Five-Second Rule

Halloween evening, my sister spilled M&Ms on the kitchen floor. A debate ensued, as we picked them up, on whether we could invoke the five-second rule. Food that falls on the floor but is then picked up within five seconds is still fair game for consumption.

Jen had just read an article about the “10 Myths Your Husband Will Tell You About Raising Children.” The five-second rule came in for heavy criticism. Allyson and I countered with an article we had read that scientifically proved that germs do, in fact, take a little time to adhere to dropped food. Five seconds was a good guideline for demarcating eligible from inedible food.

The next morning, I waited in the checkout line at Costco. In the line next to me, a baby threw his bagel to the ground. It bounced a few times before coming to rest. Dad scooped up the bagel and handed it back to the baby, who obliged by shoving it in his mouth.

I am sure this calculus drove dad’s behavior as he retrieved the bagel: “Screw it. I don’t care what my wife thinks – I think it is OK for Ralphie to eat this hairy dusty bagel.” To most dads, what we believe are not myths – they are articles of faith that guide our actions when our wives are not watching. Occasionally, these articles of faith are proven true by scientific research.

I grew up believing that it is OK to give kids a shot of whiskey or glass of sherry to calm them down Christmas Eve. That trips to the emergency room are only to be made when limbs have been amputated or vital organs pierced. That helping kids with their math homework is a form of torture for the kids. As much influence as my wife has on me, I still treat these as articles of faith. I await the scientific proof to validate my beliefs on these topics. Certainly, the current health care debate lends credence to the idea that inappropriate use of emergency rooms is driving costs out of control. Proof on the others is, I am sure, in the works at some research university. But I don’t know if I will ever pick up a bagel from Costco’s floor and shove it in my mouth.

Amazing Grace

My wife and I recently had an argument about Michael Vick. She was offended by his return to football - to my beloved Iggles, no less - and to the riches he would achieve after his heinous crimes. I took the opposing view. The man had done his time. He paid the price society had levied, and now he ought to be welcomed back into civil society. She felt his crime was too great to allow him to earn fame awaiting him in Philadelphia as a third-string quarterback. The argument got me to thinking, when is someone redeemed? When is a crime too great to forgive?

We have had lots of examples recently to debate. Teddy Kennedy arguably placed his own political career above the life of a young woman. Only he knows the depths of his crime, although we all judge. But did 41 years of service in the US Senate redeem him? His obituaries wrestled with the issue. The Wall Street Journal placed his crime in the first paragraph. The more sympathetic New York Times waited until paragraph two. They both had to mention it, though. We all weighed Teddy's 41 years of good acts against his action that one drunken evening in Chappaquiddick.

I am sure Mark Sanford and Eliot Spitzer's obituaries will both weigh the years of public service against their sexual antics. Michael Jackson's obituaries all acknowledged the shadows of unspeakable crimes against his artistic genius. They all beg the question of whether our ability to forgive is determined not by the seriousness of the crime, but our attitudes toward it?

For my wife, torturing and killing dogs is a crime that should sentence one to a life of poverty and reflection. Yet shouldn't the indiscretions of climbing drunk into a car, driving off a bridge, swimming away from a drowning woman, and never admitting your crime, weigh more heavily against the man who admits to his failings and promises to do better?

The problem is that the apologies are too formulaic, too easy, too transparently motivated by a desire to move on. Kanye West apologized for his attack on Taylor Swift not to Taylor Swift first, but to America on Jay Leno. He called Ms. Swift later to apologize personally, and then his "people" publicized the fact. Mark Sanford apologized but then insulted his wife by professing his desire to fall back in love with her after having hot Argentinian sex. Spitzer got the tone right, but his previous holier-than-thou stance against financial misconduct made him a greek tragic figure. Wall Street cheered his humiliation.

Teddy never apologized. Michael Vick did. He tearfully confessed his failings on "60 Minutes" - a more serious choice than Jay Leno - and seemed sincere. And, I remind you, he did his time. If society decides that three years in prison is punishment, do we have a right to punish him more? Why is his crime - yes, horrible and disgusting - any worse than Teddy Kennedy's? The answer can't be that he got caught. That is far too cynical.

