Why Even Try Anymore?

A friend from then and now recently wondered aloud, "why even try anymore" ... and while I thought perhaps she wasn't necessarily expecting an answer, I thought I'd try ...

It caught my eye when you wondered aloud "why even try anymore" ...

Now, I know not of what you refer and it's tough to sense inflection on the 'Net, but I wonder if there is a bit of melancoly and frustration within those words, so I thought I'd reach out with a clatter of cliches and movie references woven clumsily together in a caring effort to encourage...

Why even try anymore?

Perhaps you'll try again because there's a chance, however slim, however remote, that it might still work -- whatever it is. While I'm comfortable with the saying that "hope is not a strategy", that doesn't diminish the power and purpose of hope -- it can be an elixer, a lifeblood, a reason to proceed ... because there is still a chance. Believe.

Moreso, perhaps you'll try again because there's benefit in the effort. No chance of success so why try? Well, somethings are worth trying because of the effort itself ... those cases where its the journey, not the destination, that truly matter. Keep going.

Yoda once opined that "There is no try. Do. Or do not." Now, he's a wise little muppet who turns a catchy phrase, this one meant to strengthen the resolve of young jedis -- but misapplied, his words can be misleading -- as they makes failure seem like an end, rather than the start of another effort to "do". Yoda speaks of that which you can directly control within yourself. If the goal the demands you "give your all", you can control your all and there is no try -- Yoda's right -- either do, or do not. But to extend it to reaching the goal is dicey. Something beyond your control may trump your all and prevent you from reaching the goal (but that's not a reason not to try as we've discussed above). Here, Yoda's words are meant to challenge one to then reinvent your "all" and, yes my jedi friend, try again -- on your way to "do". Our hairy eared friend exhorts us to set aside the "I tried" as a reason to stop, pushing us to do the do instead.

Why even try anymore? The answer is within your heart. Ask yourself, "what would be wonderful?" And then try. And don't give up if try doesn't work. While "try try again" puts the "tri" in trite, it's right. Do it ..

Epilogue:

Remember, there's nothing that says you have to try alone or try empty handed. Remember the moment behind the wall in the Princess Bride where they took inventory of their assets? Ahhh -- perhaps you have the equivalent of a wheelbarrow and a halocaust cloak in your pocket ... perhaps you've met your Spainiard and your Giant ... Think creatively, use your assets, seek assistance from those around you -- and have fun storming the castle.

Re-Meeting Nakki

Twenty-seven or so years ago, Nakki Goranin was an artist-in-residence with the Vermont Arts Council ... A woman of great passion, admitted obsession, and inspiring energy ... She took on a group of teenage photograpy students from Mt. Abe's "gifted & talented" program -- a group that included myself, Bill, Craig, and Miles ... It was there at her side that my fascination with photography really took root.

Then decades passed ... Literally ...

Recently, I reconnected with her on LinkedIn, then exchanged emails, meant to attend her showing on Pine Street, and then saw a County Courier article about a book signing in Johnson ... Indeed, author and artist Nakki Goranin would be speaking and signing copies of "American Photobooth" ...

So I went.

Ryan's Books in Johnson, VT is a charming nook nestled in an old brick bank (I believe, as it had a vault amongst the shelves) ... Nakki looked not a day older as I entered the shop. She was seated at a table amidst stacks of her book -- a position befitting a woman whose work is praised by none less than the curators of the Smithsonian, who has been written about by John Updike, and who has studied photography, anthropology, and education ...

It was great fun to reconnect -- as she hasn't changed much over the years, but I now have grey in the goatee and daughters older than I was when I was her student (pictured in their on photobooth image at right). We had a chance to chat, we smiled at a memorable photoshoot incident that best remains undocumented given uncertainty regarding the statutes of limitations on inadertently tresspassing, she kindly signed my copy of her book, and then I settled in with others (a retired editor of Vermont Life, a local professional photographer, a friend of Nakki's, a curious afficiando, a German woman who used to accompany her father as he refilled photobooth processing chemicals, etc) as the event unfolded.

