No one argues that subjective attributes like emotions, motivation, and flat out stubbornness are not easily measured, it’s like trying to say something tastes like “blue.” What does blue taste like? So, in the interest of modern science, we tend to dismiss all things subjective. There are, of course, certain things that disappear as soon as you try to put a number on them: love, romance, sensuality.

“Ok, if this feather rubbed gently up your back is a 7, what would you rate the sandalwood candle?”

“Yea, never mind, what’s on TV?”

In the interest of data we have come up with hundreds of career justifying industries that measure the measurable and ignore the unmeasurable. In this age of science and reason, we are descendants of Spock, logic is our holy grail and data is the syllogism that proves our theories. We quantify and measure so we can create protocols and processes that prove what we already know. We’ve made a science out of a natural trait called, “Leadership.” Colleges teach it as if it was a science, developing leadership theories that work perfectly until another school comes along and can’t measure  it and comes up with its own theory, which another school will us data to disprove.

If you walk into a group of people, you can tell the “leaders” right away, they stand out. Can we measure them? Let’s say its a team, we know a good coach as soon as we see his players respond to him. But, how do we really know unless we have data? We will then probably measure the coach by wins and then use our data to model the winningest coaches. Even if he chewed tobacco, drove a Mini Cooper, and kept pet llamas, other organizations would try to duplicate his “model,” right down to the brand of chew. In reality, the coach might be successful simply because he has better players, but how could we measure and duplicate parental genes and other unmeasurable circumstances?

Numbers are the refuge of the unimaginative and those who want to play it safe. Data is safe, we measure what we cam measure, even if it has nothing to do with the attributes that truly matter.

Not long ago, I saw headlines about a study that couldn’t prove that drinking a lot of water was good for you. Everyone knows that drinking a lot of water is good for you, but here was data that told us otherwise, numbers don’t lie! Common sense and the feeling that comes with good hydration can’t be measured, at least by this study! I’ve seen it in business. In my younger days, stock analysts visited the companies they were  analyzing, and their competitors, and understood the business they were going to cover. Today, anyone with a company’s earnings release considers themselves an expert, numbers don’t lie. Unless, they do, that’s why securities salespeople are supposed to disclaim, “past results are not indicative of future performance.”

Modern science, the place where we have invested so much faith, is the headquarters for data, we believe what science can measure, numbers don’t lie.

You can’t measure creativity and Lord knows, people are trying. Plenty of academics are trying to come up with rules and traits of creative, (like 3 traits of creative workers: expertise, creative thinking skills,and intrinsic motivation) and good luck with coming up with a test for that. It would be very helpful if we could simply develop a “process” for creativity that anyone could follow. Process, by the way, is a wonderful word the corporate types have come up with, it means a series of rules and steps that guarantee success (and ass coverage).  Talent is a difficult thing to measure, entrepreneurs, customer service people, and, yes, teachers, are often born, not made.

We end up teaching things we can measure to children who get measured. We value coloring within the lines, only taking chances if we can prove the outcome, and only investing in companies that have measurable past results. Subjectivity is the tool of the superstitious and the vague, statistical outliers are part of the counter culture.

Future historians, digging through our rubble, will call it “Death by Data” and we will give them the numbers to prove it.

“Who can I help today?”

“How I can I serve God today?”

“What’s our family doing today?”

The thing about the all the self help stuff our generation suffered through was this: it was focused on self. Trying to make yourself happy by only taking care of yourself is a dead end street. The self help gurus tell you that you are supposed to focus on your own feelings, “the mirror to your soul.” The trouble is; your feelings are largely a moving target, they can change with the wind or the extra pepperoni you had on your pizza. Our feelings, including “happiness” are better managed when they are attached to something greater.

Let’s call it Love.

When we look back at history, the most successful people, including artists, believed in something greater than themselves and had a motivation that helped them to power through changes in moods or other roadblocks. When we think of heroes, we think of selfless people, not people who made decisions in their own interest. We are fond of saying of heroes, “No greater love than this…” and we are talking about self sacrifice, not self help, we are talking about love.