I could not bear to be judged by my worst sins. Having them publicized, debated on talk shows, argued on talk radio, and weighed against my good acts - I would beg for redemption. More, for forgetfulness. Growing up Catholic but dating born-again Christian girls, I was confronted with the tension between the one true church's teachings that good works would get me into heaven and the opposing view that by faith alone would I reach the Kingdom of Heaven.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

That saved a wretch like me . . .

I once was lost but now am found,

Was blind, but now, I see.

If good works win, then do we forgive Teddy for his service and Michael Jackson for his art, but damn Michael Vick because he is just a football player? If it is amazing grace that redeems us, then can any of us judge? Isn't it, in the end, one's own relationship with God that determines whether we forgive ourselves? As humiliating as our sins publicized may make us, it is our inability to forgive ourselves that destroys our soul.

Each of us has to confront our own failings and reconcile those with our good works and our self-view to decide whether we die in peace. The debates about forgiveness, about whether to grant or withhold it, are really about whether we could forgive ourselves for committing the sins made public by these public figures. In judging them, we judge ourselves. If we are human, we pray that we never walk their path. If we do, then I guarantee that after the sin, while committing good works, we are praying for Amazing Grace to help us find peace.

Ani DiFranco. Vic Theater. 9/23/09.

If you're not

If you're not

If you're not

If you're not

If you're not getting happier as you get older

. . . .

You're fucking up

Do I Dare Eat a Peach?

I intended this to be a post about graduation. Graduation came and went. I got a cold, flew to Washington, and fought the ravages of chest and head congestion.

This is, one may say, my inaugural visit to our Washington, DC, apartment, a very nice set-up just a block from the White House. The location enables one, as I remarked to someone a few nights ago, to live as close to the White House as possible without getting elected. It is so close, in fact, that the attached picture was taken on one of my evening constitutionals wandering the neighborhood.

Allyson arranged an impressive week for me. Tuesday night we enjoyed an engagement celebration with Steve and Katrina at Bourbon Steak, a Michael Mina restaurant. It is a phenomenal steak place. Invoking T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", however, I explained to our guests that I can't eat steak late at night anymore. It keeps me up at night. Allyson assured me the young couple would both order steak, because steak is expensive and good and beyond their means at this early time in their lives. Allyson and I, able to afford not only our own but their steaks, steaks for all, opted more prudently for halibut and tuna, so as not to suffer nighttime terrors. They had the steak, aged and cooked in butter, and loved it. I pined silently for the good old days as I ate my healthy tuna.

Wednesday I visited the Newseum, which I recommend. Thursday I met a school friend, Angela, at Cato for lunch, where we heard Judge Napolitano opine on Dred Scott's revenge. Then I toured the Natural and American History Museums before visiting Allyson at work. We toured the EEOB, and helped surprise her boss with a surprise Birthday Party in a very special room, before heading to the West Wing, as show in the picture.

Today we toured the East Wing and the main White House. I then headed up to Ben's Chili Bowl, recommended by Steve and Katrina and a DC institution. I sat at the counter and ordered a half smoke with chili and cheese fries with a coke. Very good. Worth a visit, even if the half-smoke isn't as good as the sausages Robbie gets from the old guy at 69th in Stony Island back home. But I wolfed it down before heading back to the apartment.

Just in time to be overcome with illness. The half-smoke did its damage. I recalled once again Eliot's "Prufrock," this time too late. I excerpt:

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.

I would have liked to see what Eliot would do with rhymes for "half-smoke." I'm sure they do more damage than any innocent peach. But no peach has the fire and greasy goodness of a half-smoke smothered in spicy chili.

Fackeltanz

I remember my Nana as a sweet, kind grandmother. I was always one of her favorite grandchildren. I knew it; my sisters knew it. I was the grandchild who was invited down to live at the Jersey Shore for weeks at a time, a privilege rarely extended to my sisters.

She was so nice to me, I think it even bothered my father a little. He once commented, "She is all sweetness and light now, but when I was a boy, your grandmother was a tyrant. We lived in fear of her." He tells the story of when a teenager of coming home late one night, after curfew. Dad snuck into the house, tiptoed up the stairs, slowly creaked open his bedroom door, and, without turning on the light, closed it softly behind him, moving forward in the dark. And tripping over the furniture Nana had rearranged for just this eventuality. As he sprawled headlong over a newly placed chair, she turned on the light next to where she was sitting, launched herself up and at him, and beat him with fury, curses raining down upon his head.

