Disclaimer: I’m not a genius but I play one in real life.

I am writing this article from the great state of Ketosis. Ketosis is a natural process the body initiates to help us survive when food intake is low. During this state, we produce ketones, which are produced from the breakdown of fats in the liver. Known generally as a Ketogenic Diet or “Keto.”

A keto diet is well known for being a low carb diet, where the body produces ketones in the liver to be used as energy. It’s referred to as many different names – ketogenic diet, low carb diet, low carb high fat (LCHF), etc.

When you eat something high in carbs, your body will produce glucose and insulin.

• Glucose is the easiest molecule for your body to convert and use as energy so that it will be chosen over any other energy source.
• Insulin is produced to process the glucose in your bloodstream by taking it around the body.

In simple terms, I have switched fuel sources. It’s ketones baby, ketones.

One thing leads to another: Six months ago, while trying to find a suitable replacement for my yucky, sugar-filled French Vanilla coffee creamer at the health food store, I stumbled onto a lot of information about this ketogenic diet. Life changer. This was also my introduction to Bulletproof Coffee. Also called butter coffee. You make your coffee normally, then add grass fed butter and coconut oil and put the whole mess in a blender. Yumeee!

So let me tell you my experience over the last few months. I am experiencing  a huge loss of appetite, increased focus, energy, drive and a better night’s sleep. Since I am using fat for energy, I am coaxing those troublesome little pockets of flab from my midsection and retaining muscle mass from all my hard work at the gym. Which will throw you off if you live your life according to scale weight. Like the baby and the bath water, when you lose weight eating normally, you lose muscle too. Not interested.

So that’s just the Cliff Notes of my latest experiment: Me. Feel free to click on the hyperlinks or get back to me here if you want more information. I have just touched on the tip of an iceberg.

Hmmm. Let’s see where’d I put that stick of butter?

A funny thing happened to me on my way to hell. I took the MA. 111 Exit into Ayer for what I thought was some brief sustenance and shelter. Or to wait for the grim reaper. Freshly released, although tentatively, by the VA Hospital from addictions to all things harmful, I was as shaky as a new born calf. Beyond a dying (dead?) marriage, a decaying business and an even deader bank account. (Think less than zero.) What’s not to like?

Those days are a blur as I was still pretty jacked up (or down) with Seroquel, Mirtazapine and healthy portions of blood pressure meds to counteract the stroke they were sure was on the way. Seems Xanax and alcohol are a no-no.  Creeping up on 70 at the time, this wasn’t the picture I had been painting for my declining years.

Walking into my new claustrophobic confines, a small, pet friendly apartment tastefully furnished in a Davis, Crawford et al, design, I fetched my two puppies and settled in for a long cold winter.

Those first few months were brutal. As I was to learn later, I wasn’t fully detoxed from Xanax. It takes quite a while. Living in stroke territory takes a toll. My wife said, “You’ll probably want to get started on that divorce you’ve been talking about.” Huh? I must of killed off more brain cells than I thought. Yes, I wanted out but I didn’t think I was so vocal about it. Very confusing times indeed.

As the weeks and months passed, I started to accept my fate. Although I thought this would be the episode of my life I would be drinking and drugging through. My timing sucks!

One morning I looked in the mirror at myself and word associated, “pear”. That’s what I resembled, a friggin’ pear. Oh my God! What have I done? I turned myself into a popover. Generous portions of belly fat cascading over the top of my belt buckle. Yech! My deliberately intentioned body was gone. I had just one ab now and it was blocking the view of my feet. What’s next, a moo-moo?

One Sunday morning, on one of my many cathartic walks, I stumbled upon a nondescript, stand-alone building with a bunch of cars in the parking lot. I looked in the window and saw it was packed with weights, treadmills, bikes and heavy duty racks. Can this be? A half mile from my new digs? 24 Hour Access? Get outa here! I joined.

Bonus paragraph: On top of all that good news, the Nashua Rail Trail is exactly 45 seconds from my new door step. An 11 mile shot to Nashua starting in Ayer. A beautiful, scenic, endorphin filled bike ride all the way into New Hampshire. Love it.

Exercise soothes the soul and did my soul ever need soothing. I hit the weights and never looked back. Believing that anything worth doing is worth overdoing, it didn’t take long to start shaping me up again. My self esteem started inching up. My sleep patterns changed. I weaned myself off those cautionary doses from the VA and tightened up my diet. I’m back to flexing in the mirror again. 🙂

None of the drugs I ever took could make me feel this good. None.

I am now on the road to becoming a Certified Personal Trainer. At 71, this October, I will be giving as good as I get and helping folks like me get a leg up. Literally. I never was a silver lining guy but I’m coming around.

It’s true, Rock and Roll never forgets!

Bob O’Hearn

In 1969, I had many reasons to dislike Billy Burns. And on this one particular night at O.D.’s, a nightclub in Cambridge, I was about to get one more. I was sitting up at the bar with my then girlfriend, Debbie, when he approached us to grace us with his presence. I suffered through the amenities and noticed he was wearing a three piece suit, a very tailored three piece suit, and as usual, he was full of himself. Gag!

After he left to bestow the gift of himself on other unsuspecting patrons, I muttered, “What a creep, huh?” Debbie responded with “But he has the most beautiful body, though.” Though? THOUGH? What the hell was that supposed to mean? I stared down at my protuberance, winded and wounded. I’m thinking, not him, Jesus please, not him. If rat poison cocktail was on the bar menu I would have ordered one. And drank it. I was out of my body for the rest of the night trying to staunch the bleeding to my wounded ego. I had dreams of Debbie asking him if she could feel his bicep. Dreadful.

The next morning I was at Sears in Porter Square buying one those metal spring chest expanders Charles Atlas was always hawking and proceeded to wreak havoc on my once sedentary, fleshy, complacent body. I was relentless. When my brother noticed the clumps of hair trapped in the springs and my irritated nipples, he asked me if I was using them correctly. Who cares? That goddam Billy Burns was making my life miserable. “Though” still ringing in my ears, I continued pinching the rest of my chest hairs off.

Sometimes a poke in the proverbial belly is all it takes to get us to tighten ourselves up. That was fifty years ago and no matter what I was going through in life I still took my iron pills. I was once escorted out of a Holiday Health Spa in Newton on a Saturday night because I was drunk. Sadly, they thought little of my efforts.

Vanity can be a double edged sword but if it can bring us around to taking better care of ourselves then why not? In the end I have Billy Burns and my insensitive girlfriend to thank for pumping me up. Billy was the first guy I ever knew who put the word Narcissus in a sentence. I will never forget that night as painful as it was, and Billy will always have my deepest respect. Kinda.

