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On this week's Keepin' it Real, Cam Marston wonders if we prefer entertainment to anything of substance. And frets over the consequences.
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I hope everyone had a nice July Fourth holiday.
On July 4th, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was officially adopted and signed. It has proven to be one of the most influential documents in world history, generating demands for independence and self-rule across the world.
Eleven years later, in 1787, the US Constitution was created and was then ratified about a year later. The energy and enthusiasm and aspirations of these two documents propelled a new nation forward. They’re full of hope and ambition and the authors of the documents counted on the honor and integrity of this new nation’s leaders to fulfill what those documents stood for. The leaders, the documents, and the mood of our country at the time was hope fueled by the divine.
Let’s contrast that to what we witnessed two Thursday nights ago in the Biden Trump debate. Let’s consider for a moment what’s happened to us. From uplifting prose to child-like name calling. From sage and cogent observations about human nature to incoherent ramblings. From relying on the honor and integrity of leaders to spewing gobs of lies. From working through honest and principled disagreements to an unwillingness to even shake hands.
No one I know likes the candidate they’ll eventually vote for. No one I know thinks their candidate, regardless of their party, is capable or qualified. Everyone I know is voting for their guy to prevent the other guy from destroying the nation. What have we done to deserve this? It’s a serious question. What the hell have we done to deserve this?
I’ve heard many people say, “Is this the best we have to pick from?” but after the debate last week, that question became “This is the best we have to pick from!”. And, I’ll say it again, everyone I know, regardless of who they will eventually vote for, is saying that about their candidate. No one likes their options.
At dinner last Saturday night, a friend mused that he thinks our nation today likes entertainment more than anything that remotely feels like substance. When it comes to politics, we don’t want anyone to tell us the truth. We want to be entertained. So, we keep electing politicians that tell us what we want to hear, that entertain us.
Perhaps the debate last week will initiate a turning point. Perhaps now we’ll begin talking about substantive topics. When was the last time a politician even offered an opinion on our nation’s debt or deficit? When was the last time a politician addressed our nation’s addiction to entitlement spending? A trusted economist I interviewed on my radio show last week predicted that around the year 2030, our nation will fall into an economic depression that overshadows the Great Depression of the 1930s and it will largely driven by deficit spending, national debt, and runaway entitlement spending issues we’ve known about but refuse to acknowledge.
And if he’s right, and as these dark clouds gather, we sit and watch two of the nearly least capable people our nation has ever put forward feebly argue over why they should represent us as president. It’s gut-wrenching. And it’s not entertaining. Not at all.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
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The roost is full at Cam's house. And on this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares that it may never be this way ever again.
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My wife and I had thought our summer would be quiet and a bit boring. Two of our four children would be living away and the other two would be at home but either working during the day, away at camp for a few weeks, or playing sports. Plans changed, though, and they’re all back home for the summer. Our house is packed. The roost is full. Our four kids are between the ages of twenty-one and seventeen and they’re all living at home until the fall when my two college aged children return to campus. In the meantime, we’re all together. Just like old times except, today, they’re all in the bodies of adults.
Our Costco run Saturday morning was $700. We could easily return tomorrow for another run. The food goes fast. The refrigerator goes from full to empty in just days. And even after packing the fridge, we heard the all-too frequent complaint – “there’s nothing to eat around here.” My wife calmed herself and took my children on a food tour standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open, pointing out the $700 worth of food we had just put in there. Pointing at items and explaining how simple it was to prepare and eat the food.
The trash cans are always loaded, too. Before the house was full, we’d take the trash to the outside cans a couple of times per week at most. Now it can be twice a day. The recycling is always overflowing, too, and needs to be taken outside every few days. We are running the dishwasher every night – it fills up every day whereas when previously it was run maybe once per week. The washer and dryer are in constant motion. And I spent ten hours cooking a nine-pound Boston Butt Saturday. Nine pounds of meat would usually last my house a week or so. It was nearly gone by the time dinner was over Saturday night.
Oddly, though, I see my children much less than I thought. Mainly because by the time I’m up and have left for the office, they’re still in bed. And when I get home later in the afternoon, they’re gone to work or with their friends. We hear them at night, though. They each come in and knock on our bedroom door to let us know they’re home.
It’s nice to have the roost full again. I wondered if it would ever happen. It’s easily conceivable that my college aged children could never have returned home ever again though my friends with older children say that is not likely to happen; like it or not, your kids are coming back, they say. But the thought of my kids not living at home anymore, I don’t know, kinda unsettles me. Makes me feel sad. Is that chapter of my life really over? I’m told I’ll miss the shoes all over the floor and the dishes in the sink someday. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. However, the Costco runs – I’ll definitely not miss those.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
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On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam is having a harder and harder time walking his dog due to his neighbor's dog that won't go away.
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“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked this of God after his brother Abel went missing and God asked Cain, “Hey. Where’s Abel?” Cain claimed he didn’t know. Cain had killed Abel, by the way, and was trying to hide it.
How about this question – “Am I my brother’s dog’s keeper?”
I remember growing up in a neighborhood where everyone let their dogs run. There were few fenced in yards. No such things as invisible dog fences and fancy dog collars. The dog I got for Christmas as a teenager, a black lab we named Holly, mostly stayed in the yard, on the front porch, or by the back door. She had a small piece of left over carpet that she could sit and sleep on when she was allowed inside. It stayed next to the back door and Holly was not allowed to go anywhere else in the house. Outside she roamed a bit when she got older. She was one of many. There was Gumpy and Gidget and Daisy and Elizabeth and more all on our street. Holly was known by the neighbors and, well, tolerated, just like their dogs were by us and tolerated. Holly never caused problems – at least that’s the way I remember her.
The rules have changed. Today we fence dogs in. Or we put them behind invisible dog fences with collars that give dogs a series of warning beeps when they approach their boundaries. We don’t let them outside unsupervised. We only walk them on leashes, and we pick up their droppings with special poop bags and carry their poop in our pockets before we throw it away, which shocks me. We humans have created artificial intelligence, we regularly go to and from outer space, we have created the pyramids of Giza, a flawless sculpture of David, and radars that can see underground from outer space but we regularly carry dog poop in our pockets. We’re not as advanced as we think. But I digress.
