Past is like blurry watercolor,
not like history of real people

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I hadn’t seen the picture in a long time. When I saw it, there was a long moment when it felt like a picture of people I didn’t know.

But that was me. That was her. How long ago? Nine years? Maybe 11? I don’t remember. It might have been something from another life. Or something in a vision. Maybe a dream.

We were in Chicago — visiting her family — but my memory of it was blurry. Who exactly was she? Who had I been? I was left digging through my memories and trying to make sense of it.

I see a picture of two smiling and happy people, but what became of them? I haven’t talked with her for many years. She’s happily married to someone else now, but I know nothing of her life. How do two people go from smiling and happy in a picture to strangers who don’t even know each other?

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If he cheats at Cracker Barrel,
he’ll eventually cheat you, too

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I was still eating when the couple at the table next to me got up to leave. As they were about to walk away from the table, the woman asked the man, “What about the tip?” The man didn’t stop.

“I don’t live around here,” he said. “I’ll never see her again, so it wouldn’t do me any good to tip her.”

The woman said nothing and they walked away. I presume he planned to pay for their meals at the front counter instead of sneaking out and saving his cash.

I hate everything about tipping. It’s a terrible system. I wish servers were just compensated by a restaurant — as is the case in most of the world — and the cost were included in the price of the meal.

But that’s not the way the system works here. Servers make most of their pay in tips. If you refuse to tip a server — without very good cause — you are stealing from the worker. And that says something about your character.

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Admission to elite colleges is
signaling, not about learning

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Apparently, I’m supposed to be outraged that rich celebrities have been buying admission to elite universities for their kids. Instead, I’m basically indifferent — not because I approve of cheating, but because nobody should be surprised.

Haven’t wealthy people always been able to buy their way into things which are “all about merit” — supposedly — for the rest of us? Are we supposed to be shocked that people with money and power (and entitlement) are capable of opening doors which are closed to the rest of us?

I suppose I would be upset if I had ever bought into two myths. But I’ve never believed the same rules apply to everyone in life. And I’ve never believed it really mattered where smart people are educated.

If you look at the “elite university experience” as an elaborate game similar to the Emperor’s New Clothes, it’s hard to be upset that people who see themselves as elites find ways to pay for the privilege of pretending they’re getting fitted for fine new clothes that the rest of us can’t have.

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What did you want as a child?
Did you leave dreams behind?

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When I was 10 years old, all I wanted to do was command a starship and be like Captain James T. Kirk.

I was obsessed with Star Trek reruns. I loved the real-life U.S. space program and I had eagerly watched the moon landings. I loved science and technology and adventure. But my reasons for loving Star Trek went far beyond that.

In Captain Kirk, I saw a template of what I thought I should be. He was tough and brave and smart and principled. He was respected by his crew and his opponents. He was a leader, not because of his rank, but because of his confidence and the way he carried himself.

I wanted to command men and women in the same way. I wanted people to follow me as we did great things. It just seemed so natural.

In his book, “U-Turn: What If You Woke Up One Morning and Realized You Were Living the Wrong Life?,” Bruce Grierson suggests that you’ll find clues about what you ought to be doing now if you’ll look back to what you wanted and what you loved when you were 10 or 12 years old.

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What do I really want most in life?
Honestly? I want you to notice me

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I’ve spent my whole life begging to be noticed — but it took me a long time to realize this.

It was the summer of 2005 when I finally got the finished DVDs of my short film. I was bursting with pride about having made something I was proud of. I wanted my father to be proud of me. I gave him a copy fo the DVD and waited for him to say something, but he didn’t say a word.

Several times over the next couple of weeks, I asked him if he had watched it yet, but each time, he said he hadn’t had time. The film was only 10 minutes, so that stung a little. The next time I was at his house — and nobody else was there — I told him we were going to watch it right then.

I played it for him, but he didn’t seem interested. It was an uncomfortable 10 minutes. Afterward, he had very little to say. I felt deflated and hurt.

I’ve come to realize that this has been a painful template for much of my life. I don’t like admitting this. I feel as though I’m in therapy again to talk about it. But I’ve spent my whole life begging to be noticed. It’s been a very unhealthy part of my life.

