acres fronting the beach. It was more Six Flags amusement park than a beachfront resort. There was a water park. And there were one million places to get overpriced food and two million places to get a very overpriced drink.

We heard at least five different languages. We saw lots of what I think were Orthodox Jews – it’s not something we see a lot in south Alabama, so I’m not sure – and quite a few people dressed in what I think was Muslim attire. There were same-sex couples of all ages and mixed-race couples of all ages. There were people dressed luxuriously as they walked through the huge casino, and some dressed like they lived under a bridge. However, for the most part, there were no sideways glances. No looks up and down. Just lots of acceptance, space, and privacy in close quarters. It was nice. However, there was one notable exception.

The one thing my wife and I saw way too much of was very, very small bikini bottoms. Actually, the reverse is true. We saw very little of the bikini bottom, it being so small, and a whole lot of what the bikini bottom was not covering. Bottoms were everywhere. Everywhere. Call me a prude. Call me whatever you want, but it was way too much. Many of those displaying were young girls and I felt awkward being around it. But there was no escaping it. If I looked towards the ocean, they walked in front of me. As I stood in line for a towel, there they were. At the pool. At the poolside restaurant. They were even walking inside through the casino late in the day. Bottoms. Lots and lots of bottoms.

It appears, with the way things are going, many of the women at that resort will soon be emulating the same bikini bottom Eve wore in the Garden of Eden. The majority of them were most of the way there and, well, I wish they weren’t. This old fuddy duddy wanted to say, “Pardon me, miss, at the risk of being rude, I don’t care what the fashion trends today are, do yourself and the rest of us a favor and please put on some pants.”

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

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Roast or Toast

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My wife invited some friends to a birthday gathering and gave them two options…

——

My birthday was last week. Right now, my wife is inviting friends to dinner and asking them to come and either roast me or toast me and if I were this invitation, I know what I’d do.

I’m not sure if it’s me and my friends or just males or just certain types of males, but I’d roast me. My friends and I constantly work hard to roast each other whenever we can. It’s savage exchange whenever we’re together.

For example: When I walk into my gym the head trainer starts trash-talking me as soon as he sees me. He leaves no stone unturned in his evisceration of me. And I smile and laugh at his creativity and usually come back with something like “I didn’t think it was possible for someone to gain that much weight since yesterday. You’re like a plump, wet snowball rolling down a hill. I wouldn’t tell anyone you own this gym looking like you do – it’s not good for business.” However, he and I have shared some of the most thought-provoking conversations I’ve had in recent times.

Another one – Several weeks ago I nearly stopped writing these commentaries and I shared my reasoning with a friend.  “Cam,” he said, “all of your commentaries are bad and some of them are actually worse than bad.” He then handed me his phone to show where he’d downloaded every one of them and had book-marked some to listen to again and again and others he shares with friends who he felt would enjoy them and others still he shares with people who he feels needs to hear them. It was a generous gesture on the heels of a sharp poke at me. In return, I won’t let him forget the nearly spectacular meal he cooked back in December. He, however, admitted that the meat was a bit undercooked. And now, that’s all I talk about with him now – his undercooked meal which was almost good but was not.

The model of these roasts is, upon greeting – especially when there is a small crowd – loudly roast and eviscerate. We tell each other how badly each other looks with a beard. After they shave, we tell them we preferred the beard since it hid their face. We discuss each other’s incompetence in their job. It goes on and on. The only thing off the table are wives and children – we don’t include them. Do we discuss our wives’ and children’s disappointment in each other as husbands, fathers, role models, partners? Of course. That is a layup. That’s table stakes. Quietly and interpersonally, though, out of earshot of the group, we dial down the roasting and offer compliments and appreciation though sparingly.

It’s strange how weird yet comfortable this all is. It’s strange and weird how much I look forward to a brutal assessment of me whenever I step into a place where friends are gathered.

So, to my friends who will join me for my roast or toast party, bring your best. I’m not worried. I know each of you well and know none of you are smart enough to bring anything that could sting.

I’m Cam Marston and I will probably regret saying that.

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Sad Anniversary

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My mother died a year ago. Cleaning out her home office brought about some questions for my father and me as we gathered her things. 

——

My mother died nearly one year ago today. It was March 5^th, the day after my birthday. I think of her frequently. Last week, my wife, my daughter, and my son and I placed purple flowers on her headstone for her birthday. Purple was her favorite color. We bought a purple orchid on the way home to remind us of her and it’s now sitting in the kitchen window.

Last week I said in an interview that doing these commentaries helps me process things, they help me think through things that I’m seeing or that are going on inside.

Which leads me to a somber day several weeks ago when my father and I cleaned out my mother’s home office. Lots of the stuff in there was easy to throw away – stuff that made no sense to either of us.