Nakki spoke informally and ardently -- about photobooths, about those who made them, about those who had their picture taken in them, about the process of writing the book, about the evolution of photography ... Her knowledge and passion and eloquence and simple sincerity were immediately familiar -- clearly, this was "my" Nakki from so long ago. I stayed as long as my anti-social hobbit tendencies would allow and then bolted, book in hand, back to my world -- all the better for having mustered the nerve to re-meet Nakki Goranin.

Life's Lemonade Obligation

After a trying day in the real world, I buckled myself into the little-blue-car's leopard-skinned helm and wandered off.

Not a mile into my escape, a bright-yellow, hand-printed street-side sign caught my eye ... "Lemonade: Small=25 cents, Large=50 cents" ... There, tucked in the grassy shade of the local bed & breakfast's lawn on the other side of the street, sat a little entrepreneur at a neatly adorned table, smiling brightly at the passing cars.

So I drove passed.

And turned around.

Yep, I'm not much for the tyranny of obligations in life, but I do believe one should always stop at lemonade stands. There's a simple sugary joyful blend of optimism and opportunism at these impromptu places. Yep, the drinks are rarely good, the portions are often small, and the prices are typically high (on a per ounce basis) -- but that analysis is faaaaar from the point. Each little stand is an oasis, nurturing work ethic and hope for the future in their youngest forms -- so, when I go by, I try to go buy ...

I pulled up and hopped out, five quarters in my hand. She popped to her feet -- just a bit of a thing, couldn't have been more than a fourth grader -- and greeted me with smiling anticipation, "Can I help you?"

"I'll take two larges," I said, returning the smile.

"They're 50 cents each," she confirmed with a hopeful look as she pulled two empty cups from the stack that was apparently the larges.

"That'll be great," I said.

She poured my first one and we both observed her pitcher was running low. "Oh, I'm almost out," she said.

I agreed with a nod and said "I hope that's a sign that business has been good ..."

And she beamed. "I have fourteen dollars and eighty five cents," she announced absolutely triumphantly as she poured my second glass.

"Well, here's five quarters," I said. "Four for the lemonade and one for you as a tip. You have a nice day."

She thanked me and I was off, changing course for GrammaB's house to share the story -- and the lemonade -- with a kindred anti-social hobbit. As I pulled around, the little lemonade dealer gave me a smile and a wave that was worth far more than $1.25 ...

And suddenly, the whole tone of the afternoon had changed ... and that, my friends, is the whole point of taking a moment for life's lemonade obligation.

Almost Heaven ...

As I leave the field that gentle evening, after the players and families had left and leaving only a coaching friend behind, I ask myself, "Is this Heaven"? I smile and chuckle as one of the other voices in my head answers, "No, it's Fairfield" to complete the literary reference for my own amusement ...

Well, if it wasn't Heaven, it was certainly on the same street. I figure if you ask Mr. TomTom on the windshield for a course from my couch or the lawnmower to Heaven, the preferred path will bring you right by the field, just this side of Heaven itself.

There I'd been, at a field in East Fairfield, tucked behind a school down a dirt driveway along a bubbling brook that eats foul balls ... They're out of cell phone range out there, but there is a pretty decent port-a-potty ... They've got aged homemade bleachers and room for fans who prefer chairs and a chest high fence for farmer fathers and photographers to lean on from off abit if the chatter amongst the rest gets to be just a bit tooo much ...

Weather's perfect, which is a pleasure and a surprise, as it's often unexpectedly and inexplicably nippy out there in the hills this time of year ... The grass grows a bit long there and the basepaths haven't been weeded in a while and it's a bit lumpy, but it's playable and the dandelions look nice ... Yep, you know, when Jesus spoke of preparing a place for us at His Father's house, this may well have been what He had in mind for the back yard ...

When I arrived that evening, worn from a week of restructuring the livelyhood of others in a well-intentioned albeit uncertain effort to make things work a bit better, I was greeted by smiles. The first two come from moms my age, whose daughters one of my daughters coaches, though not tonight ... Chatter ensues and the grip of the real world loosens.

"I'm getting my camera to take some pictures," I announce outloud to myself and the Moms head off to claim their seats as the bleachers are filling ... I fetch my gear, letting the clammy hand of reality slip away from the back of my neck. I'm home now somhow and, camera in hand, the world can't reach me.

