At least not until his very public breakdown in 2011.  I was completely fascinated by that whole thing, in the way you can’t help but look at plumber’s crack or white spandex camel-toe even though you know really should just look away or else you might go blind.

My macabre fascination with the biggest train wreck in Hollywood since, well, ever, began as mild interest and grew exponentially each day with the increasingly surreal appearances on morning talk shows, tirades on Twitter and TMZ, and ultimately a live “show” on U-Stream.  The commentary on Facebook was prolific, and each one of Charlie’s proclamations was more outrageous than the previous, perhaps culminating in the whole, tiger’s blood, face melting, bitchin’ rock star from Mars thing.

And then he went on tour.  He got boo’ed in the midwest and eventually roasted in prime time in Hollywood.  All of which got me to thinking about whether or not Charlie is just plain crazy or if he may be crazy like a fox.  He went dark for a while and now he’s come out and proclaimed that he’s “not crazy anymore.”

I’m pretty sure crazy doesn’t just go away like all of your friends on moving day.

Regardless of reality, after all this is Hollywood where reality has been redefined, Charlie and his publicity factory took what was a catastrophic fall from grace and turned it into 1,000,000 followers on Twitter in record time.  If anyone named Charlie got the golden ticket, it was Sheen.

And we all watched with rapt attention, anticipating his next antic with childlike excitement.  What was he going to say, or do?  Would he have another porn star goddess sex partner by the pool?  Would he fall off his chair or maybe let his dentures slip revealing a horrible case of Meth Mouth?  Maybe he would shoot up right there on live broadcast, or haul off and hit someone who failed to recognize his greatness.  The sky was the limit with Charlie for a while and following him became a sport.

But soon enough, he quieted down.  Maybe his new publicist got through to him or maybe he got bored or tired, maybe his DIY reahab worked, or perhaps the meds just finally kicked in.  It doesn’t really matter because all he left us with was Lindsay Lohan with her probation problems and the inevitable break up of Ashton and Skeltor [sic: Demi].  Maybe Brad and Angie would go for a baker’s half dozen, or Jennifer Anniston would find true love once and for all, maybe she was pregnant for real this time, or maybe not.  The bottom line was that pop culture lost it’s rockstar [from Mars] the day that Sheen went silent.

Which brings me back to that question of whether Charlie Sheen is crazy or just playing at it.  If he was just playing at it, to rejuvenate his waning career (despite the fact he was the highest paid actor on TV and “Men” had ratings through the roof, he’d become a bit of a one-trick-bowling-shirt-wearing pony) then we cannot deny his sheer brilliance, or perhaps that of his publicity team.  Because crazy sells and Sheen was damn crazy, or at least appeared to be.  He became the hottest ticket in LA for a good portion of 2011.  The tabloids and rags couldn’t get enough of him, the morning shows rushed out to his estate at his whim and probably picked up Starbucks or an eight ball for him on the way, TMZ practically moved into his pool house, and Live Nation wasted no time inking a merch deal with Charlie in anticipation of his Violent Tornado of Truth Tour.  He seemed to miraculously recover from myriad addiction problems and hopped a train out of Crazy Town pretty quickly once it didn’t serve any longer.

So good for him, right?  He played people around the globe and is richer for it.  But what about ethics?  If he was indeed playing at mental illness and substance abuse as a publicity stunt, is that ethical?  In my opinion it is definitely not.  In fact, it commoditizes two very serious issues in our society, in my opinion making it more difficult for them, and the people afflicted with them, to be taken seriously.

And if he wasn’t playing at it…if he was truly temporarily insane and did somehow recover from his addictions in record time with record ease, or if he remains addicted but hides it so well that he seems to be fully recovered then where were the ethics in exploiting that to the point of making it a career move?  And what message does that send to our young people?  Do we not, as a society, have some responsibility to take these things seriously?  And as a public figure, did Sheen not have some obligation, if not to himself and his own children and family, then to the general public, to take some responsibility for his actions and own up to them as an adult rather than exploit them for shameless self-promotion and financial gain?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I do know that these are important things to consider and that at some point we must all take responsibility for our actions as they relate the the world around us rather than only to the world within us.

This was before the “everyone-wins-a-trophy-at-the-little-league-banquet” days.  This was before the time that it was bad to lose.  Or detrimental in some way to the development of our children to not always win, even when they didn’t.

Recently, my boss told me and another sales person in my company that which ever one of us closed the first deal of the quarter would get a bottle of booze of our choice.  Now, I can certainly afford to buy my own bottle of Bulleit Bourbon, but still, when I closed my deal first, what did I do?  I “woot woot-ed” myself, high-fived my dogs (which is technically a high ten) and sent my boss a text that said, “I WIN!”.

Yep. That’s right. I declared victory.  Shamelessly.  Proudly.  Deservedly, even.  Why?  Because I won, dammit. (So there.)

But this whole concept of winning seems to be looked down upon these days by schools and parents.  Soccer leagues and little leagues declare everyone a winner even when we all know only one team can ACTUALLY win a competition.  Honestly, I just don’t get it.  I mean how does this false sense of accomplishment we are instilling in our children really help them?  What, exactly, does it teach them?  And, more importantly, how does it prepare them for the real world?  Beyond this, do we really think that our children don’t understand the concept of winning and losing when we raise them in a society that declares Superbowl Sunday “the most epic day in America”?

As great as winning is, I would argue that the experience of losing is much, much better.  I would argue that we learn so much more about ourselves in the moment of losing than we do in the moment of winning, and that to go through life without the experience of losing would be a completely incomplete and unsatisfying existence.

I have won in my life and I have lost.  I’ve probably won more than lost, but boy did I learn from the times I lost.

The first time I really remember winning was when I made the drill team in high school, as a Junior.  I couldn’t believe it.  In high school being on the drill team was a BIG deal and something I never thought I would accomplish.  I still remember that moment when they called my name and the pure jubilation I felt.  But pretty soon I had to go home with all of my friends, and I was the only one who’d made the team out of all of us.  It was a somber ride home…and difficult.  I was bursting inside with joy, but felt just awful for my friends, who I’m sure had no idea how to deal with me being in the car.  I definitely didn’t know how to behave, so I just sat quietly in my seat waiting to get home and share my joy with my parents.