So, back to the question, am I my brother’s dog’s keeper?
My neighbor’s dog wanders the neighborhood. The owner says the same thing – Oh. I’m sorry. She got out again. And again. And again. And again. The windowsills in the front of my house are destroyed. My dog goes nuts when she sees the other dog in our yard. And when the other dog comes up to our window our dog barks violently and claws at the window which has destroyed our sills. Their dog gets into our curbside recycling, spreading it all over the yard. Their dog follows us when we go on walks and we have to abandon our walks for fear of their dog getting into traffic.
The dog, of course, is just being a dog. It’s doing what dogs do. We’ve returned the dog to the owner many times but, I don’t know, the owner doesn’t seem to care about the hassles the dog causes.
So, am I my brother’s dog’s keeper? And if yes, for how much longer? And can I put the dog’s owners in a poop bag and throw them away?
I’m Cam Marston just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam is board so he's thinking about paddling across the Pacific. Or planting a few ferns.
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I’m bored. And that’s a problem. Somethings been nagging at me for a few weeks and I now know what it is – I’m bored. There’s little adventure in my world right now. Very little discovery. And when boredom sets in get panicky and a bit rash. Too often, I over compensate.
This morning I spent way too much time on the Molokai to Oahu web page. It’s a 32 mile stand up paddleboard race from the Hawaiian island of Molokai to the island of Oahu and it takes most paddleboard participants about seven hours to complete. The participants in the videos were all much much younger than me and loaded with muscles. I saw no participants that were middle aged plus men with beer bellies. Some participants spoke of the unbelievable color of the water in the center of the Ka’iwi channel which is crossed between Molokai and Oahu. I’m guessing that’s because the water in the channel is 2300 feet deep.
I think I want to do it. It’s a sure way to cure my boredom. The problem is that I don’t own a standup paddleboard and the few times I tried one I spent more time climbing back on than I did stand up paddling. I also have thalassophobia which is a deep fear of deep bodies of water. Whenever I’m in the ocean where I can’t see the bottom, I envision a giant toothy creature surging from the depths with its mouth open, headed my way. Man loses his edge when swimming in the ocean – it becomes an equal playing field between man and beast. However, training to paddle from one Hawaiian island to another would certainly resolve my boredom however crazy it sounds.
A more realistic and, frankly, a sad alternative to my boredom is yardwork. I hate it that I even mention that. What else says overweight, middle aged, thinning brown haired white guy than deciding working in the yard is a cure for boredom. My wife, my son, and I planted forty autumn ferns a few weekends ago in areas where no grass has grown for the past fifteen years. I didn’t much like planting them. My mood is generally sour when working in the yard, but I’ve slowly walked by and admired our planted ferns a dozen times or more sense then. I don’t like doing yard work. I like having done yard work. Another forty ferns would solve my boredom problem but that’s so dang sad.
So, I’m bored. And the ideas I’ve come up with for solving my boredom problem are either fanciful or pitiful. When I told my wife that I had figured out the cause of my melancholy and that it was boredom, she gave me an uneasy look. I’ve been here before and I usually do something stupid in times like this. And she’s right. And I’m sure I will.
Will it be to paddleboard across the ocean? Or gobs of ferns? Good lord. What’s wrong with me?
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
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On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam says we know we're all busy, very busy, but are we doing what it takes to flourish?
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What does it take for a human to flourish? Such a simple question to understand but to answer, not so easy.
Listening to a podcast last weekend, this question arose between the host and his guest. The guest pointed out that, in his opinion, everything being promoted as valuable in our Western society today is detrimental to human flourishing. What is being promoted, he said, actually leads to loneliness. And he might be right.
So, what is being promoted out there? One immediately must turn to technology and, specifically, social media. Our consumption of social media is largely done alone. We may share things we like, but we consume 99% of our social media alone.
The accumulation and broadcasting of wealth is certainly being promoted. On social media. In the types of cars next to us on the road right now. Through our posts about the clothes, the toys, the trips we take. It all serves to boost and promote our ego and egos, unchecked, always elevate and separate. Always. Egos say, “I’m better, I’m different.” I’m above you. I’m away from you. More loneliness. I could go on.
So, if we want to flourish, what exactly should we want? If we want our children to flourish, what should we want for them? Unfortunately, most of us don’t know. We’re conditioned to say friends, health, meaningful and purposeful activities each day. It all sounds good. So look at you. Look at me. What are we doing to achieve this? What of our behaviors illustrate that we’re flourishing? For the vast majority of us, there’s not a lot to point to.
And we have the ability to heavily influence our kids. We want our kids to flourish so, we give them cell phones. We solve their problems. We let them stay home from school. Kids today spend less time interacting with each other. Increases in anxiety and loneliness. We want them to flourish but we don’t equip them or teach them how. And adults aren’t much different. We’re busy, though. So very busy. Flourishing? No. Busy. Yes. Very busy.
A small business colleague asked a simple but heretical question last night: “What’s wrong with not wanting more? What’s wrong with not wanting private equity to swoop in and buy me out because I like what I do, and I don’t want to stop? What’s wrong with not wanting a boat, a plane, a second house or whatever? What’s wrong with liking where I am? And why do I feel wrong for asking this?”
There’s nothing wrong with it. But it’s counter to our culture of more and more and busier and busier.
Everything needed for each of us to flourish is within our reach. Education. Art. Friends. Hobbies. Community.
Do you and I have what it takes to leave the mess we’ve created so that we can flourish?
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
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On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston had a client breach a contract and he's trying to use lessons from Marcus Aurelius to keep himself from absolutely losing it.
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I’m reading Marcus Aurelius’ book called Meditations written in about the year 175. They’re notes to himself about the thoughts he’s having and how he’s working to keep his head on straight. He’s writing to work things out. No audience in mind, just for him.