Creation is an act of love, You can relate it to the supernatural, the spiritual or merely to necessity, but creation involves, hope, faith and, yes, love. The optimism inherent in building something new is a sign that you believe you have something to share, that this world can be a better place and that you want to participate. Why bother to create if you think things are hopeless? In creating something you are sharing not just your creation but yourself, you are opening your soul. That’s risky.

In my experience, you can’t live against your values. Not my values, not some preacher’s values, but your own values. And, deep inside every artist is this thing we call love and that is a value we can all draw on. Inspiration then, comes when we have someone to create for. It could be our lover, our family, our God, or our sponsor. Those who manage or sponsor creative people should remember this, it is easier to create if you are inspired and inspiration involves no small amount of hope. Creation is an act of sharing and a good way to get inspired is to imagine our “target audience,” the person for whom we are creating, enjoying and praising our work. Beginning with that vision is a great way to keep the inspiration coming, all the wau through your job.

I hope you make something cool today, we are all waiting to see it!

My crime?

I shared a picture that came across my Facebook feed that showed a very nude, and very wrinkled old gardener declaring this to be national nude gardening weekend. The picture made me laugh, and apparently, many of my readers too. We had a very funny series of exchanges mocking the old man and his wrinkles, laughter was shared by all. Well, almost all. This one guy got a little carried away in the comments, going on in a fairly icky manner about not only the joys of nudity, freedom from the tyranny of clothing and society, but also plowing his garden with his very special tool. As I said to him: Eeeeuu.

Not only was I sent to a corner, I was sternly warned that Facebook might ban me altogether the next time. No discussion, no appeal. That my friends, is a frightening proposition and as a society, we need to look into the power we have invested in the great Zuckerberg. I know several Facebook pages whose language is far more objectionable than a picture of a pruned up old guy’s private parts, but that’s okay with Facebook. And, while I hate to agree with my slightly creepy Facebook reader, there is a tyranny here that allows us to post Michelangelo’s David but not a guy planting cucumbers. Facebook is Big Brother.

I am all for standards, and I will have no problem avoiding posting nudes, I didn’t really seek this picture out, it was already on Facebook and it made me laugh. I impulsively shared it and was amused by the comments that followed. I am, however, concerned that all of the relationships and history I have could be wiped away by Big Brother Facebook without so much as a discussion. That is wrong.

I am glad that Facebook is a place that is free of pornography and nudity, and whether my old gardner guy is sexual titillating is a not so hard call (pun intended). With as many artist friends as I have, my Facebook news feed is constantly filled with images of beautiful people in far more suggestive poses than our gardener, in fact, if Facebook said I was sent to timeout because the old guy was too unattractive for their pages, I would have understood. At least it would have been funny. Facebook appears to have no sense of irony or understanding of what is sexual. Someone saw a picture of a wrinkled old guy’s zucchini and hit a button with no more thought than I did when I hit share. And, I have no option to discuss it or reason with someone, I am labeled as a sex offender.

Several years ago the Federal Communications Commission was given custody of the nation’s airwaves, dolling out licenses for broadcasters with provisions that they were accountable to the public. Who does Facebook answer to? What if Zuckerberg, who apparently  thinks profanity is fine, but the human body is not, decides to start banning people who are critical of him? He’s got the power, obviously, to ban anyone who displeases him, with no appeal, with no fair hearing.

Today could be my last day on Facebook, or yours. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. So, in the meantime, the words of WKRP in Cincinnati’s  Dr. Johnny Fever will have to do: BOOGER!