I didn’t vote. Plain and simple. I abstained willfully and without prejudice. I chose to sit this one out. I don’t have to dance if I don’t like the music. And this music sucked.

Some people who do vote, don’t have enough information to pass a smell test. They go off of wild, visceral reactions to people they’ve never met and actually think they’re voting their conscience. Maybe they are.

It’s 5:00 pm, Tuesday, July, 23, 1963. This morning I was surrendered to the custody of the Division of Youth Services, State of Massachusetts, by the dishonorable Judge Robert DeMarco. He was a crook.

My head is newly shaven, I have a fat lip, black eye and the familiar smell of dried blood is clogging up my snot locker. I am sore all over from the drubbing my father gave me out of sight of onlookers at the Somerville Court House. I have had better days.

There are about 15 of us newly committed kids on this particular day in the recreation hall and we’re all sizing each other up. I smell a mix of chlorine and rotten meatloaf. The setting sun is trying desperately to get past the filthy smudges on the wire braced windows to light up the room.

I was here earlier in the year in the detention section because I couldn’t afford bail on another charge. I swore I would never be back. I was back.

We hear a gym whistle go off down the hall but no one knows what to make of it. We would shortly. Then, we hear sneakers, lots of them, sounding like a chopper landing in the distance. Boom! They were on us like stink on shit. Six big men wearing t-shirts, khakis and white sneakers. The routine was, punch you in the face, pick you up by your neck, head butt you, drop you and move on.

I hope one of them, Mr. Chandler, the expert at this technique, died of blunt force trauma.

Oh my God, what the hell is this? This was way overkill. I had arrived pre-crippled already thanks to my father. “Hey, I’m good over here.”

What it was, was a welcome to the system and to let you know who the boss was. Three years later, I would receive a similar welcome by drill sergeants at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, as a newly minted draftee. But that was nowhere near as brutal as this.

I cried myself to sleep for weeks as my tough guy veneer started wearing off.

Here is a description of the place from the book: Abominable Firebug, written by Richard B. Johnson,

“The large room was called the “dayroom” because that was where the inmates spent their days. The sleeping quarters consisted of a small concrete room containing two iron bed-frames embedded in concrete. These had been fashioned out of welded angle-iron and steel plate. A thin mattress with no inner-springs was placed on this frame. Each boy was given a single blanket, no sheets, and no pillow. Although designed for two boys, these rooms often contained more than two, with the extra boys sleeping on the floor.

The entrance to the room was guarded by a thick oaken door with an industrial strength observation window containing embedded wire mesh. It had a lock that required a massive key which the “sirs” often used as torture devices as well. Each room also had a *window to the outside that consisted of an iron frame with embedded mesh glass. The windows would only open a small distance so escape was impossible. Toilet facilities were not provided in the rooms, so boys who needed to urinate, would try to aim their stream out the partially-opened window which was shoulder high.

Passerby may observe the rusty urine stains on the outside walls formed from the corners of the windows. If the “sirs” would unlock the doors, boys could be escorted to the toilet facilities. *Unfortunately, in the nighttime, the “sirs” were usually otherwise occupied.”

*Editor’s note: He fails to mention the smell in these rooms in the midday sun and the fate of any kid foolish enough to bang on the door to use the toilet in the middle of the night. Terrifying.

I was there for almost four months as they compiled a home report on me to use as sentencing guidelines for my next phase of incarceration. As luck would have it, I copped a spot at the State Police Barracks in Middleboro, Mass. Easy time I thought, but life had other plans.

On October 4, 1963, my parole officer, Robert Fitzgerald, took me to the now defunct, Robert Hall Men’s Clothing Store, to shine me up for my upcoming formal introduction to Captain George Luciano, who rolled right out of central casting.

This is where I met State Trooper Marvin Pratt, who took the worst kind of liking to me. This guy would teach my stomach to bleed. He attempted things on me that would make the front pages today. He never got me.

Later in life, I heard he got himself surrounded by his fellow troopers while in a motel with a 9 year old boy. Hope he’s with Mr. Chandler today. But that’s another story.

I love watching police interrogations because they start every one with an open-ended question. “What happened?” Sales people know the value of casting a wide net and use it to home in on the customer’s WIFM, the “What’s In It For Me?”

Police use this tactic to open floodgates of wide-ranging information.

In 1963, I was accused of stealing a car. I didn’t. Johnny Silva, my Eddie Haskell-like neighbor did it and accused me to spare himself some jail time. At 18, he was considered an adult, and Johnny-boy thought as a still-juvenile, I could do the time standing on my head. I would have preferred doing the time standing on his head.

In those days, an O’Hearn conviction was promotion-worthy at Union Square Police headquarters.

So they grab me off the street and run me down to the oft-visited station. They tell me the jig’s up because Silva spilled the beans. I laugh in their face. They threaten to bring Johnny up from the holding cell to confront me. I’m laughing again. Bring-it-on!

So the rat bastard comes into the room and he’s shackled hand and foot. He had other charges to deal with. This sniveling piece of shit picks up his cowering head and says, “C’mon Bobby, admit it, you stole that car.” I lose it. Only in the movies would someone have the balls to do that.

I’m up and out of the chair and pounced on immediately by my friends in blue. This was almost laughable. They take him out and I’m left there sobbing tears of outrage. My friend, my buddy, my confidante. I didn’t do it. They must have wanted me really bad. I make a mental note to break both his kneecaps or worse. I gotta get out of this mess first.

Now I’m inconsolable. Earlier that month I was held for a week at the facility I was sure to be heading back to pending a court date. What I saw there cured of my Cagney-esque machinations. No, thank you.

So now I’m in full denial mode. Some of these cops really hated Silva and this last performance of his did nothing to endear him to them. They smelled the rat too.

In deep depression, I’m sticking with my story. The memory of my last visit to “Youthie” is etched upon my mind. I could still smell that place.

These cops are getting nowhere fast with me, so they bring in this dashing young lieutenant in a blinding white shirt and an impeccably tied tie. He looks at me and says “get in to my office.” Now we’re getting somewhere.

He reads the complaint against me, exhales deeply and says, “You should have better friends.” I agree wholeheartedly but leave out the part where I kill Johnny and burn his fucking house down.

He drops the file, leans forward and stares deeply into my eyes. He says, “I’m only going to ask you this once. Did you steal that car?” No sir, I said with the conviction only an innocent man could muster.

He says, “OK, sign this and go home to your family.” Oh, there is a God. I can put off killing Silva for a couple of weeks and still enjoy the summer.