The first time I really remember losing was exactly one year later when I DIDN’T make the drill team.  I was crushed.  Devastated.  I thought it was a commentary on who I was rather than how I performed.  Not very many people made it the first year and not the second.  But I’d gotten lazy.  I rested on my laurels and thought that because I’d performed well in the previous year, that I’d just naturally be selected to remain on the team.  What I didn’t know, but learned, was that there is always someone smarter, more talented, more excited, hungrier than you waiting to take your spot on the drill team of life.

I came away from that losing experience with a very important learning.  Never rest on your laurels and never take anything or anyone (especially yourself) for granted.

As I’ve moved through my life, I’ve had what, at the time seemed to be losing experiences – losing jobs, losing friends, losing lovers – but in the end each one of these experiences has proven itself to be transformational, and as a result, I would argue, actually a winning experience.  Perhaps it lies in perspective.  Perhaps it lies in maturity.  Who really knows?  What I do know is that by depriving our youth of the experience of losing, we are, in effect, depriving them of the experience of winning – at least in a meaningful way.

After all, you can’t have light without darkness, or winning without losing.  Challenge yourself to lose and to let those you love lose.  Challenge yourself to win in each and every loss and to teach those around you to also win in each loss.

As Benjamin Franklin said, “I found 2000 ways not to make a light bulb, but I only needed to find one way to make it.”

Let me say that again.

Between 8,000 and 11,000 pets are euthanized EACH DAY in the United States.

If that isn’t reason enough for you to adopt your next pet rather than buy it from a breeder, mill or store, let me give you a few more reasons.

Al.  My first dog Al, was adopted from a family who could no longer keep him when he was seven years old.  When he came to live with me, Al was about 50% overweight, had a rope tied around his neck in place of a collar and leash and was so dirty that he looked gray rather than his true blue/black sheen.  I tied him to my front porch, hosed him off and while I was towel drying him he sat down, looked at me earnestly, and bumped my nose with his.  That first night he slept downstairs and at some point came into my room, got a sweatshirt off of the floor and snuggled up with it.  That was the one and only night in our six years together that he didn’t sleep in the same room with me if he physically could.  Al saw me through some very difficult times, and I saw him through some pretty difficult times of his own.  He lived to be 13 years old and on the day he died, I asked him if it was okay for me to let him go, and he looked at me earnestly and bumped my nose with his.

Fred the Cat.  Adopted around Thanksgiving, Fred is the doggiest cat I’ve ever met.  He was abandoned by his first family and left to fend for himself in the streets.  Luckily, he found his way to a no-kill shelter where I met him and brought him home – that was five years ago, and Fred has been with me ever since.  He is a snuggly purrmonster who has moved with me from Park City to Los Angeles, back to Park City and now to San Francisco.  It was Fred the Cat who got me through the loss of Al in 2008.  A couple of years ago, Fred escaped from my house and, being strictly and indoor cat got himself stuck in a tree at about midnight.  What did I do?  In my jammies and bare feet, I climbed up that tree and fished him out of it – it was a long time before he tried to jail-break again.

Oliver.  When he was three years old, Oliver was diagnosed with hip displasia requiring expensive surgery with a long recovery time.  His family dumped him on a street in LA to die.  He was picked up by animal control, but because of his health issues, Oliver was immediately red-listed.  That means he was scheduled to be euthanized within 24 hours.  Lucky for Oliver (and for me), an angel of a woman adopted him through her rescue organization and an amazing vet donated his time to give Oliver the surgery he needed, rehab and meds, all at no charge.  Once he was well along the road to recovery, they took him to an adoption event where Oliver came right up to me, sat in my lap (he’s an Alaskan Malamute!) put his front paws on my shoulders and licked my face, claiming me.  That was over three years ago, and my boy Oliver has taken care of me through some of the most difficult times of my life.  I honestly don’t know how I would have made it without him.  It wasn’t just his unconditional love that kept me going, but also knowing that he needed me to provide for him that encouraged me to keep putting one foot in front of the other when all I really wanted to do was collapse and give up.

Ginger.  A beautiful cat, Ginger came to me when she was just two months old and had been rescued as a feral kitten in downtown LA.  I never intended to have one cat, let alone two, but the moment I met this sweet little girl, I just couldn’t say no.  Even thought she’s rather shy, sweet little Ginger-roo is very loving and free with the sandpaper kisses that never fail to make me smile.

Penelope.  The newest addition to our family, Penelope joined us in April of 2010.  She had been adopted twice previously and returned, so I was her last stop before euthanasia.  Penelope was horribly beaten and abused by her first family and suffers many scars from that.  When she first came to live with us, it took quite a while for her to become comfortable and settle in.  She still is very nervous around new people, but once she warms up she is one of the most loving dogs I’ve ever met.  With Penelope, patience is the key, as she is still not over her trauma, but seeing the progress she makes almost daily keeps me encouraged to keep loving her and helping her trust people again.

When I think about the millions of dogs and cats that are euthanized each year, I feel that one person can’t possibly make a difference, but you can.  You can make a difference to one dog, or one cat, and that makes a difference to all of them in the long run.  You can share your experience with pet adoption with others, or foster animals while they wait for forever homes.  There are so many ways each and every one of us can make a difference in the lives of these wonderful four-legged friends.

And while I’m on the topic, please spay and neuter your pets.  While we will never eliminate the need for animals to be euthanized in the shelter system, if we spay and neuter our pets and encourage everyone we know to do the same we can at least do our small part to reduce the number of pets euthanized each year by reducing the numbers of homeless dogs and cats in the United States.

If you can’t adopt a cat or a dog, then donate some money, or volunteer some time at a shelter.  You’ll be amazed at what wonderful things spending time with dogs and cats can do for your stress level, psyche and general outlook on life.  Not to mention that I can gurantee you will smile and laugh a whole lot more.

Resources:

www.humanesociety.org

www.petfinder.com

www.aspca.org

www.fixnation.org

www.barkavenuefoundation.org

You know that saying, “Waiting for the other shoe to drop”, implying that no matter how great things are right now, you are just one stiletto away from a trip to the emergency room for a CAT scan of your noggin?  (In my version of the saying, the errant footwear lands squarely on my head when it drops)

Apparently the term was coined in the early 20th century evoking a person in bed awoken by the loud sound of a neighbor dropping a shoe onto the floor and thereafter waiting for the second shoe of the pair to be dropped, thus further interrupting their slumber.