They were great people, very involved in their local church and into fitness in a very California way, out walking as a family every evening past our house. They put in a pool (I didn’t want one) and their home became the center for all the neighborhood’s kids, we could hear everyone yelling and splashing on warm central Florida evenings. For nine years we kept track of them, knowing that the real estate business was getting tough and wondering how they were doing. Little things tipped us off, the grass was dying, the palm trees untrimmed, and we knew that maybe they weren’t doing so well. One day there was a food truck parked in the driveway, they had gone into the mobile restaurant business, selling pupusas, drawing on their El Salvadoran roots. They weren’t going down without a fight.

One morning last week I set off for my walk and the Dad was loading a trailer with the help of some friends, and I had my answer. He was on the phone when I walked by, averting his eyes when I tried to make a connection. I kept walking, not wanting to add to his shame. That afternoon, my son confirmed it, they’d left the house to the bank and found a nearby rental. The house sits empty now, there is an empty house on every single block of the neighborhoods around here, sometimes two. I wonder if everyone of them was owned by someone who tried so hard to play by the rules as our neighbors did.

My neighborhood was ground zero for the housing boom, we border the northern tip of Disneyworld and  tourists can’t help but think what a great place this would be to raise a family. It is: like I often say, we might not live in the happiest place on earth, but we can see it from here. We can hear it to, hear the train and steamboat whistles, and hear the nightly fireworks (and no, we never get sick of them). A couple of years after we arrived, people slept in their cars to buy lots as soon as they went on sale in a new development right near us; it was a gold rush. We even got unsolicited calls from realtors offering to buy our house for double what we paid. Not so much anymore.

The economy of our area is service based and the reality of living in Orlando is different than the glimpse you get of it on vacation, there is poverty here. Some of us fall down and can’t get back up.

I hope our now former neighbors will be okay. I pray they will and I know they will pray too, they are devout people who trust in God with all their hearts. We wonder if the lesson being taught is necessary, will their kids be changed forever and will they learn an undeserved lesson about going for the American dream. I also pray for those who lose their homes because they can’t afford health insurance and get sick, I pray for those who thought they could make it through these hard times and bought into the idea that houses can only go up in value and jobs will always be plentiful.

I work in the financial services industry and we are infamous for running ads about our clients retiring to their own vineyard or sailing around the world in a high tech sailboat. In reality, most people are trying to maintain, hoping they can keep their possessions when they retire and praying that the nursing home doesn’t get their money before their kids do. A lot of us have fallen down, a lot of us are not that far from loading our stuff onto a trailer and moving out of our cherished homes.

I hope that those of us left standing will have the grace to help them back up.

Garth Brooks has a song about this that I play and sing on my guitar, I wish I had the guts to sing it for you here, but the lyrics will have to do, it’s called Wolves and those lyrics are much more powerful than anything I could possibly say.

January’s always bitter
But Lord this one beats all
The wind ain’t quit for weeks now
And the drifts are ten feet tall
I been all night drivin’ heifers
Closer in to lower ground
Then I spent the mornin’ thinkin’
‘Bout the ones the wolves pulled down

Charlie Barton and his family
Stopped today to say goodbye
He said the bank was takin’ over
The last few years were just too dry
And I promised that I’d visit
When they found a place in town
Then I spent a long time thinkin’
‘Bout the ones the wolves pull down

Lord please shine a light of hope
On those of us who fall behind
And when we stumble in the snow
Could you help us up while there’s still time

Well I don’t mean to be complainin’ Lord
You’ve always seen me through
And I know you got your reasons
For each and every thing you do
But tonight outside my window
There’s a lonesome mournful sound
And I just can’t keep from thinkin’
‘Bout the ones the wolves pull down

Oh Lord keep me from bein’
The one the wolves pull down

Sometimes that’s the payoff, just the joy. It’s possible to get so focused on the other things that we forget to collect, to take the payoff. I think its an American thing, we value winners, we are achievers, we want a reward. Competitive and comparative, that’s how we get, as if the stuff we create and the things we do aren’t amazing, unique, and wonderful because we don’t measure up to someone else’s standards. You aren’t dancing for a panel of judges, you are dancing to make your soul happy. In everything you create, in everything you do, don’t forget to collect.

