Effing Karma

Karma. I'm not even sure what it means. It's often quoted, though; I know that much. And usually only referred to when plans don't work out, or destiny comes into question.

Is this karma in action?

A for sale sign in the window and several months worth of ads in the penny saver will net no interest from possible buyers. But the day you throw up your hands and take the damn car back to the dealer (a 100 miles away), you get asked "how much?" at the gas station, the drive through, and every stop light on the way out of town. Effing karma.

After a Saturday morning soccer gear safari with the boy, finally having rounded up the required items for the next several Saturdays, lunchtime hits and before you commit to the order, good guy voice on your shoulder suggests you get enough for everyone at home too. Don't be selfish. Fine. Extra food. Drive home. Win win, everyone eats. Nope. Karma had other plans. "We already ate," is waiting at the door. Not even a thank you. Effing karma. (And you know for damn sure what would've happened if you weren't such a thoughtful son of a bitch... no one would've had lunch yet.)

The little humans in this house are messy as hell. Ketchup stains, gogurt stains, mud stains, juice stains, toothpaste stains, and any one of a number of other stains thrive like industrial disaster areas on 10's of dozens of all those cute little garments. Washing them in a timely and predictable order is apparently too much for us. Laundrey pile, a nefarious lifeform if you will, mocks us every day and every night we let another opportunity to make a dent pass us by. The clock ticks down and laundrey pile spreads his influence ever further over the washroom floor.

Right before dozing off for the night, you recall a tear-stained, weeping child who has "nothing to wear tomorrow." Heavy sigh. It's only 12:33 in the AM. So you throw a load in, and wait. It'll be about an hour to cycle and then the dryer can finish up the job. You turn on the TV, and flip channels for minutes and minutes and minutes.

You land on "Spartacus: Blood and Sand," an original series on Starz. Holy Moses! Who else is wide awake in about 16 seconds? You've seen this story before: gladiators, honor, blood, swords, lots of people in robes and forced accents wandering about pontificating the glory of Rome. Oh, and none-stop humping. Humping in the foreground, background, off the ground, on the ground, in the streets, on the seats, etc. More skin, sweating, writhing and humping then you could ever recall witnessing on TV in your life. It's like, instead of beautiful architecture and believable scenery in the backgrounds, the producers and director only requested naked "actors" willing to hump the whole time, no matter what, no matter the scene being played out on screen. I'm certain they're trying to tell a story somewhere between the barrage of humping. But it's hard to gather an actual story unfolding at all. People smarter than me -- who make more money than me -- decide these things.

Full disclosure, I watched until the spin cycle stopped and the final credits rolled. Effing karma laughs yet again at a simple man trying to do the right thing for his children, late at night, when he should've just gone to sleep an hour earlier. Oh, and that was just the set-up, because when morning came the kid was sick, and she wouldn't be needing any of those freshly washed clothes today. Not one. Just awesome! What gives? Effing karma.

Then the others, like: washing your car on a sunny day only to have it rain a few hours later. Or, choosing not to mow the lawn this evening because you have the whole weekend to worry about it (a weekend full of rainy days). Or you cut and trim a stretched-too-thin budget, because it's a smart thing to do, only to have the unexpected repair, mechanical failure or doctor bill gobble up your surplus like a yellow lab woofing down dog chow. Effing karma.

I don't know what the hell karma is. I just know whatever you're planning to do will have little to do with your destiny. Thems are the breaks, kid. Whatever belief system you go by, or religious compass you adhere to, the concept of karma is universal: that the more you convince yourself that you're in control of every last detail of your life the more evident it becomes that you're really not. That faith, good habits and common sense will surely help you navigate that which unfolds along your path, but you will never know -- never really know -- what awaits you around the bend.

Effing karma knows.

Talentd enough

People who know me best know I'm sarcastic. Talentdmrripley is the furthest thing from a pat of my own back, but rather, a snarky, tongue-in-cheek self assessment. (And a blantant rip off of a movie starring Matt Damon.) In no way do I throw it out there as a moniker to be taken seriously.

It's a 15-letter, made up word which speaks volumes based on the misconception that I'm either talented, or very impressed with my own abundance of said talent. It's sarcastic, which makes it fun, but only for me.