Regardless of its origin, this has been a particularly annoying saying echoing in my head off and on for a good three years or so.  The fact is, that in the past few years, it’s felt like the Nordstrom Half-Yearly sale at times in my life – shoes raining down like frogs at the Exodus.

You know how it can be.  We move through life on a nice little comfortable path and then BAM!  A shoe falls on your head out of nowhere (actually, it may not be out of nowhere, but it seems like it at the time)   You rub the bump on your head, look up at the sky, maybe wonder where the hell it came from and keep moving forward.  Eventually something else happens, related or not, and “the other shoe drops”.  Then another, and another, and another.

It’s no good.  Or at least that’s the way it seems to be at the time.  But I’ve come to believe differently.

After surviving a monsoon of footwear with no umbrella over the past few years, I have learned that everything is a matter of perspective.  The great (or not so great, if you buy into his biography) Steve Jobs talked about “connecting the dots” during his now famous Stanford Commencement Address back in 2005.  This is a message that really resonates with me, as I can look backwards over my life and connect the dots to see clearly the path that was laid before me and that I chose to follow, often times against all logic.

It all began when I was choosing a college.  My parents told me that I could go to any college and they would pay for it as long as it was in Ohio.  Consequently, I only looked at schools in Ohio, and there are a lot of very good ones.  We did the obligatory Tour of Campuses during my junior year of high school, visiting all sorts of very good colleges, but none of them struck a chord with me.  Until the last one.  Denison University in tiny Granville, Ohio.  I really only looked at it because my grandma had gone there, and visiting was almost an afterthought to the nearby Kenyon College.  But the moment I set foot on that campus, I knew I would go to school there.  In fact, it’s the only college to which I applied, and there was never a doubt in my mind that I would be accepted.

That was the first dot.

From there the dots pepper my history, a sort of avant-garde Yellow Brick Road, which definitely led me through a couple of dark and scary forests with the equivalent of flying monkeys (and a Wicked Warlock of the West), allowed me to gather some truly amazing friends and companions along the way, and ultimately (at least to this point in my life) seems to have led me to the exact place such a road is meant to lead – the realization that we can achieve our heart’s desires if we trust ourselves and follow what we know to be true.  This is, after all, what The Great Oz ultimately teaches Dorothy, isn’t it?

But back to the shoes.

At some point my Ruby Slippers fell on me and I chose to put them on.  I’m not sure it was a conscious choice at all – more likely it was out of a need to protect my bare feet, which was a worse situation than those damn shoes falling.  That, and a change of perspective.  Instead of looking up and shaking my weary fist at the sky in frustration (again), cursing Imelda Marcos, Goddess of the Shoes, for dropping yet ANOTHER shoe on me, I decided that there must be a reason they fell on ME, so I put them on.  I finally began to embrace the events and circumstances of my life rather than fearing and fighting them.

An amazing thing happened when I changed my perspective from “Why are these shoes falling on me?” to “Let’s see why these shoes have fallen into my life.”  Good things began happening.  I could feel the next dot, set my intention on connecting to it, had a little patience, and it happened.  It was as if Glenda the Good Witch waved her wand and turned the shadows to sunshine.

Of course there was nothing magical about it, I just needed to change my perspective, put on those shoes and start walking again…right out of that dark and scary forest where I’d been stuck for so long.

In Rome, the occupiers rioted including graffiti on churches, damaging centuries-old statues, and caused more than an estimated 1,000,000 Euros in material damage that local merchants now need to deal with; in NYC they have marched on the Brooklyn Bridge, Times Square and a bank leading to violence and arrests including a woman just trying to run an errand on a Saturday afternoon; and in Chicago nearly 200 people have been arrested.  I guess we could credit the occupiers with keeping the local police in overtime pay, of course in most cities, the coffers don’t hold that much cash, which will lead to some measure of robbing Peter to pay police by sucking funds from other local community programs and needs.

And, as far as I can tell, the greedy corporations and corrupt politicians are pretty much ignoring the whole thing the way a seasoned parent ignores a toddler’s temper tantrum because he can’t have ice cream before dinner.

In fact, it seemed this weekend all eyes and cameras were on Bill Clinton’s tribute to himself and the tenth anniversary of the William J. Clinton Foundation that took place with some of the biggest musical stars on the planet in good old Hollywood, CA.  Last week it was the death of Steve Jobs that stole the spotlight from the Occupy Movement.

Seems to me that the occupiers do not, in reality, represent the 99% – I certainly don’t feel that they represent me and don’t want them to.  That doesn’t mean I disagree with them – I do, in theory, agree with them.  I agree that most large corporations are greedy and unprincipled, I agree that most politicians are corrupt and dance like puppets on strings pulled by lobbyists and large corporations, and I agree that something must change if we want our world to survive in a meaningful and productive way.  But just because I agree with these things does not mean that I identify with the Occupy Movement or that I want them to “represent” me.  It’s no different than agreeing that people shouldn’t wear fur coats, but not wanting to stand outside of Neiman’s on Michigan Avenue throwing ketchup on passers-by.

I think the occupiers represent the 1% that is at the opposite end of the spectrum from the corporations and politicians they hope to reach with their message – whatever that may be.  In the middle, are most of the rest of us – the 98% who fall somewhere in between the two extremes, are feeling the effects of our failing economic and political models, working really hard to keep our heads (and our families’ heads) above water, and maybe even looking for a way to get involved in affecting real change.  Those of us in the 98% have a hard time relating to the Occupy movement – which isn’t really moving at all – and we don’t really know WHAT it is they stand for or what they want.  People simply cannot get behind something when they don’t know what it is they are supporting.  This is why, in my opinion, the Occupy movement is struggling to activate people in the 98%, and why they aren’t having any real impact on the problems about which they claim to be so passionate.

But let’s change gears and look at this from a solutions point of view.  Let’s think about “occupy” versus “act”.