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KKK-loving newspaper owner has
always been a nut; this isn’t news

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When I stepped into the offices of The Democrat-Reporter in Linden, Ala., I was stepping into enemy territory. I was the newly appointed editor and publisher of The Demopolis Times, a larger newspaper about 15 miles north of Linden.

Goodloe Sutton was the owner and publisher of The Democrat-Reporter, which was my only local competition, so I wanted to meet him and establish a friendly relationship. My paper was far more successful than his, enough that his paper wasn’t really competition for the readers and advertisers we targeted.

I asked for Sutton and explained who I was. The person at the front to whom I introduced myself looked startled and went to another office.

“I don’t want to talk to anybody from the Demopolis Times,” I heard a belligerent voice bellow from the back a few moments later. As the woman walked back toward me, he called after her, “And tell him not to come back.”

That was my one and only interaction with the strange man who has lately achieved national notoriety for his bizarre editorials calling for the Ku Klux Klan to “clean out” politicians in Washington, D.C.

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Hate will always turn violent until
we all learn to disagree in peace

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Every time there’s a hate-driven attack on a group of people, there’s a mad scramble among political groups to score points by framing the attack to support their positions.

If it’s Muslims who are killed by terrorists — as was the case in New Zealand this week — there’s a rush to frame the attack as part of a worldwide conspiracy of hatred against Muslims.

If it’s Jews who are killed by terrorists — as was the case in the Pittsburgh synagogue murders last October — we hear about how anti-semitism is the worst and most common hatred in the world.

If it’s westerners who are killed by terrorists — whether the attackers are white Americans or Middle Eastern Muslims or something else — there’s another of half a dozen narratives.

So we hear all about how white people hate black people. Jews hate Muslims. Black folks hate white folks. Muslims hate Jews and westerners. Neo-Nazis hate everybody who isn’t white. The list goes on and on — and the narrative you listen to is determined by your political allegiances.

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What if the key to knowing what to
do is built into everybody’s gut?

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I saw a woman at dinner tonight who I haven’t seen in a couple of years — and I felt the same electricity from her that I experienced six years ago when she first walked into my office.

I vividly remember that day. I was working at a college and she needed my help with something. I have no idea what we talked about, but I remember the day clearly because I knew — from the moment I saw her face — that she was one of those women.

I’ve never tried to explain this to anyone, because it’s been such a gut-level thing that I wasn’t conscious of it for a long time. All I know is that there were a very tiny number of women who come into my life who are “one of those women.” They are some very small group in which my gut recognizes something and says to me, “This is one of those women who might be a right partner for you.”

It’s completely from the gut. If my gut tells me that, I need to pay attention to the woman. If my gut doesn’t tell me that, I’m never going to fall for her, no matter how great she is otherwise.

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Please be patient with my site as
it’s being completely remodeled

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If it seems to you that things suddenly look radically different around here, you’re right.

My site is under construction in the coming days. Maybe weeks. Some things will continue working. Some might not work as expected for awhile. Please bear with me.

This switch has been in the works for months and there’s still a lot of work to be done. The theme I’ve been using for seven years has served its purpose very well. I actually still like it a lot. But because it wasn’t designed for mobile devices — and the developer of the old theme isn’t still around to update it — I was forced to move to something new.

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My reaction to man’s home taught me more about me than about him

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Lucy and I just got finished walking a couple of miles in our neighborhood. It’s a beautiful night — unseasonably warm at 69 degrees and strong winds that hint of the storms heading our way Thursday.

Next month will complete my fourth year in this neighborhood. As I walked tonight, I found myself thinking about my first reaction to this place. At the time, I was in a serious financial crisis and I was losing the home where I had lived for 20 years. It was a much nicer place in a much more prestigious neighborhood.

When I first drove by this house to check it out, I turned up my nose at it. Surely, I was too good for this sort of neighborhood.

That’s not what I actually said to myself, of course, but that’s what I really meant. And as I walked through this working class neighborhood a few minutes ago — a stone’s throw from the high school baseball game from which I could hear cheering — I found myself remembering my silent judgment of another man’s home 20 years ago.

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