It's not to say I don't wish to be talented. I do. Who doesn't want that? To be a gifted musician or singer, an artist, or writer, a businessman, physician, or scientist. But from where I'm standing, the expanse between wanting something to be true about yourself and the spot where true talent is realized can be far too distant.

Or maybe it's too much work.

So cheat. Bridge the gap by merely saying something is so: like having talent. Now, I'm talented because I say am.

Do you believe it? Do I believe it?

True talent is beautiful -- possibly even divine. There's never a doubt when confronted with true talent. You know it when you see it, or read it, or hear it, or taste it, or smell it, or touch it. True talent stimulates and energizes something in us that I believe is the essence of life itself. It reminds us that, though, we are merely flesh and blood, there's so much more residing in the wells of our spirits and souls.

Our heart might keep us alive, but alone, it can never switch us on. True talent shakes our very core, and isn't even shy about it, imprinting the experience on our soul forever.

I believe I know talent, but remain unsure if I'm in possession of it, or have the courage to secure it. I must try, though, even if it's a joke.

My friend Lisa W shared a quote last month that I love, yet still hard to equip:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

-Marianne Williamson

Wanted man

Want and need may sound like two sides of the same coin, but their subtle differences -- in the end -- lead to vastly different fruit in a man's life. Needing to be needed is no way to live, and seemingly self serving. Wanting to be wanted is oddly less selfish, but in the end, more about self. Maybe true self is the soft middle of the coin, indistinguishable on the surface but always seeking to balance the times to need something versus the times to want something more.

A buddy of mine recently became the guy at his job. Out of respect for the nature of the situation, his name and title are not important. But it's fascinating to see him change before the eyes of so many. For many years, he's been a key team member and leader in the operation, and a go to guy playing a pivotal role in the growth and success of the organization. Ready or not, in a time of great crisis, his shoulder was tapped -- his name cried out in desperate panic -- to lead a troubled group of shell-shocked people out of troubled waters.

He's what I like to call a wanted man. Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be wanted as apposed to just needed.

I need to be a good husband, dad, friend, colleague, and employee. I want my wife, kids, friends, colleagues, and boss to want me around for the job.

Panic at noon

I've never had a panic attack so I really don't know what one feels like. It, whatever it was, happened while driving around at lunchtime on Friday afternoon. I can't remember the exact catalyst for the event but I was shaking in my car seat and my heart was sent racing after one simple criticism fluttered through my mind and was gone again, leaving a terrible wake in its path.

“Why are you doing everything wrong?”

The moment was laced with urgency, like being jerked awake from a dream, and the micro-seconds of fuzzy reality where you look for clarity and input about your surroundings. Like the needle of a record player being scratched unexpectedly across the charm of a favorite song I was ripped into a place of squirmy judgment (self judgment) about the many and various facets of a grown man's life -- my life -- not quite measuring up, or blatantly falling short of the mark.

It was only stranger because of the unnerving side effect and panic inducing aftermath of being vulnerable to my own worst critic. While the content of suggestion was familiar to me -- an ongoing barrage of thoughts where I devalue every last inch of my existence -- my usual defenses of being numb and dumb to the criticism had failed to scuttle the inner critic, which had had finally landed a blow that sent me breathless and listless to the ground. Time was the enemy for the first time ever, like a ticking scoreboard clock winding down to fewer and fewer chances to wrestle victory from certain defeat.

“Why are you doing everything wrong?” Tick tock tick tock.

Having it happen while behind the wheel wasn't help much either. As one is used to the monotony of processing random thoughts while driving and still being able to signal, stop, turn, and otherwise maintain the safe operation of a moving vehicle, these unreconciled thoughts were much more pungent and precise, almost leaving me paralyzed in the face of oncoming traffic.

Thinking too much about too little

Are you growing tired, like me, of rich and famous people complaining about the burden of being adored by millions and the burden of having too much spare cash.

I don't get why UFC is so huge. Pumped up, psychotic, sanctioned whalin' on each other by knuckle-dragging mouth breathers. I'll never order a Pay Per View of that "sport." On the other hand, I'll probably never order NFL Sunday Ticket either. And I love the NFL. Maybe it's an acquired taste.