Occupy:  verb – To fill or take up space or time; To be situated in or at a place or position in a system or hierarchy

Act:  verb – To take action; do something; To take action in order to bring about change

“Occupy” is a static verb – when you occupy you pretty much just take up space.  “Act” is a dynamic verb – when you act you DO something that causes something else to happen.  Tell me, would you rather occupy or act?

Me?  I would rather act.  If you would too, here are some ideas of how each one of us can act individually to try to bring about change and hit the corporations in the only place it matters – the bank account.

Shop local!  Shop in local stores for what you need.  Sure Wal-Mart, Target and Best Buy are more convenient and less-expensive, but they don’t support the local economy beyond creating some jobs.  When you patronize locally owned businesses you are not only helping them continue to create jobs for your neighbors now, but you are also facilitating growth of that local business so that in the future it can continue to thrive and employ even more of your neighbors.  You are also supporting the local tax base including funding for community programs, health and education.  As we all know those big box retailers get all sorts of tax credits to build their behemoths in our cities enabling them to take our local money but not feed much of it back into our local economy.

Eat local!  Go to your local Farmer’s Market and buy foods that are grown and raised by farmers in your community.  Not only does this help support your local economy and keep money out of the corporate coffers of the likes of Monsanto, but it is also healthier and often times less expensive.  Plus, it feels really great to buy some produce directly from the people who grew it and see the pride in the face as they hand it to you.

Bank local!  If you have a local bank or credit union, patronize them.  Keep your financial assets out of the hands of the big banks and get better, more personal attention and service.  I love going to the local branch of my bank, being recognized and having a chat with the teller.

Educate yourself!  In 2012, we will have the opportunity to exercise one of the most important and precious rights we get as citizens of the United States of America.  We get to elect a new leader.  And while our political system is wrought with problems, corruption and greed, this right we have to vote is really more of a privilege and should be treated as such.  Don’t just go to the polls and vote your party line, or for the person whose name you’ve heard the most on CNN or FOX News.  Engage your brain and take the time to learn about the candidates, who they are, what they believe in and what their background really says about them.  There is nothing more powerful than the privilege to vote, use your power wisely, and for Zeus’ sake, don’t skip voting and try to take five people to the polls with you to vote.

Talk!  Talk (and listen) to other people.  Ask them what they think and believe.  Ask them what they are doing to help affect real change in society.  Challenge them to dig beneath what they see on Google, Facebook and Twitter and to really THINK about who and what they support.  Ask them if they feel as if what they are supporting and doing really have the power of change behind it.

Just the other day, I was talking to a friend about OWS, and she pointed out that she believes that the movement isn’t so much about creating change but that it is more about creating community.  As I considered her point of view, I realized that she was right, and while I hadn’t before seen much value in the Occupy Movement, with this new point of view, I suddenly did.  We now have a community formed around making change in our country…it’s up to us, each and every individual person to find a way to act rather than just occupy.  Maybe the Occupy Movement will find leaders and a message, maybe they won’t.  But let’s not wait around for someone else to tell us to get moving, just get moving!

David defeated Goliath, the tortoise defeated the hare, the people can defeat corporate greed and corruption for it is us upon which they depend for their very lifeblood.  If we turn off that spigot, over time, they will either have to begin to pay attention or wither and die, but that simply cannot happen if we don’t stop occupying and start acting.

I don’t care much about Occupy Wall Street (or LA, or Boston, or…) because they have no direction and there is no dialogue.  I agree with them that things in our country need to change.  I agree with them that our country is choking in the grip of corporations that are fueled by greed and corruption and I agree that the power to incite these changes lies in the hands of The People.  But the folks participating in Occupy Wall Street are making a classic marketing mistake.

They are delivering their (non)message in a way that is meaningful to them, but not to the people they are trying to reach.   Sure tens of thousands, or maybe even hundreds of thousands of people occupying Wall Street and other cities around the country get some media attention and have social media buzzing to some degree, but the people who they are trying to reach are summarily ignoring them the way an elephant ignores a fly on its butt.  The reality is that the Wall Street wizards and corporate captains just don’t give a shit.  And why should they?

This story is told by simply noting that the Occupy Movement was completely eclipsed in both the media and social media by the death of Steve Jobs, a member of the evil 1%.  It’s not the Occupy Wall Street image taking over profile pictures on Facebook like lenders taking over people’s homes, is it?

So what is a proletariat to do?

According to Wikipedia, a Proletarian Revolution is “a social and/or political revolution in which the working class attempts to overthrow the bourgeoisie.” Well, that certainly sounds like what the Occupy folks want to do, at least as best I can tell since they stand on a principle of not having any defined principles.

But Wiki goes on to say, “Proletarian Revolutions are generally advocated by socialists, communists and most anarchists.”  Now, I’m pretty sure that most of the people occupying Wall Street would not call themselves communists.  Some may identify with the tenants of socialism, and probably several more would classify themselves anarchists, but I doubt if these self-classifications would encompass even 20% of all of the people participating in one form or another.  Of course it’s hard to know because it’s not really clear WHO is participating.  Based on what I’ve read, it’s a lot of students and activists, which makes sense, but beyond that it’s difficult to tell.  This is complicated by the fact that the group has no real leaders, no mission, no goals, and no demands.  And while I admire their steadfast loyalty to a truly anti-establishment method of protest, I have to question whether or not they have any ability to be effective at all in creating real change.

To drive change you need a message to get people to identify with you, enroll them in your cause and engage them in the movement.  I read a blog earlier today by a guy who is one of the speakers of the day at Occupy Wall Street.  He opened his blog by explaining that he wanted to publish the actual content of his talk because all means of amplification are banned at the movement so he would be relying on a massive game of telephone for his message to reach the thousands of people there to hear it.  And we think AT&T has issues.

Earlier this week, Occupy Wall Street asked its supporters to dress like corporate zombies (they even provided clothing and make-up tips) and eat Monopoly money in order to get their message of corporate greed across to the folks they keep hoping will pay attention.  Again, not a terribly effective method of delivering a message if you want to be taken seriously by serious people.