For the next ninety minutes, I watch kids who are not my own play a game they love under the hopeful supportive eyes of those who love them ...

The stands and sidelines fill with older sisters and little brothers, mamas and papas (regular folks, not the singing group from the 60s), a few friends and neighbors, and even a gramma and grampa or two wobble in ... though in truth, I did abandon GrammaB as the need to be alone on the way was a bit too strong that evening for companionship in the little blue car. There are no sides to the crowd -- we all chatter and laugh, as even if we don't all quite know everyone as well as some, as we're all kindred spirits here somehow ... Well, that, and because they haven't hayed the field down firstbase line for a while ... But moreso because everybody's respectful and positive and its easier to intermix and intermingle amongst each other ...

Yep, sportsmanship runs deep this close to Heaven. I'm rooting for both sides as I know kids on each and know how hard they work and how much they love the game. I'm not alone in that -- not only in the crowd, but you can see it a bit on the faces on the field in the grins of recognition as off-the-field acquaintences catch each others' eyes, ala Katelyn, Nikki, Shila, and Whitney of years gone by.

These kids honor the game with their play ... We are treated to mixed pitches thrown for strikes by both pitchers, doubles over outfielders heads, a great backup by a rightfielder, straight steals and delayed steals, rbi bunts that roll fair, a single turned into an out at first by a rightfielder, diving attempts by a banged up catcher, and even a pair of fabulous foul balls -- albeit along with the requisite errors, wiffs, naps and brain cramps that makes all this human ... Even when the ump himself erred (the run scoring fair ball was actually untouched amidst the crash of infielders before it spun foul), the coaches and fans recognized he was doing his best in the spirit of it all (and actually did a very nice job) ...

Eventually, the action ends, one side wins, and the teams shake hands ... and then comes a magical moment. Free to head to the cars to rush to the next, the players pause. And chatter. First with those who came out to support them -- and then, with those they played. "You did great" is a gift given repeatly, wrapped in good intentions and given sincerely among the little rivals ... I flash back to sidelines in Colchester with the Buckless family and in Swanton with the Grenons and in Poultney with Randy and Stacey -- and I know these nex-gen players and families are on the right path.

I smile as I watch it unfold ... This is how it's meant to happen and these folks get it even if they don't know it yet and it's a joy to watch. I think of Everet and his lawn chair and all the last ten years have brought, how proud I am of my own girls for what they're giving these girls like they've been given, how thankful I am that Brad and Everett and Dick and Rhett and Kevin and Joanie and Ralph and Liza helped open all this to me ... and I smile, though I cry this morning as I retell it, hoping from their place at His place, my friend Everett and my Dad Lloyd can see this field ...

And that evening, as I walk back along the dirt road toward the little blue car wedged behind the the school's dumpster, I wonder ... "Is this Heaven?" and I smile. It's darn close.
.

Cindy Crawford, Revisited

I have an "old" friend who recently asked no one in particular, "Have you ever wondered who is looking back at you from the mirror, then realized it is you, old and wrinkled?" Sadly, she finished her ponderance with, "Ya, it's a bad day."

Oh, my. As a 40-something somewhat ravaged by time myself and the Dad of two young ladies who will someday face this same kind of societal aging challenges that my "old" (though younger than I) friend is feeling, I felt compelled to reply with a perspective built on a quixotic celebration of real life ...

My reply:

Cindy Crawford, a supermodel born in 1966 (around our age), has a famous quote that says "Even I don't wake up looking like Cindy Crawford" and has admitted that she became a regular visitor to a cosmetic surgeon at the age of 29 -- so she's a bit of a cartoon character. That's fine, but it creates unrealistic expectations in other women because they're trying to do what she's done, without having the benefits of cosmetic surgeons, makeup artists, publicists, clothes designers, and most powerful of all, airbrushing!

I've found f you've ever wondered who is looking back at you from the mirror, then realized it is you "old and wrinkled", and then coyly smiled at all the joy you've had with your friends and your kids as you aged and earned those wrinkles and scars, then it's a great day -- and the warmth and confidence that radiates from that thought is the foundation of true sexiness ... at any age and at any dress size. Enjoy the day!