Ah, not so fast Bucko. Mr. White Shirt didn’t get to be a lieutenant directing traffic. It turns out he didn’t believe me. At all. In my haste, I signed a full confession. When the summons came to the house, I thought it might be for me to be a witness against my nemesis. Surely, I could manage that.

So the day comes. It’s Tuesday, July, 23, 1963. As usual, my mother doesn’t tell my father. They could go years without speaking. She throws the summons on his chest just as he wakes up. It’s a work day day for a cash strapped father of ten. When I left the house, it was still dark. I’m no fool. He left the house in a murderous rage. At the Somerville Court House, I end up late for my appearance and they issue a warrant for me.

When I did make it and started heading upstairs for the juvenile session, guess who I run in to? Between floors, where we can be intimate? The radiator and both my Daddy’s fists, in that order. When they dragged what was left of me in front of the judge, all the cops were in denial, “It wasn’t us, your honor.”

Johnny Silva wasn’t there. He copped a plea and walked. Me? I was off the street for almost a year. The illusion that my life and all of its challenges would merely be suspended was way off. The fun was just beginning. If I knew what was waiting for me while I was a ward of the state, I would have gone on the run. But that’s another story.

What the new “70” looks like.

I am loving this “turning seventy” thing. Like the man falling from a fifty story building and half way down says, “so far so good.”

As one of the first boomers to cross the finish line into their seventies, I’m finding some of the things I thought would go out on me, didn’t. What to do with all this life experience in a durable mind and body? Having outlived my closest parent by three years, which was my mother, and four of her years, were bedridden.

As Eubie Blake an American composer, lyricist, and pianist once said, “If I’d a known I was gonna live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.” Well I did, despite a couple of bouts of needless self destruction. It seems the body can handle what the mind dishes out, if I’m any example.

Getting to this moment in my life has been a pleasant surprise to say the least. Everything still works and pretty well, I might add. Now what do I do with that wheelchair in the garage? No joke, I was using it for camera work and thinking it might serve me later. I entertain no such thoughts now.

We live in a world today, where if I get hit by a car, the news will report me as “elderly” and whatever death I experience will most likely be attributed to “natural causes.” What do you expect? He was old.” This is new for all of us in the boomer category.

Most likely you won’t pass away sipping lemonade on your paid off front porch. You’ll be hustling to keep up the lifestyle you’ve grown accustomed to right to the end. Twenty years of bonus existence. Yikes!

Get thy shit together 🙂

“Take two of these and call me in the morning.”

As you can probably tell, having hit the big 7-0, I have a fixation with primarily two things: my physical condition and how my age group is being utilized in the business world. You can peruse the obituaries and see how many of  my contemporaries  are being felled by a multitude of illnesses. If “Life is not a dress rehearsal” ever rang true, it’s now.

I’m seeing a whole bunch of seventy-somethings just starting out on the most difficult career paths of their lives. Especially in the political world. I don’t mind dying but I don’t want it to be by my own hand. I’ll be sick enough without regrets, thank you.

So last night, I went to the gym to do some aerobics because of weather. I usually like to ride my bike outside or enjoy a brisk walk with my dogs. I’ve never ridden a stationary bike over there yet so I thought I would give it a try.

They have TVs all over the place but I would rather watch people and their exercise routines. The folks I see usually fall into two groups: The self motivated, semi-narcissistic group (me) and the “doctor’s order’s” group.

The self motivated group I call peacocks. If ever you wanted to see someone enjoying the benefits, it’s them.

The “doctor’s orders” body language is unmistakable. They were sent, not driven. They have that lost look as they move from machine to machine and never look in the mirror. They’ll either have a trainer or a piece of paper that dictates the order and repetitions of each exercise. The look of resignation is all over them. Been there, done that.

The “doctor’s orders” group has yet to receive that bio feedback that keeps most of us coming back for more. That’s too bad, because they have yet to know the patience and confidence that comes with a positive lifestyle change. I’ve had to do it many times in my own life and know about the struggle first hand.

Like the brain, the human body is set up to work and whatever doesn’t get used will atrophy. I’m not going to wait for my wake up call or some out of shape physician to send me packing to some gym, I’m going to take my iron pills today  so I can deal with tomorrow, tomorrow. I will go out swinging.

The fact that I even have to write this, pisses me off more than words. Ten years ago my doctor wrote me a prescription for a statin drug. Yes, the same one who wrote me for Xanax, Soma and Ambien. In the months and years that followed, I was plagued with muscle pain, headaches and dizziness. I couldn’t even pick up my computer bag. It put an end to almost all my physical activities. I never put the two together.

When I saw my doc about it, she farmed me out to a neurologist who prescribed Relpax for me with the bromide, “You are getting older, you know.” Soon, the Relpax began causing rebound headaches and I was on a slow journey to my wit’s end. I’m afraid to think what I would have taken to end my pain.

Meanwhile, all I’m getting is a quizzical look from my doc. I started looking my symptoms up on line and getting statin side effects. Back to querying my doc. She said, ” I don’t think that’s what you’re having, those side effects are not very common.” Now, I’m despondent. I’m gonna be some cranky old fat guy who is always in a bad mood because he has a headache.

Three neurologists later, I call the doctor’s office and instead of the doc I get her head nurse. I tell her I’m at the airport in Miami and my head is coming off my shoulders. I’m looking for some pain meds as my personality usually dictates.

She says, ” Well, you’re on a statin and that is the most common side effect.” YGBSM! I tell her I’m coming over there when I get back and they better get their story straight. I’m really worried because from what I’ve read, some of this muscle damage is irreversible.

So I see the doc and now she is singing a different tune. I stopped the statin at the Miami airport. What is going on here? Madness.

One good day:

By now, you’re probably thinking I would have doctor-shopped myself out of this particular dilemma but it was not to be. She had already started me on an anti-anxiety med, muscle relaxers and a sleep med. The hook was set. I wasn’t going anywhere. At that point all I’m looking for is one good day. That was my mantra when I opened my eyes in the morning and my last prayer for the next day every night.

This would start the soul selling situation that would plague me for years.

The other guy:

Needless to say, none of my behavioral changes sat well with my wife. I never noticed that I was in a fog and she wasn’t. Ambien is a class of drug called a hypnotic. One of the side effects is that while you may appear awake, you are actually dreaming and you might incorporate what you’re dreaming about into your normal conversation. Which, as you can imagine, spooked the Bejeesus out of my wife.