One dude actually attempted to start a conversation about a list of demands for the group, as misguided and self-conflicting as his demands may have been, at least he gave it a shot.  He was summarily criticized and shut down by the “members” of Occupy Wall Street.  This reminded me of a news story I read a few years back about Burning Man.  What happened was, The Man was spontaneously set on fire before the scheduled time, and this caused great distress and outrage.  Ironic given that Burning Man describes itself as a “spontaneous” festival.

Some of the signs that are being carried at the protest say, “I lost my job but found an Occupation.”  Cute play on the homonym there, but it begs the question, are you taking time out to collect your corporate and government subsidized unemployment checks or are you truly eschewing the evil 1% and not taking their tainted money at all?

I don’t mean to be a jerk here, but the reality is that we have the two extreme ends of the spectrum represented and are missing everyone in the middle.  To quote that old Wendy’s commercial, “Where’s the beef?”  Not to mention the fact that these two groups of people communicate in entirely different ways, expanding the chasm between them.

As I see it, if the Occupy folks want to have a real impact, they need to engage those of us in the middle.  The people who have jobs, but are making less than ever before, or working below their skill, experience or education level, and just barely hanging on to their homes and managing to feed their families.  The people who are working multiple jobs just to make ends meet and who are watching their bank accounts shrink despite working more hours than ever before.  As well, they need to reach people like my parents who are retired and wondering if their lifetime of savings that is shrinking like a deflating balloon will last the rest of their natural lives, asking themselves if Medicare and Social Security, both of which they rely upon, will even be around in three, five or ten years, and if not, will their children have enough money left to help take care of them.

These are the people who need to be engaged and mobilized.  But that isn’t going to happen without some organization on the part of the Occupy group.  People in the middle can’t relate to this 1966-esque, loosey goosey manner of protest.  We look at these folks and think they have a great idea and want to support them but don’t know how.  They evoke images of sit-ins protesting the Vietnam war, flowers in gun barrels and hippies.  We, the people in the middle, need something to bite into so that when our colleagues, friends and family ask, “Why do you support this movement?” we can give them an answer that not only resonates with us, but that will hopefully resonate with them too and grow the movement in a way that it can truly affect change.

There are very few people in our country right now who would argue with the fact that sweeping changes need to happen and that nearly all of us are held hostage in some way by the death grip of Corporate America.  This country was born of revolution and change, and it is our legacy to be true to that which our founding fathers held sacred.  But even they had goals and objectives that were clearly defined allowing others to get behind them and propel them to make very real and significant changes that impacted history.

We find ourselves at place where we can again impact history through real change, but we need leadership, objectives and goals to do that.  If those aren’t going to come from the people behind Occupy Wall Street, then we must look to another source to take on that role and begin a dialogue in a credible and effective manner.  Personally, I hope a group of leaders will naturally emerge within the Occupy movement and that they will use their voices wisely to drive the change the people of our country so badly want and need, because they have two things on their side that those of us in the middle don’t.  They have momentum and they have attention from across the globe – there aren’t too many things in our modern world that are more powerful than these – the only remaining question is:  Will the Occupy Movement recognize what they have and take the necessary steps to harness it and build the collective voice of the people?

Back when I was in college, it was the 80s, so things were a little more lax than they are now in the Greek world.  Having grown up to spend some time as a chapter adviser for my sorority, I can tell you that in many ways nothing has changed, but the rules and regulations governing the activities of the organizations have become much, much tighter.

One of the best things that my college did for the Greek presidents was take us all on an off-site weekend-long training retreat where we learned all about the very real responsibilities that came along with our new role.  The first thing they taught us was that if anything happened to anyone at any event sponsored by our group, ultimately, as president, we could and most likely would find ourselves on a witness stand being held accountable.  This alone was enough to make me vow (and I kept that vow except for one night) not to drink a drop of alcohol at any sorority sponsored activity for as long as I was president.

But beyond scaring us straight, they also taught us a lot about the kinds of things that we may need to deal with as president.  Things that I, for one, had never really thought about and certainly was not prepared to deal with – at least not until this retreat.

They talked to us about eating disorders, depression, addiction and rape.  They taught us basic counseling and coping skills to triage emergency situations in case they would arise.  Sure, that included what to do if a sister drank too much and vomited, but it also included what to do if a sister showed signs of an eating disorder, and what to do if a sister was raped.

As I sat there listening to the Dean of Greek life and members of the counseling staff talk to us and take us through exercises, I thought, as I’m sure all the other presidents did too, that I would never need to know this stuff.  There was just no way any of these situations were going to arise on my watch.  And, for most of us, that was probably true, but as it turned out, it was not true for me.

We left that retreat and went back to campus excited and proud to take on our new roles.  I still remember the first formal meeting I ran and how proud I was that I’d memorized everything I was supposed to say and what an exhilarating sensation it was looking out at those 128 women who were my sisters and knowing that for the next year I had the honor of leading them.  To this day, in job interviews, when I’m asked that predictable question, “What experience have you had that has most impacted your professional success?”  I say, “Being president of my sorority because if you can lead and manage 128 women between the ages of 17 and 21 without losing any, you can do anything in the corporate world.”  And that’s true, but the reality is that there is much, much more beneath that response.

About 3 months or so into my term as President, we were at a party at a fraternity, me not drinking, and one of my sisters came up to me very upset.  Her lips were trembling and when I asked her what was wrong she pointed at one of the frat boys and said, “He raped me last semester.”

Time slowed down and nearly stopped.  All of the training I’d received just a few months ago came flooding back and my brain went into overdrive sifting through all of it to pull out that one thing I was supposed to do first.

She was staring at me, tears in her eyes, and I put my arm around her and took her outside where we sat down on the curb.  I held her hands and asked her who else she’d told.

No one.

(shit)

I asked her to tell me about it as best she could, and she did.  Then I told her that no, it wasn’t her fault, and no, I wouldn’t tell anyone.  I suggested that on Monday we go to the counseling center together to get her some help.  And then I just held her while she cried and let all of that fear, shame, anger and frustration out that she’d been carrying for months, all by herself.

A few months later, I was walking home from another party with a very, very close friend and sister and she looked at me and started to cry.  I hugged her and asked what was wrong.  She told me that she’d been raped by a guy at the party we’d just left her freshman year, first semester.

We were in the second semester of our junior year.  She’d never told anyone until now.