Your dog is not my problem. Just as my dog is not YOUR problem. Put up a fence or buy a chain for pissakes.

You can take folks out of the trailer park but you can't take the trailer park out of some folks.

Really great neighbors are rarely seen in the wild. If you have more than a few, congratulations. You've overachieved.

If you update all the time about the same three topics on facebook or twitter, then rest assured you're boring the hell out of me, and possibly your real friends too. I don't care about your stuff. Show me the stuff you're made of.

Why doesn't the middle class become a new base in the political landscape. Certainly there's a lot of disagreement in that approach: left - right; liberal - conservative; pro-choice - pro-life; war - peace; big government - small government. However, as the backbone of the country in almost every measurable respect, the middle class feels the most adversity most directly from the ideas being batted back and forth like beach balls in Washington D.C. It's a game or job to the politicians and we don't really get it anyway once all the spin is done. Let's agree and acknowledge that we can have our own fringes and hot button topics; but more importantly, since we'll always be picking up the check, let's always do what's best for US in the process.

My taxes are high enough, thanks.

If you say you're a social media guru, I'm assuming you just got laid off. And, that the corporate suits don't get it. And you can stop acting like the expert already.

It's your civic duty to discourage douchebaggery in its infancy. If you see baglings (pre-douchers) and/or questionable behavior in your sons that will only lead to inflame this public nuisance further, then you have my permission to intercede... and I've got your back.

I wonder what I'll be amazed at when I'm a pasty old codger.

Sometimes I think Generation X -- for whatever reason -- is ill-equipped for meaningful relationships. I have no stats or research to back that up.

Further on Generation X, as a generation we were never called on to save our country from impending doom. Not like our fathers in Cold War tension and Vietnam, our grandfathers in World War II, or our great grandfathers in World War I. What exactly have we lost on a generational scale? What will emerge as a cherished leftover from what was essentially never lost? When the bell is rung, for whatever the reason, will Generation X answer the call? Is our legacy, if not the birthplace, then the realization of technology as a way of life and pillar of culture, socialistic bents, and taking me-first-beliefs to soaring new heights?

God Bless our brave and wholly volunteer military. To all who have ever worn a uniform for freedom, thank you. To those who have died in that service, my thanks will never repay what you've given in blood.

Whatever you care about is just another hue in the rainbow to everyone else.

Sometime in the evening if you look at the star Alpha Centauri A (link), that shining spec of light took 4.3 years to reach your eyeball. Others 100s of years, and still others 1000s. You're in for a total mind freak if you keep going, because some of the stars you see with the naked eye aren't even stars at all but entire galaxies a mere bazillion light years away. And they might not even exist anymore. Feel small yet?

I hope my kids hate me for all the right reasons.

I wrestle daily with spirituality. A friend recently pointed out I'd experienced a lot of religion and not enough truth. Anymore, I go out of my way not to write about the infinite, as my mind and ability to grasp such thoughts is finite indeed. All the best church cliches and Sunday school rhymes eventually become faded words and fruit not worth picking any longer.

If I see you first, I'm hiding. In the words of the George Costanza: "It's me not you."

Why are thoughts always random? By the time it's written out, edited and made ready for prime time, it hardly seems so random anymore.

Maybe more some other time.

Connecting the dots

The dream always plays out the same. I'm traveling with my family and arrive at a random place with other familiar faces. Social networking friend is there too. We say hello and I immediately withdraw because even in dreams Chris will be Chris. It goes on for a bit, and I can see the disappointment building in a face because we thought the connection meant something to both of us, but not this time. Not today. We don't speak at all which can only mean the connection meant nothing.

Needing to analyze every last detail, I'm sensing a small problem. The place I'm at in life is lacking in real, personal connections. I do not have many friends (very few, count-them-on-one-hand close and dear friendships), I'm not very outgoing, and more or less isolate myself for reasons that might require a small fortune to hash out in therapy. It makes me a very lonely bloke, socially. And I lack the courage most days to overcome it.

