I snowboarded for the first time ever this past weekend. I could bore you with the details (i.e. sweet jumps/jamming the slopes to the maxstreme/pwning noobs with my ride). But instead, with deep, profound wisdom I'll relate this experience to the virtue of fortitude.
In the history of snowsports, Snowboarding is relatively new. I really don't feel out of the loop being a rookie. I mean, you can't blame me for not trying the new Firey Nacho Taco Doritos, right? Duh. Well even so, I was surprised that I felt no humility dropping to my knees (or face, or butt, or back) every 3-10 feet down Big Bunny in Lutsen. Without apology, I'd crash to the snow, look around, and try to get back up--and getting back up was the hardest part.
The resistance of pain. Courage. The samurai call it yū. It all comes down to fortitude. That first time down Big Bunny, I kept getting up, sure my hands hurt, my butt was sore and I was more tired than I had ever been. I was a poster child, a living display of courage, yū, fortitude.
Then I made it down the hill a second time and got sick of it. Too much work getting up all the time. But I sure looked cool doing it (is that too vain of me to say?)
(Side note from that same weekend--scream Billy Joel's Piano Man in large groups any time you get a chance.)
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Corporate Communications
You can't make this up. We had our National Conference at work recently. I'm responsible for some of the content at this conference, so I'm sitting behind the scenes. So as a complete surprise to me, at the end of our CEO's presentation, he makes a surprise announcement of recognition for our group's volunteer efforts. He calls our VP, his admin and a couple other people up on stage--including me--to accept awards for our community involvement. So as I'm about to emerge on stage from the depths of backstage land, I notice in a gleaming instant of corporate etiquette awareness that the CEO and my VP are both jacketless, so I toss my navy blue blazer off my body like I'm about to dive into an Olympic-sized pool of department wide recognition--only the rest of my clothes stay on my body. I straighten my shirt, and head out on stage.
As our CEO hands me this fancy glass award, he says, with his lapel microphone transmitting to the audience "nice to see you." Instant corporate street cred. I'm pretty sure everyone in the audience was like "sure, VP and everyone else got awards, but JR--the CEO said it was good to see him--again." I could pretty much walk off that stage and demand that Olympic-pool-sized respect from anyone in the crowd. So I'm high as a kite, in the pride sense. I was also doing narcotics backstage with the crew, but I have such a tolerance now, those really had no effect on me. But as the CEO turns back to the podium to finish off the recognition, he stops himself and takes a sniff. Sure, you always think "oh no, he smells the Jack on my breath," like every time there's a pause in the convo with your boss. But when he turned around with a quizzical look in his face, I saw a flicker of orange in his glasses. I spun around just as the admin blurted out something about fire. My eagerness to submit to corporate etiquette had caused me to toss my blue blazer right on top of a backstage light, which had just enough heat to light it ablaze. I let out an expletive under my breath. Never swear in front the CEO, right? Well he lets out an audible curse over that lapel mic as I run back to stomp it out. I'm hoping the fire ate through enough of the material that it's unidentifiable by even the most skilled of striking CSI writers. I start stomping more furiously than that old man in Billy Madison. One of the crew members runs over with an extinguisher and sprays the entire area including my now singed pant cuffs and the medium-rare stage curtain.
Ok, seriously. the fire thing is all made up. I seriously can't keep making this up and still make it believable. It's like season 8 of your favorite sitcom. Some sharks were about to be jumped, big time. Everything else is real. Except for the narcotics. Then I found five dollars.