On Monday, we went to the counseling center together.

At the beginning of my senior year, another one of my sisters was raped.  We knew about this one right away, but that didn’t make it any easier or any less painful.  I don’t know how long she carried her pain with her, or how long it took her to really let it all out, but I know that at some point she had to.

After college, I went for a long time without knowingly knowing people who had been raped, but then, several years later, I met several more people who had been traumatized by sexual abuse.  Women and men, and I realized something about all of the people in my life, over the years who had been raped.

They are all extremely strong, courageous people.  And, each and every one of them has a story about that breaking point.

I have a story about that breaking point too, not because of anything nearly as traumatic as rape, but a series of traumatic experiences nonetheless.  When I hit that breaking point and found myself sobbing uncontrollably for no apparent reason I simply didn’t understand it.  I was in a very warm, safe and happy place in my life.

I remember one night in particular.

It was winter and my boyfriend at the time was living with me for ski season.  We had friends over for cocktails and dinner.  He was playing guitar, everyone (except for me…I don’t sing – ever) was singing, and it was a truly great evening.  Joy and happiness were finally filling my home again, after they’d taken quite a bit of a hiatus.

Why then, did I suddenly find myself on the deck weeping in the snow?  It made no sense to me or to anyone else, though they all did a stellar job trying to comfort me.  I remember feeling spent, weary – as if I’d been holding my breath and tensing my muscles for a very long time and I’d just exhaled, relaxing my whole body.

I chalked it up to the impending end of ski season signaling the departure of said boyfriend and went on about my life.

And then, last week, on Facebook, I saw the photo at the top of this post.  It says, “People cry, not because they are weak.  It’s because they have been strong for too long.”

And it hit me.  Suddenly I got it.  I found myself sobbing that night for the same reason my two sorority sisters finally told someone about their rapes and let it all out.  When you are strong for so long it becomes a habit.  I call it survival mode, or high alert.  You just power through day by day and then, sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly, you find yourself not needing to be strong for a moment or a month or maybe even longer, and that’s when the trauma hits you.  That’s when you finally exhale and that’s why you cry.

Crying is such a wonderful cleansing process, that I wish more people would allow themselves to experience.  Crying is like rain in the springtime, ultimately clearing the dark skies above your head and giving rise to the verdant and colorful life that is waiting to push through.  We cry when we feel safe and protected, when we know there will be arms to fold around us and that we won’t be judged but rather will be loved and understood even if we can’t begin to understand ourselves.

So for all of you out there who won’t let yourselves cry because you think it is a sign of weakness, I challenge you to let go of that and allow yourself to cry, cleansing your spirit and giving life to all of the beautiful things that await you as the skies clear.  And for anyone who is present when someone you know starts to cry for any reason or no reason at all, just hold them, love them and let them know that they are indeed now safe and secure and that it’s okay to not be strong because you are there to be strong for them.

“Don’t be ashamed to weep; ’tis right to grieve. Tears are only water, and flowers, trees, and fruit cannot grow without water. But there must be sunlight also. A wounded heart will heal in time.”
― Brian Jacques, Taggerung

A few years ago I met a guy at a bar and got to know him by not getting to know him.

He’s the first (and only) guy I’ve ever gone skinny dipping with.  He lost his glasses (twice) in the ocean that night and I found them with my toes.  We had a lot of fun not getting to know each other for awhile, until it didn’t make sense any longer and then we just went on about our lives.  We remained loosely in touch – you know Facebook an occasional email or text, etc.

A few times, over the course of a couple of years, I visited the city where he lives, but never really made an effort to reach out – until a few months ago, on a bit of a whim.

We were both free and we met for a drink at a dive bar.  And we had a great time reconnecting.  Amazing conversation for much longer than was probably responsible and much later than I usually stay up.

We got together again recently and before we met up, I started thinking about this friend of mine and what I  know and don’t know about him. I realized that I know a whole bunch of really important stuff about him, like how he felt when major life changes took place and some of the key things he believes in.   I know some of what is important to him in relationships and what isn’t, and I know some of the things that have caused him pause in the past.  I have learned about some of the things he’s passionate about in life, where he’s been and where he wants to go.  I’ve learned a bit of his life philosophy and bit about his fears.

He clearly knows much about me as well, though I couldn’t tell you exactly what.  For I’m certain that I revealed more to him than I’d intended during that late night chat we had.  And he’s extremely bright, so who knows how much he figured out without me telling him.

But I don’t know how old he is, or what his favorite color is.  I don’t know if he’s left or right handed.  I have no idea idea if he has siblings or if he is an only child.  I don’t know when his birthday is, or what his sign is.  I realized that I don’t know any of the typical “important” stuff about this person.  I have no idea where he went to high school or college or if he went to grad school, if he speaks any other languages, is allergic to anything or if he prefers mountains or the ocean.  Does he like to ride bikes?  Ski?  Run?  Hike?  Comedy or drama?  Fantasy or Sci-Fi?  Chocolate or vanilla?  Coffee or Tea?  Zombies or vampires?

And, I realized, that until the moment that I noticed that I didn’t know any of that stuff, none of it mattered.  And actually, it still doesn’t because I like not knowing the unimportant stuff.  It hasn’t gotten in the way of knowing the important stuff.  Clearly ours has been an unusual path of “getting to know you” and continues to be, but it’s unique and I really like that.

So, me being me, I pointed this out when we last got together, and as we pondered this at the same time, he observed that he also doesn’t know any of the unimportant stuff about me, which I find to be quite liberating.  We then went about our evening and our chat as usual, and revealed nothing unimportant about ourselves.

And as we sat and talked for hour after hour, I came to a deep appreciation of this sort of backwards relationship he and I have for I crave emotional intimacy with people.  I like to know who and why someone is and I like it very much when people let me in and reveal parts of their true self to me.  It is especially rewarding when they allow me to do the same and we connect on a much more significant level than in most social interactions.  It is a very fulfilling experience encompassing both the intellectual and the emotional selves – very few things in life are as deeply satisfying as that.