I never saw this side of Nana. Until the spelling bee.

I had qualified for the spelling bee when I was 10 and in 4th grade. In fact, after winning the competition at Red Lion Elementary, I competed in the Montgomery County regionals on the evening of my 10th birthday. These memories came rushing back to me as I watched the National Spelling Bee competition on TV this past Thursday. Each contestant stepped up to the mike, was given a word, asked for its use in a sentence, language of origin, part of speech. Some of them clearly knew the words anyway, but the ritual helped calm them. Others, though, were just as clearly terrified by words they had never encountered in their studies.

Anamika Veeramani from North Royalton, Ohio, had that look of terror in her eyes when presented with the word, Fackeltanz, in the fifth round. "Fackeltands," she repeated. The judge corrected her, saying "Fackeltanz. Listen to the ending of the word. Fackeltanz." Anamika asked for the definition. "Fackeltanz is a type of court dance performed in Germany to celebrate royal marriages." Well, that was helpful. Who even knew Germany had royalty anymore?

The TV commentators said that if Anamika remembered her German spelling rules, this word would be a breeze. I looked an Anamika, and my heart melted. She was one of five people left in the competition out of 293 starters, and she knew her dream was ending. The agony was visible. "Fackeltanz," she repeated, "Fackeltanz. F-A-C-U-L-T-E-N-D-S." The dreaded bell rang, and Anamika's dreams were over. She walked back to her mother and father, who were, with all of the finalists' families, sitting on stage, and she collapsed into her father's arms in tears. After sobbing uncontrollably, she turned to her mother and collapsed into her arms.

I felt the painful flashback to my own spelling bee trainwreck almost forty years ago. I survived rounds one and two with chocolate and initiate. Then, in round three, I was presented the word "militia." I had never heard of the word. "Militia - would you please give me the definition?" "Militia is a part of the organized armed forces of a country liable to call only in emergency." I still had no clue. "Could you please use it in a sentence?" "George Washington's militia braved the cold of Trenton before attacking the British on Christmas night." Still, I had no idea what the word was. "Militia. M-A-" The bell rang. In this competition, they didn't waste time waiting for you to butcher the entire word. They stopped you after the wrong letter. My head swam. The room started spinning. I weaved off the stage, where a young, good looking young man put his arm around me. "What word did you miss?" he asked. "Militia." "Aww, that's a tough one. Good job, man, good job." To this day, his kindness to a chubby ten year old still moves me.

No such sympathetic hugs awaited me as I returned to my family in the audience. My parents faces were full of pride and sadness that my dream had ended, but one look at Nana told me that something had gone horribly wrong. I took my seat between Mom and Dad. Once I settled in, my head still spinning, Nana leaned over my father, her face screwed up in fury. "MILITIA," she hissed at me, the spit flying off her lips. "MILITIA," she whispered again, "M-I-L-I-T-I-A!" I looked at her, dumbfounded. "How could you miss that?" she wanted to know, her voice sounding like a snake's evil hiss. "M-I-L-I-T-I-A! Any idiot would know that." With that, she turned away, confident I had gotten the message.

The night got worse. After dropping Nana off at her house, we came home to find our house had been burgled. The thieves stole one of our televisions, and worse, ruined three door frames with the crow bar they had used to try to pry doors open. My family was in shock, scared that strangers had violated our home. My birthday cards, lined up on the mantel above the fireplace, had evidently escaped their attention, as they had left the money hanging over the backs of the cards. I went to bed, on my birthday night, feeling stupid and scared of burglars and miserable.

I hope Anamika's night was a little better than mine. I hope she didn't have her own Nana waiting for her, accusingly asking her how she could miss such an easy word. I hope her Nana didn't vest the hopes and pride of a family in this little 12 year old girl, and that Nana knew that life throws all of us our own militias and Fackeltanzes. What matters is how we bounce back from them. And while I have bounced back pretty well, I still know how to spell militia.

Old Friends

I am taking a class this quarter called "Massive Change." After a whirlwind tour of the past 5,000 years of economic history (provided by the professor), we have recently been treated to student presentations on topics. Last night, one of my colleagues presented on the aging world population. It was one of the most disturbing presentations I have seen.