The next morning when I would ask her about something, she would say, “The other guy did it.” The other guy referring to whoever it was in the living room with her. “OK, I get it,” I would say, but there was no way it was going stop me from getting some relief whether I was in pain or not. By that time I didn’t need it. But too late.

I’m usually a pretty suspicious person and I’ve seen docs do some pretty sketchy things when I was a rep, but denial gets stronger as willpower grows weaker. I had been pain seasoned and I was not going back. That took up a lot of years. Unbeknownst to me, my wife would set up an appointment with my doc just to yell at her. “Have you ever looked at his chart?” If I had known what she was doing, I most likely would have tried to stop her. Junkie problems.

I have since left my primary care doc and now get all my medical care from the VA. With their help I was weaned off of all the things that were stifling me. I still look back on those days with suspicion and question that doctor’s intent. Hippocrates as marketer? We’re lucky we have on-line resources these days if for nothing better that to ask intelligent questions. And we should. “Be careful” is a doctor’s C.Y.A. Don’t fall for it.

Single at seventy. Who’d a thunk? Actually, me. I’ve always been single, at least in my mind. Never had kids. Being the oldest of ten cured me of that. Always been a loner, kept my own counsel and usually minded my own business. Just had to find that someone who would put up with my isolationist world view. Did that. Now, everything I own is in a POD in Nashua, NH, percolating and waiting for orders.

I live, for now, in a small apartment with two little dogs, a bike, a guitar and my trusty computer. Gone are the trappings that damn near choked the life out of me. Two houses, three cars, enough computer and camera equipment to staff Fox News. What is it they say about boys and their toys?

There is a lightness in my step these days. The weight of all that responsibility having been shuffled during my long overdue stay at a VA Rehab. I moved from there to a hotel until I could get my bearings and then I started the long slow process of finding me again. I must admit to being shaky at first and disoriented for sure.

Being yanked off of alcohol and Xanax is no small feat. Done hastily or incorrectly, the Xanax by itself could have put me down. My blood pressure was testing its limits at that time.  I was in stroke territory most of that period. While I was there, my life and everything in it was being reshuffled. I awoke to a new reality. Today.

 Being single, once it gets out, is a very interesting place to be these days. Women in my demographic do not play games. There is no flirty gamesmanship, no eye batting behind a nervous smile. Time seems to be a’wastin’.

I am probably in the best physical condition of my life. I take each day as it comes and that means taking nothing for granted. I battled doctor prescribed anxiety meds as well as muscle relaxers and sleep medication for years. If I can survive that…

I was a nine on the misery index. Glad to get that “jones” off my back. Who knows what life has in store? Beats me, I’m still falling.

Logical people…..don’t get it. The binary, black or white, good and evil, it’s either in, or it’s out kind of folks who can’t see past their glasses. The kind that needs to have you coach them so they can upsell your concept to their management. “I got this, Bob.” But they don’t got this, Bob.

Scary. Logical people. They make your terra not so firma.

I remember once pitching a Spanish version of a patient education video to a group of pharma marketers and being given the third degree by a guy with a calculator wanting to know exactly how much we could make off of each video. I told him we weren’t in the video business. It would be used as a marketing/teaching/sales, tool.

It went over like a fart in a space suit. I mean, who has answers like that to a concept? Not me, I’m an idea guy. Those people scare me.

Like the old joke: Know the difference between an elephant and a loaf of bread? When the reply is no, you casually mention that you won’t be sending them to the grocery store any time soon. Kinda like that.

If the person you are pitching to has to be spoon fed, you have every right to feel shaky. It means when the whip comes down, and it will at some point, you will be one of the first to go. If they don’t intrinsically have any idea  of your value and your potential down the road, start shakin’. You have my permission.

I missed a cut once at a pharma outfit and didn’t know why. I was ready to go. More than ready, actually, I was packed. Then they gave me the news. “You still have a job  here if you want it.”

After I unpacked and grieved over missing that big fat juicy package, I asked around as to motive. I asked because in all the time I was back in-house, no one had shown an inkling of understanding of my potential. My mama didn’t raise no fools.

The ground started to rumble at this point. One manager even posited that I missed the cut because people liked me and liked working with me. “I mean, who doesn’t like Bob?”

Well, I certainly wasn’t going to give him any names.

Having spent a good deal of my career in sales, I was very good about asking open ended questions to get a feel on someone’s thinking. What I usually got back from upper management was enough to tell my wife to start looking for housing back out west again. See the part about “mama” and “fools” again.

Years ago, I had a guy teach me the C Scale on the guitar. The next time I saw him, I showed him that I was able to pick out that same scale extended all the way down the neck. He told me how rewarding it was to help someone who could take things all the way out to their logical conclusions. I never forgot that. Take an idea an add to it.

Always ask those open ended questions when pitching  any creative offering. Try to gauge their understanding of what you are bringing to the table. That way, you will always know where you stand, shaky or not. You should never be surprised. Ever.

I wish I had a nickel for all the times I heard, “I don’t get it.” I felt the ground rumble every time.

They weren’t gonna get it, cause I wasn’t gonna give it. Get it?

Catch 23?

You used me, but that’s OK, it’s what I do.

I was just looking through some old footage I produced for a company developing their values program. I met with the head of HR and she told the “team was stuck.” They had reached a creative impasse if you like and besides shooting interviews and b-roll, she would like me to attend a developmental meeting and break the log jam. I, of course, couldn’t wait. When I arrived on the designated morning, I was greeted by the V.P. of HR and the V.P. of Marketing. When the three of us entered the too small room I could see I had my work cut out for me.

There were at least 15 attendees and they were in the middle of  one of their all too frequent arguments. They paused long enough to hear my introduction and got right back to what they were arguing about. Now, here’s what I thought was interesting, both V.P.s moved their seats from the table to the back wall. They were getting out of the line of fire. No sooner had they repositioned themselves, when someone lobbed, “What do you think, Bob?”

This was not my first rodeo and had seen the efforts of outsiders torn asunder. There was a veteran consultant sitting across from me taking copious notes and looking all the worse for wear. I said, “Democracy is hard, isn’t it?” I didn’t realize how hard democracy really was until I saw what they had so far. It sounded like the kids they were. Now I know why the V.P.s withdrew. They were in the middle of a pissing match in which there would be no winners. Only whiners. Good move. They’re probably still in their positions. They are, I just checked.

So I went back to my studio and drafted up a few adult ideas that would not induce a gag when offered up to board members. I e-mailed a new graphic and suggestions to replace “cool” and “humble.” What I got back was the unwillingness to change anything, even though they thought what I had put together was better by far. Ambushed, I thought. They didn’t want to be the villain, so why not bring in the outside antagonist to don the bulls-eye outfit?