It’s like discovering a wonderful, whimsical puzzle whose depths are unknown to the solver and, often times, to the puzzle itself, the person you are discovering.  If you’re lucky, that discovery will go on for a period of time and the pieces of the puzzle will shift and change, some will grow and others will disappear altogether, but there will always be enough pieces to complete the puzzle, at least for a moment, at any point in time.  In my mind, it’s like the shifting staircases at Hogwarts.  There are always the same number of staircases, and you can always get to where you want or need to be, but route changes constantly including the direction, the length and the steepness of the staircases.  The wonder of this puzzle is that the longer you allow yourself to work it the more complex and beautiful it becomes and in the process of trying to solve it, you usually learn quite a bit about yourself.

Certainly, I have several people in my life with whom I have very emotionally intimate, deep relationships.  I am fortunate in this way and grateful for it.  But in none of those cases do I NOT know the unimportant stuff, which honestly, I thought was of relative importance until recently.  I mean, it matters when someone’s birthday is or how old they are, right?  It matters that you know how many siblings they have, if they like Star Wars or Star Trek better, and where they grew up, right?  It’s important to the basis of your friendship, right?  These are the basic things all people who relate on a regular basis should know about each other, right?

Um.  Not really.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to know these things, and they provide a comfortable and easy way to begin to develop a friendship with someone you don’t know very well.  These are easy things to ask and answer.  Simple things to talk about and share with someone else over a coffee or a cocktail.  Traditionally speaking, if these things mesh, then you move on to the next level and so on and so on.  And this is an excellent way to build a relationship.

But it is not the only way.

With this backwards getting to know you process that I noticed was going on in my life, I learned two things.  First, I learned that some pretty cool shit can happen when you’re not paying attention (or perhaps BECAUSE you’re not paying attention); and second, I learned that there are no rules, no rhyme and no reason governing who or what will resonate with your soul at any given moment, but boy, you better be open and available to it when it shows up, because those moments rarely present themselves twice.

That night with my friend, I did, however, notice that he wears his watch on his right hand, a clear sign that he’s a lefty, which was confirmed upon me asking.

I felt a little dirty afterward.

Just. Pause.

It caught my eye and momentarily drew me out of my rock-n-roll reverie.  It actually made me pause, but not for long.  I went about my day as normal.

But that pause billboard stuck in my craw, to quote my mother, and it niggled at the back of my brain for a few days, begging me to give life to whatever it was that was left unsaid on the  billboard.  But it was like my brain was on pause when it came to putting the words it held to keyboard.  I wished for Dumbledore’s wand to draw the thoughts out of my brain and deposit them in that bowl thingy in his office that looks like a baptismal font.  If only I could do that, then I could plunge my head into the waters of my own thoughts, observe them and put them to posterity.  Alas, I am not in possession of the famed elder wand.

So, I waited.  Thinking quite a bit about the importance of pausing in our busy lives to hear, see, feel and experience those things that are truly important – but none of it resonated.  Until today.

I started the day with a beautiful canyon drive that ended with me meeting some dear friends for breakfast in the shadow of the mountains.  We were about halfway between Park City and Salt Lake so the air was clean and full of Fall.  We enjoyed a lovely time together, good food and conversation.  Friendship.  And then I took the reverse drive back home, savoring the sprawling views all the way.  Breathing in the fresh, crisp air that smells like Fall for only so long before the flurries fly.

When I got home I did what I always do.  I took the dogs out, played a bit and then came in, hopped on the laptop and hit Facebook before catching up on emails before Monday Madness.

Say what you will about Facebook, but it does serve to connect people who might not otherwise connect or reconnect.  It has served to reconnect me with a lot of people from high school with whom I’d lost touch (mostly by choice, I didn’t exactly love my high school experience).  What has been really cool for me about this, is getting to know these people all over again as adults without all of the cliques and hormones and insecurities and braces.  And this has been a most eye opening experience – one for which I am very grateful.

Several months ago,  maybe even a year ago -  I learned on Facebook that one of my high school friends had suddenly died.  Her husband, also a high school friend, was left, at age 44, a widower with three children.  The news was shocking and impossible to assimilate.  How could this woman, full of life just be there one day and gone the next?  We had all gone to prom together that one year, taken pictures by the lake and shared limos to the dance and after party.

For the past two months or so, I’ve been in an off-and-on conversation with my friend Kevin about all of the souls leaving our planet recently.  There has been a lot of death – unexpected, unanticipated, unfathomable death.  Co-workers, friends parents, friends, and spouses.  We have talked about the Great Ascension that some subscribe to; and about the 2012 End of Times theory that others follow; we have done all we can to make the unimaginable, believable – to fit it into our framework of life understanding.  But I can say that for me, this has just not been possible.

Today, someone else left us.  The husband of a high school friend and despite the distance of time and space, I cried.  For these two people fell in love and shared their romance with all of us on Facebook in a beautiful glimpse into what is really important during life – love and connection.  It was a lovely gift they gave us, sharing their joy with everyone, and a story that was quite inspirational for me personally, restoring the hope that I’d lost to some degree that given enough time we all find our true love.

And I paused.

Because this is what that innocuous pause sign should remind all of us – life is precious and unpredictable and love is a gift that we often take for granted.  We must learn that in our busy, busy lives there is nothing more important than to make room for love, to cherish our loved ones every single day and to never, ever take them for granted.  We must not let the ankle-biters of our days get in the way of the greater things in our lives.

Does it really matter that your husband never puts his dishes in the dishwasher or that your wife spends just a little too much of your hard earned money on shoes every now and then?  Why do we let the stress and frustration of our jobs interfere with our love relationships?  Does it really matter?  No, it doesn’t.

So, I have made a promise to myself that I am going to pause at least once a day to LOVE my loved ones in whatever way I can.  And that in that pause, whether I have time to pause for one minute, one hour or one whole day, I will truly pause to listen to my own heart and the hearts of the people I love.

Bay Village was a small town.  Seven miles long, and 3 miles wide.  Bordered on the north by Lake Erie and on the south by railroad tracks.  We literally lived on the RIGHT side of the tracks.

Not much happened in Bay Village, save that murder that took place back in 1954.  It was such an unsavory affair upon which the film “The Fugitive” was based.  My great uncle, Bud Nipper, was a photographer for the Cleveland Press back then and was the first photog on the scene.  My mom has a decaying Craft envelope with his gruesome photos in it.  The originals.