However, some of the things did make me pause. What do you do with your mother’s faded black and white pictures of family members from long, long ago that have no notes or identifiers on them? They were important enough to her to set aside. But, without her explanation, they’re no one to me. My dad and decided to keep them, hoping the decision about what to do would be easier when we found them again someday.

And I came across a Ziploc bag full of inspirational and spiritual and motivational quotes she’d had collected for what appeared to be half her life. Some were torn out of books. Many appeared hurriedly handwritten in her beautiful handwriting before the disease took her ability to write. Like she heard it and quickly captured it on a receipt or a church bulletin. There were probably two hundred of them. They meant something to her. Maybe, they even shaped her in some way or another. The ideals and attitudes she cherished, that she’d taken the time to gather for many years, sat in a Ziplock bag in my hands. Without her explanation, though, they were meaningless.

Is it possible to capture someone, to gather who they were and how they engaged life in a plastic bag full of torn out pages and handwritten quotes? No, I don’t think so. But what do you do with something that was once so important to someone who’s now gone?

I’ve been a bit surprised by how quickly my mother has disappeared since her death one year ago. How quickly all of us who loved her have moved on. I remember her daily which, I suppose, should be no surprise.

And the same will happen to you and me. We will vanish from the lives of our cherished loved ones. They’ll come clean out our stuff and throw most of it away. We will be very gone. It’s what the wisdom teachers and philosophers have told us for thousands of years. And, of course, my mother cares the least about this. The benefit of the deceased they don’t have to make decisions about their stuff.

And I think about these things. Like r ight now. As I stare at a Ziplock back full of meaningless quotes now sitting on the edge of my desk that, in some unexplainable way, capture my mother.

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

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How to Embarrass Your Children

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Embarrassing your children is a parent’s obligation. It happened to me. I’m doing it to my kids. It’s part of the contract.

—— 

Here’s a guaranteed way to embarrass your teenaged child. In a restaurant, say loudly where other diners are close enough to hear: “Your mother and I are going to a clothing optional resort in the Bahamas next week. It will be nice for us to get back in touch with each other.” My fifteen-year-old favorite youngest daughter flushed red, buried her face in her hands, and said over and over again “Please stop, Dad. Please stop.” Which is, for me, a big win.

Please know my wife and I are NOT going to a clothing optional resort in the Bahamas next week. I am giving a speech at a banking conference in the Bahamas next week, but it is not at a clothing optional place nor is that the type of place I would ever go. In fact, when I take off my shirt at the beach, people usually shield the eyes from the glare and then run to splash water on me and say to each other “make sure his blowhole is clear.”

Embarrassing your children is a right of every parent. I’m sure some woke parents out there disagree but they’re simply wrong. It’s a right. It’s our duty.

I remember a summer day when my mother encouraged my friends and me – all of us teenagers at the time – to start a car washing business in the neighborhood. We were skeptical. She made up a jingle and suggested we go door to door singing it. “You’ll kill it,” she said, “The jingle alone will get you tons of business.” She then made up a dance and sang and danced in front of my friends. I flushed red, got angry, and quickly pushed my friends into my bedroom. Then a knock on my bedroom window. I pulled back the shade and my mother was now in the front yard dancing and singing the jingle. My friends laughing. Me an angry and embarrassed wreck.

On our twins last day of grade school years ago, my wife and I threw the car in park in the carpool line and began dancing. Grade school carpool was over forever and this deserved celebration. Our twins stood watching in horror on the curb.

Parents dancing seems to always do the trick. Watching middle aged people try to dance is typically very difficult to stomach. Children watching their middle-aged parents try to dance like cool kids and imitate the dances of the day puts their children into a spiral of embarrassment. And when the parents notice this, they double down and really go for it. Tik Toc is made up of such videos.

I’m fairly certain the ancient Greeks found way to embarrass their children. So much of our Western society today is made up of early Greek philosophies and concepts that one must imagine some part ancient Greek culture included embarrassing their children. It can’t be new.

Anyway, back to my favorite youngest daughter who is fifty percent of my twins. Embarrassing her in the restaurant last night was a big treat. Her face flushing red. Her head in her hands begging me to stop. A big win.

At least, sweetie, I didn’t mention how you wake up at night talking sweet to movie star Tom Holland and kissing your pillow with his picture on it.

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

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“Keepin’ It Real” Interview with KXCR’s Larry Bloomfield

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“Keepin’ It Real” is now broadcast on KXCR in Florence, Oregon. Larry Bloomfield invited me to be a guest on the station’s “KXCR Conversations” to talk about the commentaries. 

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The Arc of Beads

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The value of Mardi Gras beads peak when they’re under no ownership. It’s part of the silliness of my favorite time of year.