And that's what I wish for all of you -- my girls included -- the chance to enjoy every moment without the stress of mirrors, models, and glossy expectations ... a chance to live a healthy, wonderous existence while celebrating every wrinkle and scar that comes from that grand adventure.

Indeed, Enjoy the day!

Making "One & Done" Meaningful

The NBA introduced "One & Done" to make sure high school hoops prodigies play one year of college ball prior to turning pro. Hmmm. To ensure youth are properly educated? To make sure all their players can drink when they go to strip clubs? To make sure colleges continue to reap the millions generated by their hoops team?

This is a case of a well intended but horribly executed intervention. Yep, intervention was needed, but the current "One & Done" solution solves nothing -- except keeping elite colleges rolling in dough. There's more to accomplish than that.

Even the infamous Hall-of-Fame win-at-all-costs Bobby Knight rails against the structure of "One & Done" as players without academic abilities are getting free rides to DI schools, taking 6 credits of independent phys ed, failing all of them, getting in their year of hoops, and going pro ... and in the process, making a mockery of the entire situation.

That certainly is a jaded view of "One & Done", but it is too familiar a pattern ...

Here's what I'd do.

I'd evolve the arbitrary "One & Done" by expanding the job description requirements for an NBA/NFL/MLB/Etc player job to include "a two-year Associates' Degree in Pre-Professional Sports or a Bachelors' Degree in any field with a minor in Pre-Professional Sports." Each DI school would offer the programs in Pre-Professional Sports: made up of practical classes in public speaking, money management, human sexuality, basic injury care, coaching strategies, the sociology of leaches and possees, etc. Players would have to pass to play ...

This would send all pro-wannabees to college for a meaningful program with an actual and applicable credential. The colleges would still reap the millions for a couple years -- and the league wouldn't have to babysit uneducated teenagers. For the kids, it would mean two years of opportunity to learn and mature while earning a relevant credential to open the door to their professional dream job ... just like the rest of the professional world.

A Bit Above Average

Yep, I realize there has been speculation that it might be me - not Mick Jagger, James Taylor, or Warren Beatty - that Carly Simon was singing about in "You're So Vain." Still, despite my joyfully delusional enjoyment of myself, it did come as a bit of a surprise earlier this week when I learned I was now, officially, a bit above average at something else.

Huh?

One statistic I've never been above average in is "age at work". I came to my current employer when I wasn't yet 25 -- arriving as the youngest member of the leadership team, the youngest manager, and younger than more than 90% of the organization.

Well, after nearly 19 years of determined service, I've finally crested the bell curve. Our latest employee demographics show the average age to now be 43 -- and at 43 years and 5 months, I'm just a bit above average.

WOOOHOOO!

Hey, Carly -- how do you like me now?

:-)

Win Ben Stein's Opinions

Ben Stein has long been one of my favorite "characters", but I never met the man himself ... until today.

I loved the game show "Win Ben Stein's Money" and enjoyed the mindless "America's Most Smartest Model". I knew Stein's background involved being valedictorian of his class at Yale Law School, a reported genius, and a well-known economist who dabbles in political commentary ... So, when offered the opportunity by Dann Van Der Vliet, the Director of the Vermont Business Center, to hear him speak and attend a reception for him, I jumped at it. (Thanks, Dann!)

It was too much fun. Parking at UVM is always a challenge, so I cheated and tucked the little blue car in an executive spot behind the Ira Allen Chapel, turned on the cloaking device, hoped for the best, and headed in.

I surveyed the room and found a familiar face -- Tim Smith, the Executive Director of the Franklin County Industrial Development Corporation (I'm a shameless name dropper, as this post confirms) ... Soon, Rocki-Lee Dewitt (the Dean of the UVM Business School who I met when I earned my certificate from VBC), took the stage to introduce UVM President Dan Fogel (who I met at a dinner he hosted in hopes of signing my older daughter to an academic UVM scholarship) who then introduced Ben Stein. DeWitt's intro of Fogel was short and sweet ... Fogel's intro of Stein was fun and fitting -- as Fogel's wife's sister's husband was Stein's undergraduate roommate at Columbia back in the '60s (see, I'm not the only name dropper!) ...