That joy.

Its okay to do something without excellence, without being judged, without getting paid. It’s okay to do something because you like to, because you’ve never done it before, or because it needed to be done. And there is joy to be found in anything that comes from love and creation is an act of love. Coming from this place of curiosity, of imagination, of optimism is a reward by itself. Let’s call it joy.

I talk to sooooo many people who enjoy their creative pursuits and they always say, “If only I could get paid to do that.” A few people are lucky enough to get paid to do that, but professionalism changes everything. You don’t have to go pro.

You don’t have to win a dance competition to be a joyful dancer, you don’t have to qualify for the Masters to enjoy playing a round of golf, and its okay to pick up a guitar and scratch out a song, even if you are in no danger of getting a CMA Award.

The payoff is the joy, its immediate, it doesn’t come in the next life or on the next pay day. It comes during the creation, especially if the creating comes from honesty, from your heart, from your emotion. In your life, your daily life, you can get that payoff too, the payoff of knowing you are living in integrity, in kindness, in grace. The life you create, like the art you create, has an immediate payoff.

Just after the creation stops for the day, you take a look at what you’ve done and the payoff continues. You see the progress you made, you come out of the creative process long enough to admire your work, to appreciate it, to think of how you can improve it.

That  joy, the one just before you close your eyes and go to sleep, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”

In your art, and in your life: that feeling, that payoff. Don’t forget to collect.

I was supposed to write a poem about ancient Knights for an assignment. That wasn’t going to happen, I missed out on getting the poetry gene. The professor and I negotiated down to a story that captured the essence of the Chivalric Code. She probably wasn’t expecting this, but it’s what came out of my fingers:

Spanish Johnnie was bleeding out. The beating and slashing had stopped; he was alone on the pavement now, beyond pain, knowing the garbage men would find him in the morning. It was alright; he’d died for a good cause. His legs were numb now and the blood pooling around his head was warm and he could feel his wounds throbbing, pumping blood onto the streets.

He thought about his Mother, at least he’d die better than she did, with a needle in her arm and her pimp’s name tattooed on her eyelids. She was fifteen when he was born and 31 when she died last summer. She loved him but couldn’t stop her life long enough to take care of him; he’d raised himself. He loved her but the gang gave him life, they took it away too. The gang was his family and he did what they needed, he served them with passion and with fear, because he didn’t want to be alone.

He was a good soldier, as a boy he delivered packages for them; he ate dinner with their families. As he grew, the jobs increased and he was happy to prove he belonged. He went to war for the gang, protected the turf, protected the trade routes, he killed for them. He was loyal and obedient. He survived this long because he did what he was told. Sure enough, he thought, as his waist and stomach went numb, he was right, when he crossed the gang he ended up here. Dead.

There was this one teacher. An Anglo with blue eyes and blonde hair and a smile like nothing Johnny had seen before. She was his 3^rd grade teacher and he felt something from her he’d never known. She’d made him feel like he mattered, like he was smart, she even knew he was hungry and cold. She called him into her room one morning, he remembered (as if he’d forget, he was thinking about it now, as he lay dying), and given him a coat and some shoes that almost fit. She said her son had outgrown them and to keep this our little secret.

She was always doing stuff like that for the kids and it was no secret, she’d bring treats, shoes, and books. He supposed she was an angel. Her classes were good too, she read stories and explained things with laughter, with smiles, and he wanted to please her. He tried to get the answers right for a change because she was so happy when he got the answers right. It was weird, he didn’t understand why she did it, she wasn’t in the gang, and she didn’t live in the hood.

He knew that because she drove a nice car and had a nice diamond ring on her finger. She came and taught school and drove home to a life he could only imagine. Only, he couldn’t imagine it and by the time he was 12, he’d quit going to school. He was making more money than the teachers by then, working for the gang and selling little packets. He never got caught, he knew every open door, every abandoned car, everyplace to hide and disappear for a while. He was a good soldier. By the time he’d shot another kid for the first time, he had all but forgotten the teacher. But he remembered her now. Her smile, he’d seen it today.