———

If you’re not listening in the deep south, you may not know that it’s Mardi Gras time for us derelicts and mystics living here on the top lip of the Gulf Coast. Ships from all over the world back in the day delivered a menagerie of people here where they threw their customs and traditions into one big gurgling pot and one of the results is Mardi Gras. The story I tell is that Mardi Gras was a time for people to dispose of food that would spoil during the fasting associated with Lent, which begins with Ash Wednesday next week, so they threw big parties to consume all the food. Is it the truth? I don’t know. It’s the story I’ve heard the most, so it’s the story I tell.

Folks from other places who now live here are fond of saying “I just don’t get Mardi Gras. It makes no sense.” And they’re right. It doesn’t. Don’t try to make sense of it. Just enjoy it. If you can’t enjoy it because it doesn’t make sense, stay away. L et us have our fun.

Take Mardi Gras beads as one of many examples. The value of a typical strand of Mardi Gras beads can range from a few cents per strand to a few dollars. So, for argument’s sake, let’s assume one of the strands I bought at the bead store last weekend for my parade cost one dollar. It was likely made for a few cents by some poor underpaid child somewhere operating massive machine and wondering what in the world these beads things are used for and why they need so many. Nevertheless, the bead store paid maybe forty cents for it. Its value shot to a dollar when I paid for it at the register. However, the highest value of those beads cannot be assigned a number and was not when it was owned by the manufacturer, the retailer, or me. The highest value of the beads was when those beads were ownerless after I had tossed it from my hand, and it curved in gentle arc through the air and began its descent. In those moments the beads were in the air, grown men and women, aggressive children, and people who are normally friendly neighbors saw the beads and used NBA style block-outs, tremendous jumps, karate chops and tae kwon do style elbows to friend’s ribcages to classes to catch ’em.

Once caught, the beads went around a neck for a short time. Or they disappeared into a bag already full of them. Or were tossed on top of a pile of other beads just like it. Or, they could very likely been given away to a complete stranger. Once secured and under new ownership, the bead’s value vanished instantly. In a week they’ll be in the trash.

It makes no sense to spend so much money buying beads, then give them away, only for them to ultimately be thrown away. No sense at all. But that’s Mardi Gras. If you try to apply logic to it, you’ll scream.

And, frankly, I can’t get enough of it.

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

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Anti-Fragile

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Thre are three types of people, he said, and my mind has been racing ever since.

——-

In a Zoom call this week I chatted with another speaker for an upcoming conference. He and I want our messages complement each other and he offered some of his presentation highlights and one thing he said has rattled around in my head since our call.

He said there are three types of people – and when he said this he was quoting someone else but I don’t remember who – he said there are fragile people who when pushed or dropped or damaged, they break. Once broken, they don’t heal. We all kinda know people like this.

The second type of person is resilient. When dropped, they get back up. They don’t break. And though it sounds laudable, they don’t change. Each time they’re pushed or dropped or damaged, they simply get back up and resume.

And there’s the third type which he very inelegantly referred to as anti-fragile. When pushed or dropped or damaged, they get back up, learn from what’s happened, and change so that it won’t happen again. These people prove remarkably successful over time, he said, in both business and in life.

And he went further and applied this concept to organizations. In this post-pandemic business climate, he said, we’re seeing organizations who were fragile and broke due to the pandemic, the organizations who were resilient but simply resumed what they’ve always been doing, and the ones that are anti-fragile and are using pandemic-learned lessons to become stronger.

Well, I can’t hear stuff like this and not start thinking about the people around me. My wife is anti-fragile. She learns from her mistakes, and they’re seldom made twice. My business manager is definitely anti-fragile. She negotiates for me and though we may have been taken advantage of in the past, it’s never happened the same way twice. She learns. She changes. Which is good.

And, of course, I think about my kids. They’re a mix and it’s situational. I have children who have their athletic weaknesses revealed and they change to fix the weakness. However, they may make mistakes with friendships and get right back up to only to have those same mistakes happen again and again – a resilient behavior. They’ll learn what’s necessary to perform well in class but repeat the same mistakes regarding rules my wife and I have about our home – again, a resilient behavior. None of them are fragile, they’re either resilient or anti-fragile depending on the situation.

And the questions continue: how do we raise our kids or groom our colleagues or employees to become anti-fragile. Are we born one way or another or is this a learned behavior? And is today’s coddling society today raising our kids to be fragile and can we fix it? Or them?

And what am I? I don’t think I’m fragile but am I resilient or anti-fragile? I don’t know.

I do know this though – this other speaker needs to bring the goods next month. He’s started my head spinning and I didn’t allot enough time in our Zoom call to ask these questions and we had to cut it short – a simple mistake I’ve made too many times.

And, well, I guess that answers it.