However, social networking sites like twitter and facebook have proven nice, pro-Chris settings to engage with people, connect, and thrive, albeit behind the magic of rose-colored glasses made of pixels. I have made 100s of connections with people, the core of which are some I've known most of my life on the book, and still others I've only casually known not more than several months via tweets.

These connections have value to me because what is lacking in the arena of normal living where I'm required to exist with other skin jobs, I've uncovered new ties in abundance thanks to technology. In their own ways, these people are all amazing to me. And further, I'm really drawn to a handful of them.

In weird, social networking ways, they matter to me. And if given the chance, I would very much like to call them my friends. Is that sick? Can someone explain why it's embarrassing to admit that?

A couple of my really good real friends do social networking too. And all we've done, essentially, is add a new dynamic to already thriving relationships. We're largely up to speed on the details of each others' lives and the social networking angle just provides more convenient ways to touch base. I've smelled their homes, tasted their cooking, heard them laugh, watched them smile, held their newborns, hugged them at parties, grieved with them at funerals, and sweated with them through weddings.

Real friends. Real life.

The technology hatched bunch of connections are a "see only crowd." I get to read what they care about, and in turn, get to decide if I care about that too. They might post pictures and leave links to their blogs, all geared at revealing greater insights into their lives. I'll update and they may or may not have thoughts on whatever the hell I care about.

Does that mean I know them? No. Not really. But, the English language is such that in 140 characters or less I'm pretty good a picking up certain attitudes, feelings, prejudices, thrilling moments, moods, aspirations, cultural tastes, bad decisions, lucky breaks, hard times and good times.

Life happens in the social-networking universe. And like real relationships, a certain evolution takes place at which the connections become stronger or weaker, more honest, or even more honestly repulsive.

It's just damn crazy to say I know them -- now or ever. The brain being the brain, however, it just wants to connect the dots and fill-in the blanks, or paint mental pictures of people and call them friends based on what? Status updates?

So, I'm left with a few real people friends, and a small group of social network followers(?) that I share a somewhat "you enrich my day, and hopefully, I enrich your day" give and take arrangement.

This is an equitable situation. I think... Or is it ... ?

I catch myself discounting the social networking bunch back into the bargain bin of casual acquaintances: not too hard to find, not too hard to relate to, and not too hard to converse with because a computer screen and the world-wide-web provide an adequate insulation to real life interaction. And that's a good fit for Chris. It's a safe place to mingle.

But a few of them... there might be something there, and I might really like to meet them.

So, again, why do I deflate their importance when all I really want to do is call them my friends. I need them. I really enjoy their company, and look forward catching up with them and seeing what they're up to.

Maybe, it's hard to admit that my real life might not be rich enough, socially, so now I'm desperately giving substantial amounts of weight to the connections of strangers that I can't ever really know.

Historically, my most rewarding relationships were seeded after risking the safety of my comfort zone. In college, I deliberated for weeks before asking a dude in class if he wanted to play tennis sometime. He was very good; a lot better than me. I'm sure the tennis was boring for him and thrilling for me. But soon enough, a friendship was born. And it's a connection that I still count amongst my most precious.

It makes me wonder if there's any such purchase in the soil of social networking.

It's a bird, it's a plane

It's a gorgeous beginning to the day, set against a string of not so pretty stretches of cold. Spring has taken its sweet time arriving this year in the Valley. Indeed, everywhere across the Pacific Northwest, the masses have grown tired of the winter that won't quit.

We're usually spared the utter extremes of the coldest season due to our 3-digit elevation -- between 700-800 feet above sea level -- effectively ducking extended periods of chilly, bone-jarring days and nights where piles of snow that slowly impose their will on civilized people all around us. Drive 30 miles in any direction and you're quite literally waist deep in arctic misery.

Granted, living here can be filled with many forms of misery, but tough winter weather is not among them.

So, it's 9:30 a.m. and I'm firmly planted in my office. My buddy the brain reminds me that he's holding my sanity hostage until a certain daily ransom is paid in the form of several cups of hot, black coffee.

Sensing a lull in the break-neck pace of radio broadcasting, I gather my coffee pot and cup and head for the sink. Dish-soap: check; cleaning sponge: good enough (remember to pick up a new pack of Scotch-Brite pads at the store next time).