Long story short, we got through it but I’m wondering how they’ll feel about their values once they get old enough to vote.

If you’re in the middle of a project like this and you need to change targets, call me. (See title)

Bob O’Hearn
President & CEO

508-517-6714

I pulled this piece out of a book I’m writing entitled, “Churn: And other gut feelings.”  

Disappointment is a funny thing. If you disappoint someone either you give a shit or you don’t. It first happens when you’re younger, and you don’t know what to make of it. You have to figure out what that person means to you before you can decide how to feel. With me, disappointing others became a way of life.

What would be considered unthinkable today on the disappointment scale, was considered every day life to me back then. “Oh, they’re yelling again, big deal, as long as they don’t hit me.”

Seems as I got older, my sphere of disappointees grew larger and I had to constantly bob and weave. Like running from a bunch of bookies I owed money to, they were always gunning for me. My evasive tactics could chop up my roaming territory in a big way. If I ended up in the wrong place, I could get hurt. Today, I can’t imagine having someone think really ill of me without getting ill myself.

It was that first day of school in your gut, every day. A feeling I had to adjust to all the way up into adulthood. Then it became an out by design. I remember breaking up with someone when I was older, offering, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

Lessen their expectations. Always let them know how fucked up you are up front. You are aware also, that when someone tells you they are disappointed in you, they are manipulating you.

Bob O’Hearn
President & CEO

Leaving your comfort zone.

Let’s see, where do I begin. My whole life has been a series of of unexpected, out of nowhere experiences. So much so, I hesitate to look down the barrel of the obvious. The big, life changing opportunity came for me when I was participating in a “career day” type of internal exercise when I was working on the dock for Dupont.

In those days, the most you could expect to grow starting from that position was maybe a lead person or at a stretch, a supervisor. That’s all I expected and that’s all I thought I could achieve anyway, things being what they were, education, business experience. For me, a solid goose egg.

During that meeting, I was asked a series of canned questions which I handled in my usual upbeat manner. My job, to me, was a cakewalk. I actually thought I was back in kindergarten, truth be told. Before that, I was manacled to a hot stove in the restaurant business. I knew the meaning of hard work and this was anything but.

When I was through answering questions, an area director took the floor and said, “I think Bob would make a great supervisor in a couple of years.” Fair enough, I thought.” Right down the pipe.

Then a voice in the back, with some frustration hollered, “Are you guys crazy? This guy belongs in sales. No doubt in my mind.” I’m thinking, “Who’s this disillusioned fellow?” I thought I would hold my breath until they escorted him out of the room. Still, he persisted. Guess this guy had some sway but it was still a bit embarrassing. When through, they thanked me for my time and I left thinking” Who the hell was that guy? I would soon find out.

He had just come in from the field and was slated for a marketing position but got sidetracked into Customer Service. He wasn’t happy. I saw him in the hallway one day and I thanked him for his vote of confidence and told him, “I appreciate what you did the other day but in all honesty, I don’t know anything about sales or have the technical background to sell those products.” He said, “Look, it’s not about the technical stuff, sales is about people. Period.”

Well alrighty then, I thought, but I still had a long way to go. In the next few months I had to run the gauntlet of muckety-mucks who agreed with my first assumption. It was leveling. At one point I gave up and settled back in to my day job. You can only stick your face in the oven so many times.

Six months later, my office phone rang “You ready, Bobby?” I was off and running. Had no idea what I was going to do but damned if I wasn’t going to do it. I took over the Arizona- New Mexico territory with a smile, a joke and a package insert. In that order. It was a good run and needless to say, way out of my comfort zone. But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Stay open to the crazy stuff. It’s there for the taking.

Bob O’Hearn
President & CEO

“I’m seeing ‘tings”

I’ve been getting good bio-feedback lately, in that, at 70, my muscle memory still remembers me. Or. as Robert De Niro would put it, “I’m seein’ ‘tings.” Since September 1, of this year, not expecting great results, I hit the gym and started taking my iron pills.

Instead of experiencing a “decline,” I’m “inclined” to believe that your muscle base never leaves and all you have to do is tighten up your diet, get some aerobics, (your choice) and hit the gym. This I can say, really works. At any age, may I dare add. And no one is more surprised than me.

Now, having a compulsive personality, (I can get hooked on stubbing my toe) and knowing addiction to anything has always worked in my favor (if it’s positive) and all I have to do is pull my starter cord and I’m off. (Don’t go there.)

I did a talk once on my version of compulsion at Salem State Teacher’s College and was roundly criticized for my approach. Which was titled “Switching Compulsions Mid Stream.” 🙂

A slovenly looking psychologist with two different socks and a smelly pipe led the charge. Glad he wasn’t there at the detox intake unit when I arrived some years later.

As I have written before, I spent 7 days at a VA rehab unit in Bedford  Ma. this past summer. The physical conditioning or the lack thereof on a lot of the staff, physicians included, was eye opening.

They were 10, 15, and twenty years or more, younger than me, and they were done, physically over, stick a fork in ’em. Weight training is not part of civilian culture anymore. Too bad.

How does a doc tell you to slim down, eat right and exercise, if it’s not part of their own daily regimen?

I know this, though, I have absolutely no plans on hanging around this planet in various states of disrepair, not if I can help it anyway. After all, life is tough enough, isn’t it?

On the way out of the gym today, the owner said, “Hey Bob, looking good, want to renew your membership?” I said “No, but I’ll take 10 feet of that mirror.”

Bob O’Hearn
President & CEO,

I just had a this conversation with an old friend about how life can throw curve balls to even the most well intentioned. Let’s say you’re out with some friends or at a business meeting and you have a couple of drinks. Your not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed. On the way home, on a dimly lit street, you are doing the speed limit when you feel a bump. You think maybe it’s a pothole or a frost heave. Let’s say.

So you pull over to survey the damage. It’s not a pothole or a heave, it’s a human. Whoa! Now you got a problem. You call 911 and the responding officer is there in minutes. He looks around, checks the victim, asks what happened and you don’t know.

You get a breathalyzer and guess what? You’re just over the limit. Panic. Now the rest of the gang descends on the scene, local news, fire, ambulance, more police and the scene is cordoned off with crazy lights everywhere. Bingo, instant perp. There you are on the evening or early morning news, which ever comes first.

For the moment, no one seems to be paying much attention to the injured, all eyes are on you.

So they take you in and even though you have a spotless record, they gotta book you. You have to spend the night until probation comes in bright and early with a bail bondsman. There’s been a rash of hit and runs lately, so they need to tighten up on someone. That would be you. It’s $50,000 dollars bail.