Throughout his writings several themes arise. First, he’s aware of the presence of death. The topic of dying is never far. Second, he has to keep reminding himself that he can’t control the behaviors of those around him, only himself. He controls his outlook on things and his attitude. He writes this over and over again. And third, his desire to do good. Always wanting to do good. For himself, for Rome, for the gods, for his troops. He’s consumed by doing good. Struggling to temper his reactions whenever bad things come his way. He’s focused on controlling his behavior. It's been a good read.
Aurelius had a number of people conspire against him while he was away on campaign. His plan was to return to Rome and forgive them. He died in route. It’s a very kind action in an era I often associate with ruthless and barbaric behavior.
I’ve recently had a client break a contract. Their behavior appeared willful and intentional but in hindsight, I’m hoping it wasn’t. It is a very large multi-national company. Every person I’ve met there seemed honest and genuine and sincere until this one thing has happened. A few weeks ago, I wanted to go to my small business colleagues and yell at the top of my lungs “Be careful. They’re not who they say they are. Don’t let the charm fool you. Be very, very careful.”
Now, not so much. My anger has diminished. I need to remedy the contract. I need to correct what’s happened. But goodness knows mounting a legal dispute would drain my small business. I’d go broke trying. Them? Hardly a blip on their radar.
So, how to proceed? What would my man, Marcus Aurelius, do? I think he’d remind himself that he can’t control the behavior of other people and his desire to do good and be kind should outweigh any anger, hostility and disappointment he feels. He needs to find the remedy without letting anger take hold. He may forgive them but he’d, rightly, never forget that it happened. And for me, right now, for what appeared like pre-meditated theft, forgiveness is a tall order.
It's amazing how unchanged our thoughts and emotions are in 2000 years. How the disciplines and thoughts and writings that a Roman emperor used to keep himself from losing it applies to me right now. I’d like to think that we’re kinder and more civil and sophisticated today. However, it’s simply not true. The virtues that Aurelius championed are as hard to bring forth in me today as they were to him 2000 years ago.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
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On this week's Keepin' It Real, what was Cam doing today at 4:59am? Well, he wasn't getting out of bed. That we know for sure.
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Most mornings I’m staring at the clock about 4:30 am waiting to get up. I won’t allow myself to get out of bed before 5am. Getting your day started at 5am means you’re aggressive. You’re eager to get going. Getting out of bed before 5am means you have a problem. They’re slight gradations. Minutes matter and 4:59am is a good bit different from 5am. I stare at the clock until it turns 5 when I feel like it’s ok to jump up and get the coffee started.
Most of my friends are much the same. I sat at my kitchen table last Saturday night with two friends as we waited for the beef ribs to get to 203 degrees, which, according to one of my kitchen guests, is the magic temperature for beef ribs. Each of us talking about how early we get up and what we do in those early morning hours. It’s worth noting that none of us do anything much interesting at all at this time of day. We make busy. We putter around. Each thinking that our behavior at that hour must be fascinating to others and we can’t wait to tell them about it. It’s not. As different as we think we are, we’re all remarkably the same at that time of day.
Years back I saw that when I accomplished something at that time of day it set a precedent for getting stuff done throughout the day. If I could check something off my list first thing in the morning – even something small - then I was likely to accomplish more during the day. This is to avoid staring into my phone as my first action of the day which leads to a poor beginning to the day. So at night, I cue up my early morning project. It’s simple stuff – I fold laundry, empty the dishwasher, take trash to the street, change a lightbulb. Something small done with one eye on the coffee maker. Because when the coffee maker beeps that the coffee is ready, the projects stop, the coffee goes into my cup, and it’s go-time for the day. But, in that short amount of time the coffee is brewing, I’ve made progress on having a good day.
It’s unfair that the first fifteen minutes of each day has such great influence over the following sixteen hours. I’m more like a child protecting its pacifier than any sort of adult doing adult things. But I’ve learned, so goes my morning, so goes my day. A more mentally disciplined person would never allow that to happen – they can set a positive trajectory by shaping their thoughts anytime of the day. I, however, am vulnerable to those first fifteen minutes. It’s shocking and, frankly it disappoints me about myself.
Amazing how beholden we are to our routines, isn’t it? Amazing how we count on them like we do. I can choose to get out of my routine and enjoy it. But knock me out of my routine unwillingly and I struggle to keep my day from deteriorating. So I protect it. And any parent knows what I know about myself – you don’t mess with the pacifier.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam has seen much more of the healthcare world these days than he would like. His advice: Stay well.
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I’ve been given an up a close look at our health care system over the past several months. It’s been, well, disappointing. And this comes after hearing a remarkable speaker discuss the importance of customer service on company culture.
I made a reference several months ago to the pain I’ve had. It’s finally been diagnosed as polymyalgia rhumatica, or PMR. It showed up around February first and has been a part of every day since. It’s a sickness that can’t be confirmed through tests. Once they rule out everything else, it’s one of the ones that’s left.
I’ve dealt with some pain in my life. Cluster headaches. A blood clot in my lung. However, nothing day in and day out has been like this PMR pain. On a scale from one to ten it’s regularly an 8 in the morning dipping to a four or five in the afternoon and back to an 8 the next morning. I need help getting my shirt on and off. I can barely brush my teeth. Right now, I’m on a steroid that masks the pain and I pray that the pain ends before the prescription runs out.
Now, the heath care system. I’ve seen five different doctors to try to diagnose this. I’m guessing I’ve spent less than an hour total with all of them. Averaging, maybe, ten minutes each. They burst through the door, they ask a handful of questions, they order tests. It’s quick. I’ve spent lots of time with nurses and assistants and in waiting rooms. But the doctors are hard to come by.