As our CEO hands me this fancy glass award, he says, with his lapel microphone transmitting to the audience "nice to see you." Instant corporate street cred. I'm pretty sure everyone in the audience was like "sure, VP and everyone else got awards, but JR--the CEO said it was good to see him--again." I could pretty much walk off that stage and demand that Olympic-pool-sized respect from anyone in the crowd. So I'm high as a kite, in the pride sense. I was also doing narcotics backstage with the crew, but I have such a tolerance now, those really had no effect on me. But as the CEO turns back to the podium to finish off the recognition, he stops himself and takes a sniff. Sure, you always think "oh no, he smells the Jack on my breath," like every time there's a pause in the convo with your boss. But when he turned around with a quizzical look in his face, I saw a flicker of orange in his glasses. I spun around just as the admin blurted out something about fire. My eagerness to submit to corporate etiquette had caused me to toss my blue blazer right on top of a backstage light, which had just enough heat to light it ablaze. I let out an expletive under my breath. Never swear in front the CEO, right? Well he lets out an audible curse over that lapel mic as I run back to stomp it out. I'm hoping the fire ate through enough of the material that it's unidentifiable by even the most skilled of striking CSI writers. I start stomping more furiously than that old man in Billy Madison. One of the crew members runs over with an extinguisher and sprays the entire area including my now singed pant cuffs and the medium-rare stage curtain.
Ok, seriously. the fire thing is all made up. I seriously can't keep making this up and still make it believable. It's like season 8 of your favorite sitcom. Some sharks were about to be jumped, big time. Everything else is real. Except for the narcotics. Then I found five dollars.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Cheesesteaks with Ben
This past weekend I was in Philly, where it all started. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, Philly Cheesesteaks. It was awesome in the most literal sense of the word: I was full of awe. Well at least with all the historical stuff. It was great seeing Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and all the 2000+ year-old history. We saw where the Declaration was signed and saw a chair that George Washington actually sat in. A buddy of ours came in from Washington D.C., and we just scoffed at him. D.C. has nothing on the birthplace of America. D.C.'s just a pretender. Philly's a true contender, what with Rocky on top of it all. We even saw a sign for "Breakfast with Ben Franklin." It would have been fun, but we didn't bother, we visited his grave, we knew he was actually dead.
So that part was great, but the cheesesteak failed to amaze. Don't get me wrong, Geno's famous sliced Grade B meat with sauteed onions and cheese whiz was as good as the sum of those parts could be, but it cost over $7. I may have been expecting too much. Philly is not known for its fantastic regional cuisine. The second-most-important ingredient is cheese whiz. But that didn't stop me. I had at least 3 of the said sandwiches (maybe more--I lost track of several hours during which I lost a digital camera). We also fell in love with Crown Fried Chicken. Sure, flavor always factors into an sexy weekend food fling, but proximity helped. Crown was closer than the convention we were in town for--which was across the street. And of course there was alcohol consumption befitting of a weekend trip, as well.
I think it all caught up to me. After flying home and the souvenir hangover slowly subsided, around 4 a.m. an intense pain shot through my back and down my arm. Great, I thought, I've given myself a Philadelphia-sized heart attack. I started to think about where to get a bottle of Bayer, started breathing to moderate my heart rate (is that even a strategy?), and then something snapped. The pain was gone and left me with a warm, slightly tingling sensation. It must have been a knot in my back, or something less serious than cardiac arrest, but I almost gave myself a heart attack thinking I was having a heart attack. Of course if I kicked it, I'd be able to catch that breakfast with Ben Franklin.
So that part was great, but the cheesesteak failed to amaze. Don't get me wrong, Geno's famous sliced Grade B meat with sauteed onions and cheese whiz was as good as the sum of those parts could be, but it cost over $7. I may have been expecting too much. Philly is not known for its fantastic regional cuisine. The second-most-important ingredient is cheese whiz. But that didn't stop me. I had at least 3 of the said sandwiches (maybe more--I lost track of several hours during which I lost a digital camera). We also fell in love with Crown Fried Chicken. Sure, flavor always factors into an sexy weekend food fling, but proximity helped. Crown was closer than the convention we were in town for--which was across the street. And of course there was alcohol consumption befitting of a weekend trip, as well.
I think it all caught up to me. After flying home and the souvenir hangover slowly subsided, around 4 a.m. an intense pain shot through my back and down my arm. Great, I thought, I've given myself a Philadelphia-sized heart attack. I started to think about where to get a bottle of Bayer, started breathing to moderate my heart rate (is that even a strategy?), and then something snapped. The pain was gone and left me with a warm, slightly tingling sensation. It must have been a knot in my back, or something less serious than cardiac arrest, but I almost gave myself a heart attack thinking I was having a heart attack. Of course if I kicked it, I'd be able to catch that breakfast with Ben Franklin.
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