Let’s see, that means $50 dollars on each thousand that you won’t get back. You can’t afford that because you’re recently divorced and paid a ton of alimony. Hard times, you can’t hit that nut.

Meanwhile, the person you unknowingly hit, expires. Bail goes up, you go down. Now your whole family’s involved. Calls go out for money to save you from county lockup. No help.

A friend of the family’s lawyer shows up and tells you not to worry. He’s thinking how he’s gonna sell your house to get paid. Now you’re in the system. You get the news you have to be held until court. Someone has to call work for you because you’re sick. But you forgot your boss was watching your life unfold on the 6:00 am news. Shit!

So it’s off to county where the denizens are just “dyin’ ta meetcha.” In here, it’s guilty until proven innocent, period. You don’t get a different color jump suit because you’re not a serial offender. You look like everyone else and treated the same way. Guards are not going to make sure your new neighbors don’t “get at you.” Let me disabuse you of that notion right now. They got their own problems.

So some ratty looking gang member wants to know which gang you’ll affiliate with and the downward spiral picks up speed. Another low life wants your sneakers. Now. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

Depending on what happens to you while you’re locked down, you get in a fight, (a very real possibility because you will be pushed to the extreme,) accept a gang offer, (they usually have  requirements that will put you at odds with the establishment,)  you’re fragile existence will do a 180. More time will be added and this is only a holding pen, not even real prison yet.

Your family is desperately trying to get you sprung to no avail. You’ll probably arrange financing in a week or so, most likely, too late. The enemies of society are just beginning to figure you out. In there you’re either a rat, a snitch or somebody’s bitch. They stole your bunk, your canteen, (which is food you can purchase to survive prison chow, if you should have a little money in your prison account,) your sneakers and your self respect. I won’t go any further here because I know you get it. Or, at least you should.

So let’s recap: Just out with friends, few drinks, an eventful ride home and this. You ask, “How can all this happen to me?” Life. Because once you think you’re out, you’re in.

Watch yourself out there.

I pulled this little piece out of “Up In The Air” with George Clooney, because it rang true to me. It always has. Clooney’s character plays an HR consultant that flies around the country firing people. He also sidelines as a motivational speaker. What you’ll see here. What got me about the movie was the employee’s reaction to being let go. The shock. The disbelief. The ” what am I gonna do?” I never believed I “gave up” something for a company. I was always on the receiving end in my mind. It was a contract we both entered into like, ” a day’s pay for a day’s work.” I was never under any illusions. It was always, “all good but tentative.” The metaphorical backpack serves to illustrate a very good point. I’m traveling a lot lighter these days, myself.

Using the RFP (Request For Proposal) process to solicit new business can be a tricky endeavor. You don’t know who else is in the pool with you. Video projects can run the gamut from a few hundred, to tens of thousands of dollars.

An RFP is used where the request requires technical expertise, specialized capability, or where the product or service being requested does not yet exist and the proposal may require research and development to create whatever is being requested.

Not only are you supplying the price quote, you are sharing your approach, what I call in military terms, TO&E, Total Ordinance and Equipment. This is very valuable information. In essence, you are giving them a blueprint.

On the day the award is to be announced, you might not even get a phone call.

Some companies will use this process as a ruse to nail down an approach so they can take the project in-house or farm it out to a less qualified outfit for shorter money.

Sadly, I’ve seen both of these scenarios play out.

They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose – Steely Dan

There oughta be a law!

As Bailey, my dog, and I were crossing an intersection with a stop sign in downtown Ayer, the car on my left, started rolling slowly towards us with no signs of stopping.

When I looked at the driver, she was raising a big old greasy chocolate covered, honey dipped donut to her mouth.

Seems her foot became detached from the brake somehow.

I banged on the hood and she snapped to as her lipstick and her rouge turned to chocolate and prevented that heart stopper from traversing down her gullet.

Embrace calamity, don’t hide from it.

One of the things that has stayed with me after years of repping for a radiopharmaceutical company (besides compulsive hand washing from calling on hospitals,) is the  knowledge that if you don’t have some bumps in the road in your client relationships, you will never get the opportunity to show your stuff. Otherwise, your customers can “drift.” Unless you separate yourself from your pack of competitors, they’ll never know how special you are.

You won’t get the opportunity to hunker down in the “crisis” room. An invaluable experience for any rep. I’ve had this experience many times over in my career.

One of the things that worked for me is, I always had my company story ready for anyone that would listen. I would engage my customers with the in-house efforts put forth to put product in their hands. They were amazed and a lot more forgiving during a service failure.

This is not to say you wish something challenging to happen but only to realize these bumps for the opportunities they are when they happen. And they will happen.

In my particular field, we could be dealing with a radioactive tracer that had a half life and time was usually a huge factor. It could have been mis-routed, lost at the airport, or bound up in the system due to weather. My customers, for the most part, would reside in the southwest. Snow wasn’t their problem, it was mine.

This is where you find a phone booth and do your best Clark Kent. If the two of you (you and your client) survive this with a positive outcome, they will never forget your efforts. Even if things don’t work out for the best, your clients will recognize your deep empathy for their business. I can’t emphasize this enough. In my experience, I’ve found, tough times have a way of bringing you closer. Regardless of outcome.

These experiences should do nothing but bring you closer if approached as the opportunities they truly are. Nothing will develop your creative muscle like a service failure from hell.

As I am always fond of saying, there are no medals for valor during peace time. Forget thinking outside the box because in reality, there is no box.

Remember: Attitude + Aptitude = Altitude.

You feel lucky, punk?

I had a client a few years ago, who pushed me hard to use copyrighted music at one of their town hall meetings. As a musician as well as a video producer, I was well acquainted with the laws surrounding the use of unauthorized music and graphics. What are the odds of getting caught? High enough to put your company, your client or organization in jeopardy if the whip comes down.

When my client gave me the copyrighted music on a CD, I chose this moment to dig my heels in. Beyond the fact that the music sucked, I was streaming it around the world and copies of the video would go to everyone in the organization.

I barely survived that brush with unemployment. Luckily, legal thought I was a godsend. I made some enemies though. I will be more politically correct in the future.

Did you know that even your favorite club band is supposed to join the musician’s union, usually ASCAP or BMI, to cover the costs of reproducing a song live for profit? I know and I paid.

Back to the odds. Even if the authorities don’t bag you, you still run a chance of jeopardizing your relationship with the legal department of the client you’re supplying content to.