Alan asked a number of hard questions on the nature of society's responsibility for its aging. The sheer numbers will overwhelm existing social service providers in the coming years. The financial aspects are daunting, as current social benefit programs cannot afford to support the coming waves of elders. The fastest growing demographic in the United States are people aged 85 and above. Many of these people are simply unable to care for themselves, and some of the oldest have children who are too old to care for them as well. He discussed the possible outcomes of increased support for euthanasia or ritual suicide. Most disturbing, the professor weighed in with the observation that there are no mechanisms to ensure that those without the ability to fight back or complain (e.g., the old and infirm) are not treated with cruelty by nursing home providers.

Alan offered no easy solutions. Beginning the dialogue is an important step, however, and I appreciated his taking this topic on. I had not thought about many of the issues he raised. Now that I am thinking about them, I am a little frightened and saddened. But wiser for knowing. I hope that with knowledge will come wisdom. Until, that is, I am too old to do anything about it.

Crawling Under the Table

In class today, the professor asked what we thought about one particular paper that I found particularly troubling. As my classmates offered perspectives on one aspect of the paper or another, I felt the anger I experienced on the initial reading of the paper once again building. Finally, I couldn't restrain myself. I exploded.

"This paper is crap. The author's approach is worthless, and he demonstrates academic dishonesty in his selective use of material from the papers he cites. The fact that this paper is so influential calls into question the integrity of the researchers who rely on it. Further, I googled this guy and was infuriated to see he is employed by the Hoover Institute. I can't believe he is getting paid to produce this stuff by such an esteemed institution."

The professor responded, "In the interest of full disclosure, I was the academic researcher on this paper. I can tell you that the errors you cite were unintentional." Uh-oh. "Further, the author is actually a very nice man." I had stepped in it big time. But I couldn't retreat. I said, "He may be, but I disagree with the methodology used for this paper." She replied that she could understand that.

I wanted to crawl under the table. I certainly don't think my professor was academically dishonest. And I would never want to publicly embarrass anyone. Yet, this school prides itself on academic rigor, the life of the mind, and vigorous debate. Had I crossed over the line, though?

I have agonized over this all day. I feel bad for the dramatics surrounding my diatribe - but I don't regret what I said. The paper still infuriates me. The fact that my professor helped write it doesn't make me view it in a different light. I don't agree with the methodology. I do think it is crap - although maybe that is the one word I would change. I do get angry when supposed experts are rewarded for shoddy research or misrepresentation in order to advocate for a position.

That does not mean the guy was dishonest. He may really believe his approach is valid. He may also have made honest mistakes in assembling the data. The fact remains that as a result of his paper, there have been very bad outcomes, from my point of view, in the education field. He probably is a really nice guy. Whose bad research led to bad outcomes.

I still disagree with his paper. Next time, though, I will temper my comments. From under the table.

Going to the Chapel

I recently threatened - there is no nicer word - to withhold funding from my daughter if she moved forward with her plan to get her nose pierced. My wife pushed back. She is resistant to using a financial cudgel to coerce behavior from our children. But as they get older, the levers available to pull to incent appropriate behavior are diminishing.

So I have floated the question to both my coworkers and classmates as to whether a father's financial obligation to his son ends with the son's marriage. Opinions, as you would expect, are mixed, but most feel that yes, financial obligations end once children take on adult responsibilities.

I am very happy for my son and his fiancee. They will have a rich life together. They are both smart, motivated, hard working. I worry about them in this economic climate, as they make their way in the world. I will help them out as much as I can, but also feel that marriage means one takes on the responsibility for supporting one's own family.

My wife will probably countermand me. She will want to support them, take them in, help them get their lives together launched successfully. We will clash on the meaning of independence, on the responsibilities early marriage imposes upon the couple. I will insist that if they are making this choice, they need to live with the consequences. I look forward to the debates.

Maybe he will surprise me with his plan. Maybe he has it all figured out. It wouldn't surprise me, as both he and his fiancee are pretty resourceful. Or maybe they are just starstruck, captivated by the thought of spending the rest of their lives together. We'll see.

Oedipus Wrecks

My Mom friended me on Facebook. Then she asked me to confirm that I am her husband.

I knew accepting my Mom as a friend had risks. Mom now has access to the contributions of grad school friends to the Wall. While there is some risk of embarrassment there, she knows that I am not accountable for other's ideas. Most of the stuff is pretty tame, anyway.