Mrs. Hull, our high school guidance counselor, lived in Sam Sheppard’s house on Lake Road and at some point after we all matriculated they turned the hospital at which Sam was a physician into condos.  Gruesome.

Yay capitalism. (Yes, that IS an Austin Powers quote)

Girls my age were swooning over Michael Jackson, Shawn Cassidy, Prince and the like.

But not me.  I loved Freddie Mercury.  He was pretty and handsome at the same time.  He was charismatic and energetic and GENIUS all while being completely electric on stage. And he could STRUT!

One of my great regrets in life is that I never saw Queen perform live.  But oh how I dreamed of it.  And how I still do.

I remember the first time I heard Queen.  It was at Bataan Elementary School in Port Clinton, Ohio (before we moved to Bay Village) in music class.  I must have been in about fifth grade and our music teacher played “We are the Champions” for us.  I was absolutely entranced by the music and didn’t even know why.  All I remember is getting lost in that song and understanding in that young moment that music is magic.  I wanted to sing at the top of my lungs…belt out, “WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS/MY FRIENDS/AND WE’LL KEEP ON FIGHTING TILL THE END/WE. ARE. THE. CHAM-PIONS./WE. ARE.THE.CHAM-PIONS./NO TIME FOR LOSERS/’CAUSE WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS/TILL THE END.

Oh, it was transformational. And in that little music room, sitting in that uncomfortable chair, I fell in love with Freddie Mercury.

I didn’t know anything about him except that he had a magical voice that made my soul vibrate.  And it made me want to sing!

It was 1977.  Queen released “News of the World” that year, their second self-produced album and sixth overall.

Then I heard another Queen song, and another and another.  I sang along to my record player that sat on top of my Partridge Family record holder that I eventually covered up with contact paper because they just weren’t cool any longer. (or maybe they never were…)  I sang at the top of my lungs and I felt free and alive – oh so alive.

And Freddie, with his head thrown back, arm raised in the air, and shirtless form was the epitome of freedom and creativity to me.  He was so pretty and sexy.  I swooned.

Year after year, song after song, I fell more and more in love with Freddie Mercury – or, as I can now see, I fell in love with what it was he represented.  Passion, love and freedom of expression.  Only I didn’t know it then, I’m not sure I really knew that until very recently.

As we all graduated from Bay High School in our safe little suburb, Live Aid was taking place in 1985.  Queen performed live in what has been called “the best live performance ever given”.  I watched from afar, but felt the energy of “Radio Ga Ga” – that night Queen performed six songs including “Bohemian Rhapsody”, “Crazy Little Thing Called Love”, “We are the Champions” and “We will Rock You”.  And Freddie owned the stage and the crowd.

It is well-documented that Freddie Mercury was quite shy when not on stage and that he thrived on the energy of the crowd when he performed.  Freddie was a true musician, who played piano exquisitely by ear and had a baritone speaking voice but sang most of his songs in the tenor range.  He was bi-sexual and not ashamed.  He had a love of his life, Mary Austin, and he had flings with men, but in the end, it was Mary to whom he returned.  It was Mary who comforted him in his last days and it was Mary to whom he left the bulk of his considerable wealth and his luxurious home in England.

Maybe my fascination with Freddie Mercury is nothing more than a school girl’s fascination with a fairy tale, for that’s what his life was.  A modern day, rock and roll fairy tale, where he was most certainly Prince Charming to his princess Mary Austin.  Regardless, he inspires hope, passion and creativity.

In 1986, Queen performed live at Wembley in the UK during the Magic Tour, which would prove to be their last.  If you watch the footage from that evening (the 25th anniversary edition of the concert is being released on DVD in the US on September 13, 2011) you will see a mass of humanity of all races and creeds joined together by music, moving and singing in unison, oblivious to their differences, all focused on the Man on the Stage, Freddie Mercury.

By 1986, I was in college and had all but forgotten about Freddie and Queen.  The bands of the day, Erasure, Depeche Mode, The Smiths, had stolen my attention.  Not to mention the college requisites like The Grateful Dead, CSN, and James Taylor.  Like a bored lover, I had moved on and over the next 20 years or so, I didn’t give Queen or Freddie much thought.

Certainly, when he died in 1991 of AIDS, I paused.  It was sad and scary.  AIDS was new on the scene (at least in my world) and none of us were sure how you got it or if you had it from being just a little too promiscuous with boys at the frat parties.  Freddie Mercury was the first rock star to openly die of AIDS and he hid it from the public eye for quite some time.  And it was the end of an era in rock and roll.  A turning point.

But life went on.  College graduation.  Jobs.  Moves. Friends. Boyfriends. And Queen on my mix tapes, my walkman, my portable CD player and eventually my iPod.  Always on my soundtrack of life, but I’d forgotten about Freddie, his passion, his energy and his gift to the world.

Until recently.  It was like reconnecting with an old boyfriend on Facebook, only more rewarding because Freddie had been preserved as I remembered him, pretty and handsome all at once, and those old boyfriends on Facebook mostly just look like they’ve been sitting too much for the past 20 years.  Don’t get me wrong, I’d listened to Queen across the years, but only recently, reconnected with WHO they were, with the lifeforce behind them – Freddie Mercury.

And now, as an adult, I understand my girlish fascination with Freddie.  He WAS pretty and handsome all at once.  He WAS sexy and charismatic. He was and still is, immortalized in video, all of those wonderful things I remembered, but now I understand WHY Freddie Mercury was so appealing to men and women, boy and girls all over the world.

It is because he was fearless.  He put his heart and soul out there for the world to see and in doing that he gave the world a piece of himself.  He left us with a piece of his passion, his love and his talent.  Freddie Mercury, if you listen to him, if you watch him, found a way to set us all free, even if just for a moment or two – with music.

And it is in this that I find inspiration.  Inspiration to also be fearless.  Inspiration to find a way to not only set my own passions free, but also to inspire others to set themselves free.  Inspiration to move this world forward in unison one moment, one person, one song at a time.

So, my schoolgirl love affair with Freddie Mercury has reignited and I plan on fanning that flame – after all, the ringtone on my phone has been “Don’t Stop Me Now” for over a year…