Case in point: I had a friend of mine who contracted me to edit and deliver 300 DVDs within hours of the conclusion of a large meeting.

They were meant as a remembrance of the week they had just spent together. Nice touch.

On the golfing section of the video, my friend chose to edit in sections of a very famous, very funny golf movie, Caddy something or other. 🙂

Now, you might be thinking, “what’s the harm and what are the odds?” Pretty good it turned out. Hollywood didn’t nab him but the head of legal at this prestigious insurance company sure did. As the video was playing on this enormous screen, much to the delight of the audience, the legal eagle sidled up to my friend and said ” do we have permission to use that footage?” My friend had no answer. Later, he had no gig.

So, if you want to take license with intellectual property, it might not be the record company that decides your fate, it could be someone in the wings you hadn’t counted on to bring you up short.

My reasons are self serving:

First of all, I never want to look like I don’t have a firm grasp of all the intricacies in my chosen field.

Second, If you are providing content to a large company as I was, you just put a huge bulls eye on their behind. It will not be appreciated.

Speaking of, I recently attended a meeting on how to make your power points more effective. This was a must attend as I help my clients with their presentations and I couldn’t pass this meeting up.

It was a very good investment of my time and money.

At the beginning, the presenter showed how the use of images was a lot more effective with the caveat that you’d better know your material and be careful with copyrighted images. Good information. Think Steve Jobs.

But towards the end of his presentation when his slides bordered on mind blowing, the $64,000 was asked, “Where’d you get that picture?” His answer was cringe-worthy, “Well, I’m taking my chances with that one.”

Wrong! You could see how uncomfortable he was and how quickly he wanted to move on.

He came down a few notches in my estimation right then and there. See how easy the fall can be?

Misleading copyright information has been around for decades and it’s not going away anytime soon but you can go away real soon.

Be careful out there.

Sorry Charlie. You’re not a fit.

.. is a term I use for going mainstream, being and acting like everyone else. Fitting in. When someone reads something I’ve written on social media, they’ll usually say something like “you know no one’s going to hire you when they see stuff like that, don’t you?” Or, “tone it down a bit, it’s a little much.”

So I guess I should look and sound like everyone else, right? There’s only one problem: I can’t. Well, at least I don’t want to. I don’t feel good about myself when I dress up as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Baahh?

Used to be, if you were a biker, a punk rocker or a rapper, you were different, not so anymore. Now you all look alike and folks can make a judgement on your world view just by looking at you. It may or may not be true but that’s what they’ll do. It’s easier and more convenient to categorize you than to have an in-depth conversation with you. Who has time, right? Everyone says they don’t like vanilla but it’s always the safe bet in a corporate environment.

Folks who want to be “team players” will usually win out in the end. I have nothing against teams but “original thought” shouldn’t be penalized. And in my opinion, it is.

So, as I’m writing this, and by the way, I never, ever write anything unless I’m emotionally committed, which is where I usually fall off the beaten path, an e-mail just came into my in-box from Harvard Business Review. It’s being touted as HBR’s first new “Big Idea”. Coincidence? Synchronicity?, you be the judge. Regardless, this is what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

Now, I’ve been around since Hector was a pup and I’ve seen these “outside the box” revelations before. I’ve watched companies say one thing and revert to the same old, same old, time and time again. Looks good on paper, though. But as I read the piece on “Rebel Talent” deeper, I’m heartened by what HBR is attempting and even tempted to believe that a leader in the business world could be creating an opening for a desperado like me.

When I was a territory manager for Dupont Radiopharmaceutical then Bristol-Myers Squibb, I ran a website, created multiple newsletters for my internal audience “We Ourselves” and “News from the Left.” and “Hot Spot” for the Kaiser Permanente system. Kaiser was a wonderful experience but having a vendor become part of your organization in that fashion would never happen today, I dare say.

When I became proficient at video, I created “Taking The Test” a six minute branded DVD which was a combination marketing and educational tool. I mention these efforts because at the time, these concepts were so new, no one had any idea how to stop me. Which, by the way, none of these skills were included in my job description. I remember the new V.P. of Sales saying “we have some clown out there running around the desert with a camera, we have to stop him.”

Eventually, they transferred me in-house to keep an eye on me. I found even more opportunities to become “Rebel talent.” I had to find them because they still had no idea what to do with me.

Early blogging: Circa, 2000

“Rebel Talent.” Yeah, that’s the ticket. It feels good when you roll it off your tongue, eh? Let’s see what happens. This isn’t my first rodeo and I’m leery of what looks good on a mission statement. But here’s hoping.

In the weeks and months to come I will be sharing excerpts from my new Harper-Collins book release entitled “Suddenly Single,” creatively subtitled “A knife, a fork, one bowl and a bottle of Whiteout™.”

Gleaned from my lean years as a single sales rep transported to Arizona while still earning minimum wage.

These valuable habits are with me today. I still drink my coffee from a paper cup and sleep on top of a made bed with a suit on.

Talk about quick exits! You’ll be on the road before your competition hits the toilet seat.

I make my living in the performance arts. Which is not confined to singing, dancing, comedy or making a goddam fool out of yourself in general. I’m your corner man. If one more CEO tells me they don’t use teleprompters because it takes the feeling out of a presentation, I will give them a noogie.

Look at any back shot of one of your favorite concerts and you will see they have a teleprompter staring at them in the puss. That goes for Springsteen, Fogerty, Allman, Henley, (a master lyricist in his own right,) and anyone else who wants to keep their shit together in front of 40,000 people.

It reminds me of when I auditioned for bands and told them I studied music at Berklee College of Music. “You mean you can read this shit? We don’t don’t need freaks like you around, we play with feeling only”. Feeling, as in feeling around in the dark.

I recently had the lead guitar player for Jon Butcher Axis tell me the same thing. What a crock of horse shit. If you can’t speak and articulate the language how do you put a band together? A Presentation? A concert? An act?

I could go on and on with many more forms of denial. The thing is, once you don’t have to worry about where the words come from, you are free to emote. Put your heart into it. This is where I make my contribution. I’ve been on both sides of the stage, the camera and the microphone and have the scars to prove it.

There’s a lot of things going on in your audience (including hecklers, snoozers, and the terminally distracted) and you need to be dead bang sure of your message. But pulling it off successfully, takes practice and stagecraft. That’s what separates you rookies from the pros.

Have thy shit shit together if you want to be anybody someday. We all have a voice but learning how and when to use it successfully takes careful preparation. Otherwise get at the back of the line, loser.

Don’t bring that music school, teleprompter thing up to me again. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

You’re not a natural. No one is.