I begin scrubbing away yesterday's coffee stains, careful to use only enough dish-soap to do the job without leaving the sudsy residue that I swear will ruin an otherwise good cup of Jo.

As I'm rinsing, OCD style, my ears announce the droning twin engines of another Horizon Air flight on final approach for Runway 11. It's faint, but growing stronger and closing on the bluff above where the airport rests just beyond the public golf course. It's become a part of life working on Snake River Avenue and living just above there in the Echo Hills Addition. Our station, like our house, lines up perfectly for approaching aircraft on 11 -- or departing aircraft on 29 (two niner). My ears can usually pinpoint the exact model of airplane before my eyes visually confirm my hunch.

It's the newer, larger Bombardier Q400 -- the very recent replacement for the venerable Dash 8 -- which serves dozens of regional feeder airports like LWS (Lewiston Nez Perce County Regional Airport) to SEA/TAC in Seattle, Washington.

Again, it's gorgeous outside. Still a little cool outside, but earnestly beautiful with the sun shining and signs of spring flexing her stiff, dormant muscles again for the first time. The noise of the approaching Horizon flight grows stronger as I continue to stare mindlessly out the kitchen window and finish up with my rinsing.

That's when my eyes immediately lock onto a lone robin in the grass. She works her beak in and around blades of grass, perhaps in search of a fresh, wiggly worm for breakfast, or a variety of delightful bugs.

I have my morning routine, and the robin has hers -- albeit hers a more noble habit geared towards survival, where mine is a France-like surrender to a soul-sucking addiction.

Between filling up the reservoir with fresh, cold water, watching the small bird and sensing the exact position of the plane directly over the building -- even as it cast a slight, gone-in-an-instant shadow through my field of vision -- the robin stops, looks straight up and tracks the plane like a kid at an airshow until it eventually disappears out of sight over the bluff.

I don't know why but moments like that one are interesting to me. What could she be thinking?

"Bravo," the feathered one mocks. "Look at you, aloft on the wind with so many parts needing to work perfectly in order to harness the very air I breathe to take flight. Oh sure, you may be thousands of feet higher, and be able to fly quickly from here to Christmas and back, and make so much noise that other pathetic humans have no choice but to stop in their tracks to gawk like imbeciles. No. You are in my domain. I can fly in the blink of an eye. And I don't need fancy runways, or jet fuel, or turbo-props, or flaps, or a yoke, or an impressive console of controls to trick fate. I'll tip my beak in recognition that you made it to the stars, and you don't have to chug earth worms for breakfast. But I can fly, dammit, and your species cannot, and probably should not."

Sarcasm always comes first with me. It's a character flaw, and sadly, nothing sacred in life is safe from my need to make fun of it. Maybe it stems from a less than positive cup-is-half-empty outlook. Or, maybe I just find things more funny than serious. If I can laugh at it first, then surely I can take whatever is left in the form of life lessons later. I will laugh hysterically some day at my own daughters' weddings -- and then weep uncontrollably until the liquor kicks in.

My first reflex is that the bird is thinking, "wtf... who in the hell do you think you are?"

And that's right. Who in the hell do we think we are? For as long as mankind has walked this rock we've strained our necks and squinted our vitamin deficient eyes in awe of God's feathered masters of the sky. For they dance upon the winds effortlessly and frolic among the clouds with joy and purpose. Truly, birds are the masters of flight.

Then something else struck me. After countless millenniums of watching and wondering how, our brightest minds surmised that fabric and wood could be combined with thrust in such a way that flight was finally within our grasp. We further conceived ways to bend sheet metal and aluminum into vehicles attached to jet engines, to further realize that mere dreams a century earlier were now a part of everyday life. And when we're not thinking of new ways to kill each other at Mach 2 from the skies above we're devising new and more amazing ways to go faster and climb higher.

Why was this tiny bird staring so intently at the machine overhead? Was it possibly an awestruck robin frozen in the spectacle that is modern flight.

"Bravo," she sighs. "Just look at your blurry, massive hunk of buzzing metal and rivets, so high, so graceful, and so effortlessly knifing through the air above me. Truly, mankind is the master of flight -- as I'm still unable to avoid office windows disguised as blue sky."