On the flip side, I worry more that she will be posting inappropriate content to my wall, or invite me to strange groups. It took me six months to get her to remove my work email address from her list of joke recipients. The content was borderline, and certainly not the kind of stuff you want your employer to pick up on a random filter. The dreaded call from HR: "We'd like to talk to you about the high number of inappropriate emails you seem to receive." And my response, "Yeah, um, I know. It's my Mom." The call never came, but the anxiety was high. When she finally figured out how to remove my name from the list, she seemed hurt that I didn't want to receive her jokes.

This latest request, though, is tough. Do I turn her down, and by so doing get my Dad, who gifted me with his name, in trouble? I'm not sure he even knows what Facebook is. He would walk around for months, wondering why Mom is so pissed at him. When she finally confronted him with his denial of matrimonial fidelity, his apparent lack of memory would only serve to infuriate her more. Or do I accept the request in the spirit of family harmony, and then never acknowledge or answer any questions from friends who have no idea why I am now married to Marie and what happened to Allyson?

My daughter refused to friend me two years ago. She takes this latest request from my mother as proof her judgment was correct. Parents are not to be trusted on Facebook. I see her point. Yet I feel bad that we as a group are not to be trusted. I am savvy enough to not make these kind of mistakes. But as in ancient times, the sins of the Mother are visited upon the son.

Maybe I'll just ignore the request. I'll pretend I don't see it. Kind of like stabbing my eyes out. Oedipus wrecks, indeed.

Knowing Chicago

I have been in Chicago for 30 years now, and often tell people I love this city. Yet I wonder how much I really know about it.

Tonight I went to dinner with my son to an Indian restaurant on Devon Avenue. It is one of those things I always have meant to do, but I have never done. We thoroughly researched on Zagat's and Metromix and Yelp and other blogs and settled on Tiffin. The meal was outstanding. It was much better than the Indian restaurant in Lincoln Park we usually walk to. We'll be back.

School forced me to explore much more of the city than I was used to. While working, my world was home, the El, the Loop, and home again. I made the occasional foray into Bucktown, Wicker Park, and when visiting family, Albany Park. School forced me back to Hyde Park, but also into some other neighborhoods - Englewood, Woodlawn. My newest job has pushed me into even more areas, as has my board membership. West side. Uptown. North Lawndale. I go to neighborhoods now I would not have dreamed of while in the corporate world. They are typically not as scary as I imagined them to be in my head.

It makes me feel even more that Chicago is my home. I still like my neighborhood the best, but I have always liked the idea of those other neighborhoods. Lately, I have also enjoyed the reality of them. It has been fun. I look forward to discovering more.

Purity and Danger

As I walked home from a lovely Shabbat service hosted by friends on a bitterly cold January evening, my mind settled into a reverie connecting and resurrecting memories. It settled on "Purity and Danger" by Mary Douglas, a book I read as a freshman at UChicago. In it, she attempts to explain keeping Kosher as a protection against things that don't fit into easy categories. Pigs, as cloven-hooved animals that don't chew their cud, represented danger. She viewed the rules about Kosher eating as a metaphor for the "clarity of the boundaries around a group to which people belong." (from the same Times obituary linked above)

I wrestle these days with my own violation of boundaries. Two years ago, I embarked on a journey to leave my tribe of over twenty years to join a new group. The transition has been exciting and challenging. Yet I am beginning to experience the synaesthesia of being thisnotthat and notallthis or notallthat.

Weariness has started to creep into my explanations to people. Yes, I am a grad student, but I am also a consultant for a non-profit. Yes, it is hard to strike a balance. Yes, I am continually frustrated by the trade-offs I make, always feeling like I am not good enough or spending enough time in either realm. I don't regret the choices I have made, but this double life leaves me constantly in a state of thisnotthat. I fear becoming a boat moving in circles because the rudder is pinned to the side - an event with which I have some direct experience, on Lake Michigan, with my patient parents aboard. I kept seeing the beach, the pier, the lake, over and over, wondering if I was making any progress toward any of the landmarks, or was I just marking time.