He was with Felipe and Enrique, as he usually was, they were going to boost a car and get what they could from it. He was the backup on this one, watching from the corner for the cops or anything else that came along. They headed through the hood towards the school, there was a meeting tonight, so there were a lot of cars, some nice ones too. The rest happened in a second, a blur, and he ended up here, breathing his last breaths.

They smashed a few windows and grabbed some money and a few phones, people are so stupid, Enrique was pretty stoned tonight and sloppy, he made more noise than he should have. He was talking shit and saying how much he needed to get some, he didn’t care how. And Johnny knew he didn’t: he’d seen him take what he wanted before. The parking lot was empty and they found a couple of unlocked cars and smashed a few more windows when she came out. His teacher.

From the edge of the parking lot he recognized her but not before Enrique saw her. She’d come out of the school and was looking inside of a car, must have been hers, and starting to dial her phone. Before she hit the last one, Enrique was upon her, throwing her down and holding a gun to her head, she cried. That made Enrique mad and it wasn’t a good idea to get him mad when he was high. Nothing good ever happened and this was going to end badly.

Johnny didn’t think, he didn’t make a choice; he just reacted. He was upon the pair in a second and he pistol whipped Enrique and knocked him off her and for a minute the teacher looked in his eyes and knew him and she smiled. She found her phone and dialed the last one and they ran from her. Enrique swearing that he was going to kill him the whole time.

He did. Felipe made his choice, he fought along side his brother, Enrique, and they made short work of him. With cop cars flying towards the school, no one dared shoot or even make any noise; this would be handled quietly and brutally. Fighting the brothers was like fighting a pack of dogs; when he faced one, the other stabbed him. The punches and the bricks they hit him with hurt more than the knives, but he knew the knives were going to make him die.

His head was numb now; he couldn’t feel anything. The last thing he thought of was the angel who gave him a coat and some shoes that almost fit. She was smiling at him and asking him not to share their little secret.

My best and most passionate writing has been reserved for my coursework where I have been talking about philosophy, St. Francis, the failings of the modern self help movement and how creativity is a product of spirituality. It’s really good stuff, but written in an academic style and perhaps a little too arcane for a space deisgned to encourage creativity.

I’ve also been designing and creating a new investment firm, a task that has reignited my entrepreneurial spirit. I’m designing a firm that will focus on service, education, great investments. I’m creating some videos for a new website and I am sure it will be nothing like Wall Street has ever produced, I think you’ll love it. Imagine, an investment firm that actually takes the time to listen to you, explain things to you, and allows you to invest in a manner attuned to your values.

And; of course, I am honored to be helping Teresa recover from her breast cancer. She has had successful chemotherapy and surgery and we are looking forward to the next steps in the protocol that her doctors have prescribed. Dealing with this has been quite a humbling and educational experience. Let me tell you this, some people are genetically pre-disposed to certain diseases and there is no amount of diet or positive thinking that will override that. I have no patience or tolerance for anyone who says that she has somehow attracted this or that our lifestyle is responsible.

That’s just one of the things I am passionate about lately, I am fired up about a lot of the things going on in the world today and I hope to reignite my blogging passion sson.

Rick

Cue deer, cue headlights.

How do we decide if one room full of tables and foi gras is more romantic than another? Our instincts are probably not going to get it done. She is on to us and having none of the club over the head and hair dragging tonight. Romance is subjective and you are going to need to channel your inner sensitive side. No, a steak house with peanuts on the floor won’t do; you are going to have to go deeper. Buying her something from the nightie rack at the Bass Pro is best saved for that night she agrees to spend in the duck blind with you… Nope, tonight you have to be George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and that French candlestick guy from Beauty and The Beast all at once.

“Madame, Be My Guest!”