Stein's talk was the intellectual equivalent of crossing a stream by hopping from rock to rock. Jokes. Economics. Stories. Politics. Sips of honey-water. Evolution. Name dropping (he menitoned he lives near Barbara Striesand). Anecdotes. Transistions cleverly disguised as non-sequitors ... A very interesting, enjoyable hour. Highlights?

• He's frustrated that the top 300 thousand wage earners in the US earn more than the bottom 200 million and that 1% of the people in the US own 50% of the assets in the country (agreed, the trick is how to change that appropriately);


• He holds great concern about the unbridled power of Hedge Funds and their subsequent influence on the US economy (he lost me there as I don't even truly believe in economics as a genre);


• Martin Luther King, Jr, is the man he respects most from the 20th century (could well be my choice as well);


• He's thrilled a woman and a black man are running for President, but wishes the man was Colin Powel (agreed) and the woman was Condi Rice (likely better than Hillary, but I'm not sure how much better);


• His new movie "Expelled" challenges the educational world's approach to Darwinism with Intelligent Design (in a way that is beyond me, but I've yet to see the movie) and he fielded a couple questions on it from both sides (that dripped with emotion from the asker in ways that were also beyond me);


• When asked about the impact on families of jail sentences for non-violent drug offenders, Stein turned it, and postulated perhaps it was the drug use itself hurting the families moreso than the prison sentences (agreed), but went on to say he'd likely favor eliminating criminal penalties for posession of small quantities of drugs (I disagree in the vast majority of cases) ...

All in all, a highly entertaining eclectic session that was less like a stuffy executive lecture and more like idle chatter on long a road trip between thinking friends who actually read the newspaper ... An afternoon well spent.

Then, I met Ben.

I'd been invited to the reception and wanted to meet Stein, but am a bit of an anti-social hobbit and it was a Friday afternoon and I wasn't sure I'd actually get to talk to him, so I was waivering about heading over to the Fleming Museum for the event. I decided to check on the car so I headed back to where it was illegally cloaked -- and Stein, Fogel, and DeWitt emerged from Ira Allen's side door! Opportunity knocks!

I adjusted my pace so our perpendicular paths would cross as they came off the stairs and made eye contact with Ben Stein as he stepped onto the bricked walk.

"Mr. Stein, thank you for you time today," I said. "I really enjoyed your remarks. It was a highly entertaining, interesting afternoon.

"Thank you," he said with a big smile, extending his hand to shake mine. "And what is your name?" he asked.

"I'm Jonathan Billings," I said.

"Billings?" He asked and stopped his stride as our hand shake broke and we commenced walking again. "Is this your building?"

"Ah, no", I said with a laugh as we stood just outside UVM's Billings' Student Center. Born of a different mother. "This one belongs to UVM."

A bit of laughter, mutual headnods, and we each continued on our way. Priceless ... To top it off, the cloaking device worked perfectly and the little bluc car was safe and sound (and ticket free) when I returned to it.

Haha! All in all, a most enjoyable afternoon. Thanks again, Dann!

Mirror, Mirror

In the classic Star Trek episode "Mirror, Mirror", the crew encounters their evil twins from the parallel universe ... fortunately, Evil Spock has a goatee so the viewers (at least) could tell the difference.

In the tribute t0 (or take off of, I suppose) this legendary episode by the folks at South Park, the boys have a similar encounter and sure enough, the Anti-Cartman is sporting a goatee ...

Now, both are certainly good looks -- but they are dark and sinister goatees ... In truth, the elegant goatee is light ... shining ... handsome ... blonde ... much like that of the superhero Green Arrow ... Now that was a goatee!

And thus -- with the days of The Green Arrow in mind and with a knowing nod to my fuzzed friends Evil Spock and Anti-Cartman -- my goatee has returned. It's been seven years since it appeared in one of my episodes -- seven good years, according to M ... Nonetheless, and regardless of what the relocation consolate says, I can't stay in hiding forever ... if the goatee ends up giving me away, so be it.

Hey, don't hate me because I'm beautiful ... or delusional. Or both ... :-)

JB's Art Displayed at Union Station in April '08

"Arts Alive", the gallery in Union Station in Burlington (at 1 Main Street, on the Waterfront and Battery Street) is hosting a exhibition in April of art from Franklin County artists, organized by St. Albans' own Stina Plant.