This weariness has bled over into my personal life, where I am a married man who doesn't live with his wife. Friends have rushed to the breach, inviting me to roller derby, parties, dinners, cocktails and Shabbat services. My son has also made the effort to make the long trek from Hyde Park to Lakewood more than once on public transit. I treasure these friends and these times together. I love the cameraderie and the companionship. But I miss having Allyson beside me while I live through this.

On this Valentine's Day, Allyson is visiting Emily in New Hampshire, at a place without cell service. We communicate in snippets over email. I have plans tonight to be by myself. It is too awkward to be with the friends who are part of couples, as they celebrate this love holiday. It is doubly uncomfortable to hang with the single friends, all out looking for that next relationship. Valentine's Day brings these groups into stark relief, and I belong to neither of them. I represent Purity and Danger - the cloven-hooved pig who doesn't chew his cud. I am both sacred and profane. Ambivalent, but ultimately hopeful, that I am moving forward and not in circles.

My Little Corner of the World

I used to inwardly laugh at the old men aggressively sweeping their front steps of debris or snow. Now I feel solidarity with them.

At the first snowflake, I start obsessing about when to sweep the front steps. My goal is to keep the concrete steps completely clear of snow. I often go out several times during a storm to sweep and shovel. I also like to keep the sidewalk in front of our house and the homes on either side of us clear of the packed snow one gets when many people walk over the freshly fallen snow. Sometimes, though, I'm at work or school and don't get to the work until a hard pack has developed. At those times, I turn the shovel over and try to break up the pack with the sharp edge. I shovel to either end of my neighbors, and I shovel several paths to the street so that those unfortunates who have to park on the street have a clear path to get to the sidewalk. They are neighbors during the evening, but teachers from the local school and shopowners from the stores on Diversey during the day. I secretly hope they appreciate that someone has cleared a little path for them.

I also shovel the back - big, wide paths to both garage entrances, and a nice little dog run around the forsythia bush in the corner. I know the dogs appreciate it - it is one of the few places during the winter they go to the bathroom.

During snows deeper than four inches, I also shovel in back of the garage, a particularly onerous task. Mayor Daley gifted us last summer with big blue trashcans for recycling, and kept the same amount of old black cans. The new cans, combined with the influx of neighbors who keep cars in their garages on the other side of the alley, has drastically reduced the places where one can dump snow. Last year, sans cans and garages that required egress, there were numerous places to dump. One garage door, in particular, accumulated all of the 86 inches of alley snow last year. The little snow hill did not melt until May. This year, people with cars use the garage. The last big snow, my son and I carried the snow from the alley through our garage to dump it in our back yard.

Starting this past Friday, Chicago had one of those big storms. We received about four inches on Friday. I awoke Saturday morning to an additional eight inches on the ground, with 2-4 more inches forecasted by Saturday evening. I despaired.

I had planned to use the day productively reading for classes. My goal was to get ahead a week or two. I like the cushion reading ahead gives me. But my well-ordered school life crashed into my snow obsession. While the front and back were manageable, I knew the alley would be a nightmare. I felt control over my little corner of the world slipping. I've spent too many early mornings calling upon my wife or friendly neighbors to help push my car out of deep ice-covered ruts behind my garage. It would take an entire day to ferry all that snow from the alley into my back yard. The enormity of the task overwhelmed me, and I felt alone and desperate and out of control.

Then, I received a call from Marie, our neighbor. She had negotiated the use of a snow blower and was calling upon all of the neighbors to shovel out the alley. By 12:30, there were ten of us shoveling and blowing. Neighbors opened their garages, and there were many back yards into which we could dump snow. We worked together, feeling ownership not just to clear our own path, but the entire alley.

I met some of my neighbors for the first time along with renewing old acquaintances. Jim and the guy with the funny hat and Courtney and Haim and Marie and Brian. We worked so hard that at the end I could not lift my arms and I just wanted to stand under a hot shower for an hour. But our alley was clear. Everyone lingered, tired, but not wanting this - whatever it was - community? team? shared purpose? to end. Eventually we said our good-byes. We didn't pledge to get to know each other better, or to begin socializing. We all felt the glow, however, of learning that we were not in this by ourselves, and that when called upon, there were neighbors who would give up a Saturday to pitch in and bring control to all of our little corners of the world.