One hospital wouldn’t let me speak to a doctor who I heard might can help. “Unless you’re a patient,” they said, “you can’t speak to him.” “Well, I might become a patient if he thinks he can help. I’ve seen others of his specialty, but I hear he knows more. “Sorry,” they said. So, I wrote him a letter to get him to call me. I got a voice mail from the office supervisor – “you can’t talk to him. Please call me back,” she said. And I tried, got an exhaustive phone tree, zero’d out and asked, “Can I leave a message for the supervisor?” “Sorry,” they said. “Her phone isn’t hooked up to the system.” Over and over. Round and round. There were some phone trees that never allowed me to speak with anyone. If I weren’t in pain already my experience with today’s health care system was getting me there.
Another – “before I can treat you further, I have to do some tests,” the doctor said. “Make an appointment on the way out.” “We don’t make appointments,” the front desk said. Annoyed. Staring at her phone. “Someone will call you.” A day later, “Our next available appointment is in July.” “So, I have to live in level 8 pain from early April to July?” “Sorry. That’s all I got. You want the appointment or not?”
The culture of healthcare today is painful. Don’t get sick, folks. Don’t get sick. If your sickness doesn’t kill you, finding the treatment just might.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
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Each spring Cam sits in his morning reading chair and see's a friend just outside the window. But Cam won't give him a name. He absolutely won't.
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My lizard friend is back again. He shows up on the air conditioner every spring just outside the window. He stays there quite a while each morning, arriving about half an hour after sunrise. I sit each morning in my reading chair and keep an eye out for him. And suddenly, he’s there.
I grew up calling these things chameleons. Wikipedia, however, just told me he is a green anole and he is often mistakenly called a chameleon, likely started by pet shop owners who were selling them as something much more exotic than they are. Wikipedia also says his species is “secure”, meaning they are abundant.
My lizard friend is a male. He keeps pushing out his dewlap, his little red throat thingy that they show during mating season, hoping, I suppose to attract some babe lizard due to his remarkably colorful and large dewlap. He sits alone on the air conditioner flexing his dewlap in the hopes that some chick lizard will spot him and be taken with his masculinity and crawl on over for a big moment of lizard passion. At least that’s what I assume he’s doing. In this regard, my lizard friend isn’t too much different than many of the guys I see at the gym.
As a child we’d catch them and scare the girls. My braver friends would catch two and when the lizard tried to bite them, they’d let the lizard bite their earlobe and let it hang. The kids would walk inside with lizards hanging from each ear, find their mothers and say, “Mom. Look at me.” The mothers would see two lizards hanging from their son’s ears and freak out. “Get those lizards off your ears and get them out of my house!” We loved it. Scaring mothers with bugs and lizards was a big fun part of my childhood.
There’s a part of me that wants to name him, and the name Roscoe keeps coming to mind. However, once you give a name an animal it becomes much closer to being a pet. A friend owns a beef cattle farm and he’s talked to me about how he avoids naming any of his cattle. One may have a big mark on him that makes my friend want to call that cow Spot or Freckles or something, but he resists the urge. My friend knows that one day that cow will be in the cooler for sale, and having to say goodbye Spot or Freckles is, well… He knows not to name them.
Same is true for the lizard outside who might be Roscoe. He has lots of predators looking for him. Birds. Snakes. Larger lizards. I won’t name him because I may be watching him display one morning at the same time a blue jay or mockingbird sees him and suddenly Roscoe’s gone. So I won’t name him, the anonymous lizard who might otherwise be Roscoe. He’s trying so hard out there. Every morning, he and I say hello through the window and he gets to work while I read. He’s a good lizard, Roscoe is, but I won’t name him. I won’t.
I’m Cam Marston. Just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam Marston takes a moment to observe the fingerprint of time. And wishes he hadn't.
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Talking to a naked man is awkward. It’s just…awkward.
There are men that have come my gym at the same time every day for decades. And their work in the gym may have kept them alive but it has not kept them from aging. There is nothing firm on them. There’s nothing taut. Age plus gravity has left a sagging fingerprint. And talking to a naked man, especially one with some age on him, is, well, awkward. They’re standing there, towel over their shoulder, not around their waist. Is eye contact the right thing? Is no eye contact the right thing? I struggle with what to do.
My gym has a hot tub. It feels good to get in there and, as I say, boil my bones for about ten minutes. I wear shorts. It’s a moment of truth whenever a naked man approaches the hot tub and asks, “Mind if I join you?” I never say what I want to. There’s plenty of room in there for the both of us, but sharing a hot tub with a naked man is, well, awkward. How far do I stay away? My instinct is to push myself up against the furthest edge of the tub. However, too much aversion may be rude. So somewhere between the next county over and right next to him seems to be about right. Always looking up. Always looking out. Always looking away. No behavior or no eye contact to suggest that you’re happy he’s joined you.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as an old man walked across the crowded locker room, towel over his shoulder, toward the water cooler. The room parted like the Red Sea. Everyone scooting out of the way. Him talking the whole way about golf or politics or traffic, whatever. No one was listening after he starting moving. Everyone clearing out. Making a path. Don’t get too close. And, good lord, don’t touch him. Fully dressed I’d happily shake his hand or even hug him. In the locker room with only a towel over his shoulder, no contact at all.
Another tried talking to a younger man who was getting dressed. The older man, towel over his shoulder, couldn’t get the younger man’s full attention. It was clear that the younger man did not want a conversation with a naked old man, so older man began walking towards him. The younger man moved to avoid him and kept moving, like a slow moving chase. Once the older man got within a certain distance, the younger man moved again. Like the repulsion of two magnets. And it was funny as long as he didn’t want to talk to me.
The male body, especially after a certain age, is nothing people should want to look at. It’s nothing people should have to see. It becomes oddly misshapen and strangely bulbous. There are exceptions, of course, and they’re on the covers of magazines. But most of us – yes, me too – avoid full length mirrors until we’re dressed. We already can feel the fingerprint of time. There’s absolutely no reason to have to look at it.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's KIR, Cam Marston wonders if he could do the same thing for fifteen years and know, just know in his bones, that it would pay off.