Let me see if I can help you out. Here’s our wine infused list of things that do (and don’t) make a restaurant romantic:

Fire! Besides the waiter, some things should be flaming for a truly romantic dinner. Candles, flaming cheese, Bananas Foster are all good. Flaming shots are not.

Fragrance: Specifically, in the rest room. It should be clean and, while not mandatory, an attendant is a nice addition. However, in the name of all that is holy, vending machines that dispense cologne with a plunger are not romantic. And, even if they are “for her pleasure,” don’t buy anything else in the restroom.

Strings: Piano: yes. Harp: better. Banjo: not so much. And, while we are on the subject:
Entertainment: Ballroom dancing: yes. Pole Dancing: no.  Guest portrait artist: Yes. Guest Tattoo artist: No. Wandering Violinist: Yes. Wandering Balloon Clown: Hell No.

Wine: A nice wine list is a must for a romantic restaurant, may I suggest a Moscato, a sweet Italian wine with just enough bubbles. Let the waiter choose if you aren’t sure, and do not, under any circumstances, utter this phrase, “This wine is warm, put some ice in it.”

View: A place with a nice view is very romantic. Near water or on a hill over looking the city are two good ideas. A table with a great view of the rest of the food court is not.

Table: You want one. Especially one with a little privacy, a booth with some walls around it, a table cloth that allows for a little flirtatious touching out of view of the staff. Yes, your Ford F150 may offer privacy, but, I’m going to suggest that a drive through won’t be your best choice tonight.

The Menu: Something unique, something you don’t usually do is great. Try Moroccan, or French, for example. Avoid restaurants that features fish sticks or corn dogs. Or fried gator tail.

Desert: One way to judge the romantic potential of a restaurant is by the desert menu. A nice cheesecake, a chocolate soufflé, you want some evidence that the place actually employs a pastry chef. McFlurries, at least for this evening, are out.

Here’s my foolproof method for giving your woman the PERFECT evening: make a list of EVERYTHING you think would make a romantic date. Step by step, precisely list each component of  a night that would be perfect for you. Leave out nothing, imagine every detail. When you are sure you have left no stone unturned, carefully cross out each item on your list and make a second list of the opposite of each of those things. Now, you are almost ready. Next, run this second  list by any woman besides the one you want to take to dinner. She’ll straighten you out.

Good luck guys. I’m pulling for you.

Does a society that values art necessarily have a higher moral standard than one that does not? We don’t know, because we know little of societies that did not value some form or painting or sculpture. We can feel comfortable with the knowledge that a society must have been somewhat advanced if it developed architectural marvels in the form of stone temples to the Gods, or lyric poems telling the stories of the past, or even paintings depicting great victories for a hunter in the afterlife. Our understanding of history lies in the assumptions we make about the artifacts we discover, imagine how different our view of history would be if the great library in Alexandria was not destroyed by fire!

We make suppositions about morals based on the art we find, and, we make moral judgments based on our own understanding of morality. We know, through artifacts (cool word, literally, the ability to make), that Mayans sacrificed humans in an effort to please their Gods, an act we would not consider God pleasing today. We think that Egyptian royalty may have taken servants and pets to the afterlife with them, again, not something we would consider morally acceptable. But, from a wider lens, these artifacts tell us that there was a belief in a higher power and that man has never thought there was not some spiritual component to life that goes beyond our understanding.

Somewhere in history we came out of caves or down from trees. Survival and pain must have factored into every single decision made by every single person in pre-history. The bits of papyrus, or clay, or temples of stone are evidence of the fact that we evolved to a place where we had time to draw on a wall, or write down a great story, or build monuments to the great spirits. These artifacts tell us that we had time to sing songs of victory and sadness, that we had a sense of wonder, that we are wired, as a species, to love a good story. It tells us that we understood that the physical and material life that we live is not, logically, the only view of existence that explains why we are here.

So, when you have a chance to create something you should remember how important it is to all of us that you honor your inspiration. History depends on it.

Namaste.