Emily and I will both have pieces on display -- Em's "Glue Bottles" painting makes its second public gallery appearance and my "Yorick" photograph moves from the private Cobblestone Gallery to Union Station for the month. Great fun ...

On Friday, April 4th, there will be a public reception for the artists at Arts Alive in Union Station from 7pm to 9pm. Emmer, unfortunately, will be out-of-state at a conference and the rest of the family is scattered, so I'll be there attempting to survive as an antisocial hobbit in a faaaar too public setting. Fortunately, refreshments will be served ... C'mon by and say hi - save me ...

In addition to the reception, the Arts Alive Gallery is open Monday through Friday from 8AM to 8PM and Saturday from 9AM to 4PM. There's a lot of talent in northwestern Vermont - stop by and enjoy a sampling of it.

An Ode to My Toes

Had you forgotten that I have poetic tendencies when left unsupervised? Well, it happened again - back in February of 2001 ... and an ode to my toes was born -- best when read aloud loudly and quickly with a slightly aristocratic British accent ...

Evolution's Golden Child
A Poem by JB of Donutrun

I look in the mirror and what do I see?
A hairy little man staring back at me ...
The distant descendent of a chimpanzee!

Am I evolution's golden child --
With prehensile toes and manners mild:
The optimal blend of tame and wild?

From dust did God a man create.
That belief I assert without debate,
And yet I ponder my fellow primate.

The monkey and man, a missing link --
If you'd seen my feet, you'd stop and think,
And kindly give a knowing wink.

And so to my destiny I cheerily traipse,
Munching bannanas and seedless grapes,
Eagerly awaiting The Planet of The Apes!

Things I Cannot Have ...

In every man's life there are things he cannot have. For most, it is but an unspoken inner understanding. For me, however, there's an actual list -- and assembly is in progress by the namby-pamby unimaginative kill-joy who is the love of my life ...

Mostly, mention of any of them prompts a quick "You're not getting that ... so don't even think about it." Heck, I get in trouble if I even appear to be trying to weasel my way into any of the following:

• A chainsaw. It's a shame. Think of the things I could cut. Like the car in half. Ooops.
• A Snickers Bar and Mt. Dew for Breakfast. One can never be toooo perky in the morning in my opinion, but alas ...
• A shaved head. I think she fears I would be tooo handsome for my own good. True.
• Picture in picture TV. I could tooo watch two baseball games, court tv, bowling, and a kung-fu movie all at once.
• My own checkbook. Hey, I'll remember to write down the *&^%$ details this time...
• A tatoo. Not the little dwarf guy on Fantasy Island. The permanent mark thing. Too bad, too, because correctly placed, "This End Up" would come in handy on occassion.
• Grappling hooks. How else am I gonna get up on the neighbor's roof? That's her point, I guess.
• A nailgun. So I asked the Home Depot guy about the range on one of them bad boys. Doesn't prove anything.
• Tatoo. The little dwarf guy on Fantasy Island. He'd be perfect when I lose the remote, but it seems there's an indentured servant law to be considered when procuring a midget.
• My own spaceship. Something about having to go through NASA for any attempt to return to my home planet.
• A flamethrower. I just want it to perk up the campfire a bit. Some people should relax.
• A pet monkey. It might offend the cat. I hardly think so.
• All four ESPN channels. I would too get off the couch. I'd have to -- I'd run out of snacks, eventually.
• A motorcycle. This is the mother of all no no's, the inspiration of the list. I'll get the spaceship first, I think ...
• And the catch all for a list in progress ... Anything to which I attach the question, "Now how could that be a bad idea?" ... Bummer.

And yet, I love her dearly.

But to be fair ... Lest folks think oppression is a one way street, I offer the list of things that SHE cannot have, authorized by firm and imperial decree of the husband:

• A clothesline. Just don't be ridiculous. We have a dryer. Hanging clean wet clothes out in the midst of the neighbors and the backyard wiffleball field is just begging for trouble. Use the dryer.
• A humus pile. (A compost heap for the politically correct, I suppose) I grew up with a pile of rotting remains in the sink waiting for me to schlep the bannana peels and other delicacies down behind the barn so they could rot and attract flies. Never again. Never again.

Reciprocatively, it's not too much to ask.