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I’ve just watched the documentary on Steve Martin called "Steve! A Documentary in Two Pieces." I’ve always liked Steve Martin.
What caught my attention the most is that he did his standup act for fifteen years. The vast majority of that time, his audiences were very small. In one video clip, he’s counting the number of people in the room during his act – there were fifteen people there. He got what he thought were big breaks that bombed, in one case opening for Anne Margaret in Las Vegas and after he finished his act all his belongings had been put in a box outside his dressing room.
However, the last stand-up comedy act he did was at the Nassau Coliseum outside New York City where he sold it out three nights in a row – 45,000 people each night. After the third night, he walked off the stage, never to do that act ever again. He was at the top of his game. It took him fifteen years to get there. And then he was done.
Question: Who of us have the will, the fortitude, to persevere for fifteen years – fifteen years - with the hope – actually, the confidence – that what we’re doing will ultimately pan out. When giving up or changing course is a very real option but we chose not to do it because our vision of what could be is so strong. I’m not sure I do. How many of us can see the need for a change, or see a change coming, and get out in front of it, remain confident amongst the failure and rejection, and never waver.
A number of times during the documentary Martin says that he did his act because he had few other options. The little money it brought in was all he had. Those interviewed, though, said he was waiting for society to catch up to his humor. Steve Martin changed standup and comedy and humor. He could see the change coming, but the vast majority of society wasn’t aware that a change was happening. Martin saw it coming, ever so slowly, so he kept going.
It's one thing to ID forthcoming changes in technology and how to get ahead of those changes to profit from new products – think Steve Jobs and the iPod – but what Steve Martin did was predict a change in the ethos of the United States following Vietnam. He had a hunch people would be different. And he kept at it. And, in time he was proven right.
What’s the moral of this story? Someone like that is out there amongst us right here and right now. Doing something we think is foolish, or that doesn’t seem funny, or saying something that doesn’t sound smart or goes against the grain of society. We ridicule them or cast them aside or, more likely, just ignore them. But they keep coming back. Perhaps, we should take a look.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston hypothesizes on what a parenting podcast from him and his wife would sound like.
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My wife and I sat together at the beach last week laughing as we retold stories and reminded ourselves of the humor of parenting. Especially as Gen X parents. We decided to compose a social media post together. The date was April first, and that date matters.
The post read the following: We are frequently asked how we’ve raised four perfect children. Here’s our response: We are excited to announce our new Parenting Podcast called Gen X Parenting Tools. Go check it out.
We listed some episode titles:
Episode One: Building a Foundation: Hose water and neglect Episode Two: Who needs effective discipline? The effective use of ridicule and humiliation Episode Three: At the Heart of it All is Cynicism.Lots of people, too many in fact, thought we were serious. Across the top of the post, it read Launching April First. We thought that would be a dead giveaway.
Several asked where they could find the podcast. One cheered enthusiastically, agreeing that we did have four perfect kids, and was excited to hear the show. Lots wrote in reply, “I can’t wait” or “I’ll listen.”
My guess is that we were too subtle. I had hoped people would add new episode titles like Episode Four: Serves You Right – Whatever Just Happened You Had it Coming. Or Episode Five: Maybe it Will Scar, Maybe it Won’t – Either Way Stop Crying.
One person understood quickly that it was a hoax and she wrote: As soon as I saw the line about your four perfect kids, I knew it was a joke. Well, we’re glad you got the joke but, ouch!
If my wife and I had a podcast on parenting the title would be “Here’s how to fail only about half the time, try not to get your kids to hate you, and hope you get lucky at parenting.” Today, I worry that our practice of making the kids run a lap around the house if they burped at the table at mealtime may have been too extreme. Are they somewhere now sharing their traumatized memories of running outside barefoot in the dark in their pajamas on cold nights? Screaming the whole way around the house “It was an accident. It was an accident.”
Our podcast would be full of situations where my wife and I didn’t know what to do and still don’t.
“Should we have allowed him to go to that concert?” “I don’t know. I’m not sure we did the right thing. I hope we didn’t mess him up. I guess time will tell.”
“Should we have made her change her clothes into something different before that event?” “I don’t know. I’m not sure we did the right thing. I hope we didn’t mess her up. I guess time will tell.”
My conclusion is that in parenting, just like in April Fools posts, there needs to be some self-deprecating humor, less subtlety, and a good bit of praying we didn’t mess it up and that it will all work out in the end.
However, that hose water thing – that may come back to haunt us.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston has some observations about the NCAA tournament. The old guys are winning, and he likes that.
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Someone in my family is not pleased right now. As I write this Wednesday, I don’t know who. Last night the North Carolina Tar Heels basketball team took on the Alabama Crimson Tide in the NCAA tournament. My wife is a Carolina grad. I was unaware people could like basketball that much until I met her. My son is a Freshman at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He was an avid sports fan moments after his birth. One of them lost last night and is not pleased. They’ll be picking at each other today until the loser says “Ok. That’s enough.”
My wife has commented all year about how this year’s basketball season is different. There were many more seniors playing than ever before. North Carolina’s standout forward, Armando Bacot, is twenty-four years old. It’s not only my wife that’s noticed it. Yesterday, while I was walking on the treadmill, my buddy Jimbo mentions how all the successful teams are all older. Then this morning, the daily newsletter I enjoy so much called Morning Brew mentions the same thing, going on to state that nearly 300 tournament players are in the fourth, fifth, or sixth years playing basketball. Covid rules allowed them to extend their eligibility and NIL money is keeping them playing in the college ranks whereas in the past they may have bolted for the big money of professional basketball.
This is in great contrast to the years of when the top basketball teams were loaded with “one and done” players. The top players would play one year in college then go on to bigger money. The teams loaded with one and done players this year have not fared as well. The University of Kentucky’s basketball roster has eight freshmen on it. Kentucky has been a perennial basketball powerhouse and a perennial one and done program, and they likely watched last night’s games at home on their couch just like I did after they lost in the first round.