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

 

 

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Radio Boy

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There’s a tale radio people tell about why they got into radio. Does it apply to me? Well…

——–

A story I’ve heard about people in radio is that many of them share a similar childhood experience: They tried to get their parent’s attention but their parents shushed them – told them to be quiet – they’re trying to listen to the man on the radio. The children begin to think that whatever is coming through the radio speaker is more important than what they want to say and later, those children begin a career in radio to get their parents to listen to them.

Is it true? I don’t know. Regardless, when I heard the story, I had to assess if that’s the reason I’ve begun these commentaries and the business talk show I have on other stations across Alabama.

My earliest memories of the radio are as a young boy of about ten. My father would wake me early in the morning on Saturdays in the winter and we’d drive north out of Mobile for a hunting club in the small dirt-road town of Suggsville, Alabama deep in Clarke County. We left well before daylight and I lie across the bench seat in the old yellow Jeep Cherokee in my hunting clothes with my head on my father’s leg trying to get back to sleep while he drove. This was long before using seatbelts was a thing. The radio dial was the only light in the car, and it shined in my eyes while the radio played country music. I remember hearing the piano in Crystal Gayle’s song “Don’t It May My Brown Eyes Blue” and thinking, “Wow. I really like that” and I still really like it to this day.

After that the memories jumble. I remember the Top 40 radio stations of the late seventies and eighties and one time as a pre-teen calling a station over and over again to request a song. When the DJ finally answered and I told him I wanted to hear – “Emotions” by the Bee Gees  and I’m shocked that I can remember that – and he said “Well…It’s playing right now.” I had become so focused on dialing and redialing I stopped noticing what was playing. Alone in my bedroom, my face burned bright red in embarrassment and hoped that DJ couldn’t ever figure out who I was.

And I remember hearing Paul Harvey. There are over 3000 episodes of his The Rest of the Story. 3000! He did six per week, all about four minutes long. You can find his catalog online. Today when I listen, I hear that remarkable voice, that remarkable control in his delivery. His word choice, his inflections, his tone, his variations in speed to perfectly sculpt the story he was telling. Today I recognize those as the tools of his craft. Back then though, I just listened. Probably impatiently. Sitting in the car with my father or my mother in a parking lot somewhere in the middle of running an errand.

“Mom” or “Dad”, I very likely said. “Can we get out now? Can we go?” “No,” they said. “Not until this is over.”

And, here I am.

I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real. Oh, and welcome to my new listeners with public radio station KXCR in Florence, Oregon. I’m happy you’re along for the ride.

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Time Either Promotes You Or Exposes You

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A friend’s fortunes have turned…

—–

I met with a friend yesterday. I haven’t seen or spoken to him much for the past six months. His business has exploded over the past three or four years. He’s a good guy, an honest guy. He’s created a niche product, the market found him and he’s grown it masterfully. Until he and his business partner got sideways with each other, and the last six months have been tough. Accusations. Finger pointing. He finally told his partner, “We have to split up or it may get violent.” They both lawyered up, money changed hands with both teams of lawyers scooping up piles of it and it’s now finally over. Diminished, depleted, and emotionally exhausted, my friend is now free of that turmoil and can focus on growing what’s left of his business and moving forward.

Word got out and his phone began ringing. Old influential customers that had fallen off the radar were calling. “Hey,” they were saying, “now that he’s gone, let’s work together again.” Turns out a lot of his former customers didn’t like his business partner – didn’t trust him – and quietly went away. Now that the partner is gone, those customers are coming back.

My friend was also able to secure the distribution rights to a new product that, he predicts, will change his marketplace. Word is out and people are asking to partner with him, offering him big sums for a piece of the action. My friend, despondent and over his head in turmoil six months ago, is now worried about controlling the growth of his business. His reputation and his integrity are stellar, his customers and colleagues know this and are rushing to transact with him,  and I’m thrilled for him.

Years ago, I was given an adage that I’ve never forgotten: time either promotes you or exposes you. Time reveals who you are. Time will deliver situations where your integrity, humility, your character, your soul, maybe, is revealed. Many can mask their true character for short amounts of time, and they do. Some mask it for years. In the end, time eventually reveals the truth. Time either promotes you or exposes you. And time is now promoting my friend. He could have given up his battle with his partner when it got nasty, when the terms of the buyout got ridiculous, but he stayed the course to serve the customers he’d begun relationships with, and he wanted to continue serving new customers because they need the new product he brought to market. There were many times when he could have made small decisions that would have made things easier or resolved the issues more quickly but not comprehensively, but he stayed the course. And it wasn’t just the decisions he made during the acrimonious buyout, it was years and years before that, in how he treated bankers who were now eager to help him, the lawyers who were eager to represent him, and so many others along the way.

Time either promotes you or exposes you. I’ve seen it over and over. Time always pulls back the curtain and reveals the truth. I’m so happy for my friend. Time has revealed him to be a well-deserved champion.

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

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