Making My Bones:

I remember 46 years ago, walking into Fantasia’s Restaurant in Fresh Pond Cambridge looking for a cooking gig. Rated one of the top 6 places to eat this side of the Hilltop Steak House.

I was greeted by a surly looking ex-wrestler named Arthur D’Agostino, who ran the place. He barely looked up except to see I wasn’t dressed like the rest of his crew. They were either from Italy, jail, or both. And at 11:00 am, they were all, to a man, shitfaced.

Everyone booked numbers. No exception. The cops were on the take and I never received a speeding or parking ticket in my 15 year tenure as the “go to” guy in that little universe.

I had on a sport jacket, a turtle neck shirt and those long side burns fashionable in the day. Little did I know at the time, that little “dress for success” ploy placed me at the top of the pay scale, so impressed was my little new best friend, a.k.a. “Five by five.”

He was making Swedish meatballs and eating most of it raw off his stubby little fingers. He was a tough bastard. If you messed up, he would “give you a cigar” meaning a thorough, no holds barred ass chewing customers could hear out in the dining room.

This place was huge. Like a city in a city. They did all the butchering, baking, floral arrangements and held weddings and large functions out back in the “Lido” room. They even had their own ‘staffed’ laundry room ensconced in the bowels of the building.

They had so many bars and the alcohol flowed so freely, I was constantly being reminded “Hey, Stupido, when you gonna pick up your check?”

What was not to like? Great pay, 100 horny waitresses and all I could drink. Oh, take me now Jesus.

Then, someone found my pay stub. There was murder, mayhem and mass confusion. I was Irish to boot. Security had to walk me to my car for months. I had no idea everyone else was being paid shit.

Most of them were lucky to be in the country. Immigration would show up every few months for a little “shakedown” money.

I wasn’t sweating a bunch of wined-up grease balls. I could handle myself. You develop great reflexes when you’re your Daddy’s favorite little punching bag. Besides, my pay wasn’t my decision.

But once again, my sense of humor and strong work ethic prevailed and I could give out as good as I took.

Arthur’s favorite saying was “I’m gonna give you a Corona, Corona cigar, or “I’m gonna trow you out without opening da door.” He never once yelled at me. (Must have been the side boards and turtle neck.)

He could never understand why I stayed as long as I did. Never mind the fact that by now, I was a card carrying alcoholic that was snorting blow down in his office.

He always said I was destined for better things. I was: detox.

He would often threaten to stick your head in the fry-o-lator. Just go someplace and kill yourself if it ever got to that.

I never worked so hard in my life. Every night the onslaught was maddening. Weren’t there any other restaurants in the area?

Pretty soon I got so good at what I did, even at all levels of consciousness I became in demand all over the city. My memory and ability to withstand stress were legendary. (With a little help from my friends.)

That’s why I say I haven’t done an honest days work in 35 years. I soon joined the team at Dupont as a dock worker and moved up from there. Sissies with white shirts and ties I thought.

I wasn’t far off. A good day’s work would have killed off half of them.

Thank you Arthur, for taking a chance on me and shaping me into the “take no prisoners” businessman I am today. For better or worse. God rest your soul, you deserve it.

I have always hated yard work. Always called landscapers to do that kind of thing. But I have a younger brother who is amazing at it. His house and pool should be on some magazine cover.

He is also an avid beer drinker. Loves his Bud. Rides around on his John Deere surveying all his beautiful handiwork. I’ve always been jealous.

With my house being up for sale, there’s lots to do on my property. So yesterday, after many years of not drinking, I bought a six pack, killed it, headed out into the great outdoors armed with a rake, a shovel, a hose, a lawnmower and a wheelbarrow and worked tirelessly without stopping. I was a maniac. But what a difference.

The Last Push

When this house closes, which I suspect is imminent. I will be loading up my SUV with two of my little “squeezles” and heading across the country to my final resting place, Arizona.

The deal was, when we came back it would only be for 7 years, tops. It’s been 14.

It happens subtly. Over the years your focus diminishes, you let minor irritations get to you more easily, you start to resent the repetition. Creativity turns to negativity and you find it harder to get out of bed. You can’t find the spark anymore. Like songwriters, comedians or even speechwriters, your well dries up and you start to panic.

This is not a hobby for you, it’s your income stream, it’s who you get defined as. People around you start to wonder what the hell is wrong lately. This stew has been simmering for more years than you realized. Then the financial pressure builds and the symptoms worsen.

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The good news is: We want to buy your house. The bad news: You have to un-ass the property by May 31. Aaaaahhhh! I’m moving to Arizona and Susan is staying here to manage her equestrian business. The dumpster just showed up with two Pods soon to follow. I will be indiscriminate in the dumping process, something similar to a military evacuation with the enemy just over the horizon.

Lord knows, I have enough multimedia equipment, accumulated business knowledge and connections to get up and running quickly once my parachute lands. So I’m heading out to start a business, write a book, maybe do some stand up, some inspirational talks and hopefully wash dishes at my favorite Mexican restaurant. If they’ll still have me.

I feel like Hannibal descending out of the Alps. I worked for Dupont out there for 13 years as well as Vegas and that sleepy little state of New Mexico. They don’t call it the land of mañana for nothing. Think I’ll stay out of there unless my insomnia comes back. Been looking for a new opportunity for a long time back here but they’re too buttoned down and set in their ways. You watch the corporate process for thirty years and you might end up at a Tibetan monastery.

I have so many things on my menu I don’t know where to start first. (Have to up my meds.)

Where “The Leap of Faith” comes in is I don’t have anything ready and waiting for me out there. I will probably land at the dead of midnight, find a place to plop and wait for my truck and my pod to arrive. I will have to hit the ground running and I welcome the challenge. Been stuck out here, as many of you know, for fourteen years. Dupont should have never let me see what life was like all over the country then shove me back into Mayberry, U.S.A.

I added this Delbert McClinton song “Leap of Faith” as inspiration to anyone afraid to leap out of their circumstances. I listen to it maybe…every thirty seconds. The guitarist is fabulous. (I hate awesome, the most over used word in the world) As a multi-instumentalist myself, I haven’t touched an instrument in so long I’m not sure if I have any rhythm left. Such are the vagaries of depression. Hope it’s like riding a bike.

When a relationship ends, it’s always preferable if it just peters out (no pun intended) on it’s own, rather than a shock or betrayal or acrimony. None of which is the case here.

So if you’re feeling froggy, leap. You could be jumping into the fire but as they say in Vegas, “No balls, no blue chips.” And if your chute doesn’t open, you’ll have even less  problems. Like…zero. It’s all good.