Experience is proving to matter this year. Many of the teams that may have never have ever had a chance to make the NCAA tournament were present this year, fueled by upper-classmen. Many of them have already lost, but they were there. And many for the first time. And on some teams, fans are able to watch their players mature. Some players are staying on the same team throughout their college career. While it is true the transfer portals have spoiled much of this, there are places where the seniors have been at the same school the whole time. They’re rare, but they’re out there. And their fans adore them. They’ll cheer any player wearing their alma mater’s jersey, but they’ll adore the ones who have worn it four years or more.
So why does this make me feel kinda good? That the old kids are proving to be the winners? That the veterans are the difference makers? I suppose because it shows that wisdom and time and experience matter. And, as I get older, that keeps getting more and more important to me. And even though these veteran players are more than thirty years younger than me, I feel a kinship with them.
I’m Cam Marston and, old as I am, I’m just trying to keep it real.
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On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam is searching for a message and if he hears one, he WILL obey.
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I think there is someone or something out there trying to send me a message. A few things have happened lately that seem, well, like there is a message coming or attached but I don’t know what it is.
First, storms rolled through a few months ago knocking out the power. Fortunately our house has a generator attached and it kept a few rooms running for a little while. My friends began texting about their power being out. I proudly texted a photo of my comfortable and well-lit kitchen that showed our generator working fine and then, boom, a lightning strike destroyed the generator.
Soon after I was telling someone I think the whole idea of “long covid” is bogus. There’s no such thing as “long covid” I said confidently. It’s a made-up sickness that people are using to stay out of work. Then I was hit with pains like I’ve never had before. They won’t go away. They’re in my shoulders and hips and are intense in the night and early morning. It’s been two months of constant pain. After determining it wasn’t arthritis and drawing 1000 gallons of blood, the Doctor told me I have post-viral myofascial syndrome. Otherwise known as long-covid. The pain might last for as long as six months, she said, Get used to it.
Then there are the clients who have contacted me asking for proposals. I ask thoughtful questions so I can better customize for them. They confirm they’re eager to get started soon. The call ends wonderfully. And I, foolishly, start counting my chickens. Then things get quiet. I follow up and they assure me they’re looking at it and we’ll get started soon and over and over and round and round. Ultimately, no decisions. I’d much rather a client say No, Thank you than never reply or never make a decision. Uncertainty, in this case, is worse than bad news.
So, like I said, I feel like someone or something is trying to get a message through to me. But what? Tell me. I need the sky to crack and open and a booming voice to come from it or a burning bush in the back yard telling me what to do. Or the phone to ring or the email to buzz or something. What’s the message?
After dealing with the pain from post-viral myofascial syndrome – I’m struggling to call it long covid - for two months, I’ll do anything to help with the pain. The most recent advice is that I fast for at least a day and three days would be better. During lengthy fasting, the body begins cleaning itself and eliminating anything unneeded, like a pesky virus causing pain in my hips and shoulders.
I’m writing this closing in on 48 hours of fasting. I’m a bit loopy. But if another 24 hours of fasting will help with the pain, I’ll do it. However, can’t be sure what my mental state will be 24 hours from now. I may be just loopy enough that…I finally hear a voice. And real or imaginary, I’ll do whatever it says.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
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There's a grocery store Cam goes to when he's in a hurry. It's NOT the one closest to his house. That one is full of memories. Full of roots.
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I saw him see me. He turned and headed my way.
“Cam,” he said. “How’s you mother?”
“Well,” I said. “She passed away two years ago.” I saw you at her funeral, I wanted to say. I remember talking to you.
“Oh. Yes. That’s right. I’m sorry. Well then, how’s your father?”
“Dad’s wonderful. He plays pickleball five, sometimes six days a week. Sometimes twice a day. He’s eighty-seven but I don’t think he knows it. He’s great.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. Please tell them both I said hello.”
“I, I sure will. Thanks.”
The grocery store closest to my house is the one I got to least often. The trip takes too long. At any moment of the day there is someone in there that wants to chat. Wants a short visit. In the middle of the day, when I go in to buy something quick for lunch, someone like this is likely there. Usually friends of my parents. They’re in no hurry. The grocery store I go to when I’m in a hurry is actually a bit further away. It’s quicker.
Conversations like this, with this older gentleman, while a bit comical and maybe a bit sad, mean something. “I know you,” he was saying. “I know your people. You and me, we’re connected. We fished when you were a young boy. Your dad and I hunted turkeys together.” As a young man, I wanted no part of this. I didn’t want to be reminded of myself as a boy. I wanted anonymity. I wanted a blank slate and to make my own way as a man. So, I left my hometown for two decades. Today, the opposite is now true. It’s become important to me. It’s a 180 degree about face. I like it, though a bit comical and a bit sad at times, I like it. It’s roots.
There’s something about old connections, about roots. About generations of pasts that intertwine. I once dismissed this as unimportant. I felt that these were silly things cherished by simple, small-minded people. I was a young man then. I was bullet proof and I knew it all. I’ve had a 180 degree about face. They’re important now more than ever as I look around at who I’ll grow old with, how we’re connected, and how my connections may show up in my kid’s worlds in some unknowable way in the future.
And I see one of my friend’s adult children in the grocery story. I knew him when he was a boy. I tossed him balls, maybe, or cooked him pancakes in his pajamas at my house on a Saturday morning. And I go to him and I say, “Hey. Tell me. How’s your father. I miss him. Please tell him I said Hello.”
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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On today's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares something he saw last weekend that made him feel a little bit better about things.
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I'm in Starbucks. It's Saturday. It's Noon. I'm in Tuscaloosa at the corner of Bryant Drive and 8th Avenue. Sororities across the street disgorging young ladies for their morning cups of honey-dew latté with extra chai, extra vanilla essence and a dash of bumble bee eyelashes or something like that. Yoga pants as far as the eye can see. One girl wearing a T-shirt reading Don’t Date Frat Boys. Parents here for fraternity and sorority parent’s weekend. Dads wearing dad jeans and comfy shoes. Moms perfectly coifed wearing fancy sneakers.