Pilot

Chip Allen is an Accenture manager who wrote a nifty application he called Pilot. In the face of Accenture's massive size and complexity, Chip managed to deliver a searchable, customizable directory than enabled you to find the email address and phone number of any one of the 180,000 employees in the company with ease. It was fast, simple, and extremely useful. It probably saved me over 200 hours of time since its initial roll-out. As I have moved to different institutions, it is the one tool I miss more than any other.

Along with each month's Pilot update, Chip would publish an email talking about whatever was on his mind. His posts were always funny and often inspirational and instructive. Chip was kind enough to keep sending me the posts after my ability to use the application passed.

I post Chip's latest email here. Thanks, Chip, for ten great years of entertainment and wisdom.
__________________________

…it’s with some sadness that I’m writing what may be my last Accenture pilot release note…seems I’ve been at my level in consulting too long and my inability to travel because of my kids situation leaves me in the weird position of having to take “the package”, one of those times when you have to decide if you want to keep trying to start the engine in the airplane or to jump while you still have time for the parachute to come out…I won’t say goodbye till I know it’s for sure, but that’s how it’s looking right now…

…there are two things that have made my 10 year stay here truly meaningful, first and foremost, it’s the people I’ve worked with, counseled and mentored…the second it this silly application and this “blog” that we call pilot…but how mushy can you get about an application that my friend ken called “the most…successful rogue application of all time” in a celebrating performance card he sent me…

…so I’ll focus on the people part and I will share some thoughts and advice to those close to me…over the 10 years that I’ve been doing that, I think the themes have been somewhat the same…

…don’t drop a turd on my desk and then just walk away…ok, that one may need a bit of explanation…never go to your supervisor with just a problem, always have some type of solution to propose…even if he/she doesn’t totally agree with your recommendation, you have at least given yourself the opportunity to be a part of the answer and you have proactively moved the situation from the “problem” phase to the “solution” phase…

…pull more load than your ‘role’ defines…when I came to Accenture back in 1998, I came from a company of 30 people…I was the IT department for that company, I built and supported all of servers, workstations, networks, applications that we used to buy and sell half a billion dollars worth of oil and gas…it was during the height of the dot com boom that one day, I found myself laying on the floor screwing a keyboard drawer onto the receptionist desk that I decided that there must be something better to do than what I was doing…when I left, they hired two guys, then eventually a third, to become their IT department…I never thought I was doing anything all that amazing, but looking back, we did some pretty cool stuff for a little bitty company with next to zero IT budget…the advice I give to my people has always been to do more than you are asked, but to be smart about it…

…know how what you are doing fits in the big picture… this one follows that last one for a reason…pulling more load does demands that you be effective, not “busy”…it’s easy to focus so much on making sure that your own “deliverables” are so perfect that you forget that we all contribute to something that’s much bigger than our own work…on a team, in your community, to your counselees, to people you mentor or those you support…I remember one project in particular where we said over and over, “nobody here is successful until the project is successful”…the culture there was different, everyone helped everyone, we all had had primary responsibility for our own area, but everyone had ultimate responsibility for a successful delivery...

…follow leaders, endure managers…I’ll make some of you mad at me for giving away the secret manager handshake and decoder ring…we talked about this a couple of years ago, but you will work with people in management that are going to try to keep you in the dark, THEY can only meet with the client, THEY take requirements, THEY hear feedback and issues, THEY (try to) micro manage their teams, they spend more time asking about status than they do trying to clear a path to successful delivery…they aren’t bad people, in most cases, they have been the ones who knew the least and the whole hyper management and information funnel was only a way to allow themselves to appear to be running the project…understand, the difference between these people and real leaders, leaders set direction, provide insight and clear obstacles so their teams can excel, managers spend more time with their plans and paperwork than they do with their teams.

…start, progress and finish with the end in mind…”start with the end in mind” is the common phrase, but it’s a bit misguided to just “start” with the end in mind…you have to focus on the end every step of the way…always ask “how does what you are doing help deliver the ultimate solution?”…it’s easier to ask this question of others than of myself on this one…there are times I’ve done things that were ‘cool’ or interesting or whatever on a project that really, didn’t have anything to do with speeding delivery or increasing the quality of whatever it was that we were trying to produce…

…don’t know if any of this makes sense…normally, I try to be funny but “funny” is somewhat hard to come by today…I’ll end by saying “make a difference”, in your work, to the people you touch, most importantly, to those you love…