My son’s fraternity threw a party here in Tuscaloosa last night. The party planners likely said, “Get a band old people will like.” The music was, indeed, for old people. Older than any of the parents there. As soon as I heard the first song, the count began – how many songs before Mustang Sally. It was seven. There’s not a band that plays under a tent on a lawn at a quote-unquote “old person party” that doesn’t play Mustang Sally within the first ten songs. They don’t exist. It’s as if everyone, including the band, just wants to get it out of the way. The same with Brick House and “let me hear you scream!”
The lead singer came on in the second set. Her energy moved a lot of old people to the dance floor. It became an old person’s careful shuffle, protecting aching knees, hips, and backs. Lots of moms and dads who never had dance moves or who had lost their dance moves decades ago packed the dance floor, shaking arrhythmically like dancing on a shaking fault line. Brightly colored wigs appeared. Confetti cannons. Parents shuffling together, ignoring their aches and pains. Advil will take care of tomorrow. I left for the bathroom and returned to find my wife in the front row. She waved me up. I pretended not to see, standing with my son who was rightly proud that his fraternity was entertaining so many people, so many old people, so well. It was a great time.
Look at who I now am, my son seemed to be saying, standing next to me. Look at these new friends. This new environment. These new people who know me and like me and search me out in the crowd to say hello. I shook dozens of hands. Tried to remember names. Tried to remember parent’s names. I’m a guest in his world. A new world that he’s forged for himself. Full of new people from far off places who were unknown to him just a short seven months ago. They now laugh together like old friends do. They share funny looks and make references to inside jokes.
As a parent you wonder how your children will turn out. What will influence who they are and who they’ll become. You try to raise them right, the way you think is best, but parenting is just a portion of it. There are so many factors. And you wonder. And you worry.
And then you see your child thriving in a good environment full of good people. An environment that he’s created for himself. And you smile a bit. And you worry a little less.
I’m Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.
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On this week's Keepin' It Real, Cam shares a story he's kept quiet for fourteen years. It's time to get it off his chest.
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I’ve just boarded my flight. I’m headed home. Sitting here, a memory has resurfaced.
Many years ago, deplaning in Chicago, I took a call from a young man. He’d studied my work and asked me to mentor him. He wanted to travel and give speeches. He wanted me to refer him when I was too busy, and he’d pay me a commission. He loved my topic and said he could represent me well. I was deeply flattered. He charmed me.
A few months later, we sat at my dining room table for most of a day. I taught him my content. I shared my tips, my tricks, my tools of the trade. I had clients ready for him. I was busy. I needed help. He was eager to start. I was proud to help this ambitious young man launch.
My wife and I dropped him at the airport for his flight back home. He disappeared into the airport, and I asked my wife, “What did you think?” She paused. “I think he probably beats his wife,” she said.
“No. You got him all wrong,” I said. “Besides, he’s not married.”
“He’s the kind that would,” she said. “Be careful.” Something alarmed her.
Two years later, at the window of my Greenbrier hotel room, his business manager called. Their partnership had just ended over a money dispute. I learned that as he was sitting at my dining room table, he’d take breaks and call in disbelief that I was giving him all my content. He was sending lists of my customers, and the next day he began calling them saying “I can give you Cam Marston’s presentation much cheaper. I have all his materials.” He took many clients, never told me, never shared the commissions. It had been a part of his plan since my phone rang that day in Chicago. The business manager now wanted a pound of flesh after being cheated by him, too.
Today, he’s well known in the industry. He’s busy. I’m told he delivers a good presentation. And he should since it’s my content. If this story ended in justice, I’d tell you his absence of ethics caught up to him. But I don’t know that. I don’t know what’s happened to him. For years I’ve avoided hearing his name, and even today his name tastes like bile in my mouth.
I need to forgive him. It would release me from this anger I’ve held for so long. So, with great difficulty, here, now, today, I forgive you. You will probably never hear this, but I forgive you. I still ache to pound your face. If we ever meet again, you should be afraid. You made me feel used and stupid and embarrassed and cheated and you cost me some of my livelihood. You conned me out of my trust. I won’t ever forget it but, as of right now, I forgive you.
This commentary is not inspirational. This is not pretty. Forgiveness won’t help him but…I sure hope it helps me.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to keep it real.
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Cam's phone has been ringing. It's a lot of his small business friends and they're experiencing similar things. They're feeling pressure. They're feeling squeezed.
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When an orange is squeezed, orange juice comes out. We know this. We know that sun and good soil and water and maybe some fertilizer help that orange develop that juice. We know the ingredients, we somewhat control the ingredients, and we know the goodness that comes from a squeezed orange. What happens, though, when you and I are squeezed? What happens when life puts pressure on you and me? What ingredients are we drawing on when we’re squeezed? And what results?
I read this question in Rick Ruben’s new book about creativity. He pulled it from an old school motivational speaker named Wayne Dyer. The metaphor’s been around the block a few times. But, it still resonates.
In the past two weeks, I’ve had four small business friends share that things aren’t going well for them right now. A fifth one chimed in this morning with the same report. Regardless of what the economists say – some say it’s great out there, others say it’s dire – for my five small business friends and me, we’re feeling squeezed. Pressure.
One friend desperately needs orders. And when these times happen, he must remember to do the thing that’s gotten him out of these pressures several times before. He has a beautiful piece of property, and he has to remember to sit comfortably and look out over the expanse – over the pasture and at the trees and the pond. That view provides inspiration and creativity. He has to remember to do it. Otherwise fear and worry will have him buzzing around thinking that busyness is the solution.
Another needs walk-in traffic to his store. And for him, busy hands set his mind to creatively solving his problems. He takes on big projects knowing that somewhere along the line something will trigger a solution to his problem. Busyness presents him a solution.
But the question comes back to what are the ingredients we’re putting into ourselves so that when we’re squeezed something positive comes out? Life’s going to squeeze you. For the vast majority of us, it has already, I’m sure. How are you preparing for the inevitable squeeze? Have I prepared appropriately for this squeeze? What are the ingredients I’m putting in? And what’s the pressure doing to them?
Time will tell. Assuming the squeeze ends at some point, I can then look back and evaluate. Right now, my effort includes a work ethic having me make lots of phone calls to interact with old colleagues and working to meet new ones. I’m forcing curiosity by asking them “what’s new?”, “what’s going on?”, “where’s your pain?” I’m working hard to keep a positive attitude about letting go of what’s always worked in favor of trying something new. I’m asking, “What do people want from me?” not stating “Here’s what people should want from me.” These success ingredients I’ve used before but I’m having to create new variations.
I’m working to embrace the struggle. To embrace the squeeze. Because, so often, this is where the good stuff happens. And I’m counting on it again.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep it Real.
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Mardi Gras ended Tuesday for Cam. Immediately following Mardi Gras is the beginning of Lent and Cam struggles with what sacrifices he should make.
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Lent. I struggle with Lent every year. How much suffering is enough to prepare my soul for the Easter arrival of the Lord? Is there enough? Who knows. There’s always someone suffering more; someone taking it to the next level.
As a child it was ice cream. I gave up ice cream every year and dutifully reported it to my religion teacher as the assignment instructed. I love ice cream, vanilla especially. In fact, I’ve created an association called the Vanilla Ice Cream Eaters of America Social Aide and Pleasure Club. It’s known by its acronym: VICEA. Our motto is “It comes from Udder Space” and our logo shows a scoop of vanilla with Saturn rings around it and a Holstein cow walking across it. We’ve had a Facebook page since 2008 edited by Holt Stein. It has fifteen members.
However, I don’t eat vanilla like I used to. It’s gotten expensive. That plus my waist size. Giving up ice cream is, well, too easy. I love the stuff but giving it up wouldn’t equate to enough suffering.
A friend from long ago gave up everything containing wheat for lent. Everything. That’s a lot of stuff. She had to pay close attention to everything she ate. Anything with flour. All beer. Bunches of stuff. She was the same person who kept a bowl of peanut M&Ms at her front door and allowed herself one M&M per day. No more. I eat peanut M&Ms by the double fist full. If they’re in front of me, I eat them. I can’t stop. She had a degree of self-control that is unrelatable.
Another friend gave up alcohol a few years ago. However, he had devised a chart of “skip days” where he could drink. He explained all this over a beer during Lent, by the way. His skip days were quite frequent, and it appeared to the rest of us like they related to the days that he wanted a drink. I was not impressed with his Lenten suffering. Mainly because there wasn’t any.
The good book says we’re created in the image of the Lord. So, imagine hearing prayers saying “I’m planning to remember a big event in your life in about forty days. To prepare properly, I’m implementing things to temporarily remove joy from my life.” I’d say, “Wait. Pardon me? Say that again. Is that what I’m supposed to want from you?”
One year I tried to drink more water for lent. The health effects of more water and all that but it’s not the same. The gest of lent is giving up something you enjoy.
And I’m not sure what to think about it. All the hard-fast black and white rules that I learned as a child have faded into grey. I wish they hadn’t. I knew the rules, I followed the rules, and I counted on the rules to take care of me. It was easier following and never questioning. Now, I question. A lot. And, believe it or not, it’s made me a better follower.
However, I still don’t know what to do about lent.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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On this week's Keepin' it Real, Cam Marston has thoughts about this upcoming weekend. Mardi Gras is on us down here in Mobile, and that leads to some tough decisions.
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Dry January ended last week. Dry January followed soaking wet, sodden to the bone December. I’ve never done Dry January before and after sodden December, I needed to give it a try. Aside from one small drink to celebrate my daughter’s twenty-first birthday, I drank no alcohol for thirty-one days. I’m not sure I’ve done that since I was a teen.
The net result? I lost nine pounds. I slept very well every night for a solid month. I was eager to get out of bed each morning. All in all, Dry January was a hit. And I was surprised and thrilled with how easy it was to do. I’m now struggling to decide if I ever want to go back? I’m pretty sure the answer is No. And, my friends, that’s huge.
Some of my favorite people are the guys I gather with every Thursday evening after work. We’ve done it weekly for ten years at the same table. We talk and we chat. We rib each other like guys are prone to do. And we have a beer or two.
In early January, I avoided those Thursday gatherings, afraid that seeing a cold beer would tempt me too much and I’d cave. And I might have. However, by late January I had developed confidence in my Dry January and I was joining my group and ordering a NA beer.
What I learned in Dry January is that I’m not nearly as funny as I thought I was back in December. And maybe even for a decade before that. For years I’ve laughed at my jokes until tears poured from my eyes. And my friends were hilarious, too. Well, in Dry January, nobody was funny. Especially me.
A different friend hasn’t had a drink in over ten years. I now feel embarrassed about the times I’ve been with him with a few beers in me and I realized he wasn’t laughing at what everyone else thought was hysterical. In Dry January, it became clear why.
And I’m not sure what’s gonna happen. This new me is fond of this new me. But I liked the old me, too. And as of today, we’re entering the teeth of the Mardi Gras celebration here in Mobile. Mardi Gras about silliness and revelry and I enjoy both of them and a drink always helps with both of them. It’s a quandary.
I know that creating a grand drinking strategy for Mardi Gras is foolish. Temptation is everywhere and I know myself well enough to know that I manage temptation poorly.
However, my uncle told me that he stopped smoking by telling himself that when he wanted a cigarette, if he still wanted one in ten minutes, he’d smoke one and not feel bad about it. Gradually he stopped wanting them at all. I’m going to adopt his strategy and call it “the ten-minute delay plan for an uncertain semi-reformed drinker.” If I want a drink, I’ll wait ten minutes. After ten minutes, If I still want one, I’ll get one. And won’t feel bad about it.
And if you spot me laughing hard with my friends, you’ll know what happened.
I’m Cam Marston and I’m just trying to Keep It Real.
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