Practicing compassion with a vengeance.

Would you consider yourself a compassionate person?

If so, does that include a capacity for forgiveness in every circumstance?

Remember when you saw that homeless guy standing in front of Safeway on that cold, winter night? And you went inside and bought him some soup and a sandwich, feeling pretty darn good about yourself? You couldn't wait to perform your compassionate deed, and as you walked out into the freezing night and handed him the steaming Styrofoam bowl, you anticipated a "God bless you, brother," or a "You're too kind," or a "Thanks," at the bare minimum.

But he said nothing. He grabbed your token of warmth and goodwill, turned and walked away.

Did you forgive his ungrateful behavior, chalking it up to extreme hardship or possible mental illness, or did you ponder whether or not to perform such a task in the future?

When that woman at work received a cash award at that big meeting for excelling on that big project and you knew you actually earned and deserved the money and accolades, did you bristle at her unwillingness to not only acknowledge your contribution, but not even slip you a small gratuity from her winnings?

Or did you empathize with her and write it off as being caught up in the moment?

In each situation, you eventually resolved to relegate the event to the scrap heap of minor irritations and move forward.

But what about when you didn't move forward?

A month ago, when Navy SEAL Team Six burst into Osama Bin Laden's Pakistani McMansion and aerated his chest and forehead with government-issued yard tools, a vast majority of the Earth exhaled deeply at the news of his demise, and in short order, continued living life.

A smaller, yet substantial number, celebrated in the streets with vigor normally reserved for Stanley Cups, Justin Bieber tickets or the best sandwich they'd ever eaten. Were they reveling in the discovery of a booty of intelligence data and the nerve center of Al Qaida?

Or ultimately, were they scratching that primal itch that can only be vanquished through nasty, frosty, bloodthirsty revenge?

You decide. Revenge is exacted throughout our culture, both legally and otherwise. It pervades the worlds of criminal law, athletics, even our schoolyards. And I'm sure I'm not above a little nibble of vengeful behavior from time to time.

Driving among faceless automobile operators offers the perfect conditions for exacting revenge. When someone cuts me off, my life's purpose becomes pulling even with the driver, glaring across like the toughest guy I can think of (probably Keanu Reeves) and darting in front of the offender for a payback cut-off.

Sometimes the vengeance derails itself at the sight of the elderly driver's silver hair and calcium-challenged shoulder slouch.

If someone occupies my favorite elliptical trainer at the gym, I surgically execute revenge by mounting an inferior machine and stepping way, way faster than they are...while staring at them. How intimidating is that?

Oh, and try this one. When you're eyeballing that last awesome slice of cheeseburger pizza at Whole Foods, and then some jerk snags it right before you, just spit a teensy bit on the back of his neck. Just lean forward like a tom turkey and make the "p" sound right behind his head. He'll never know and you'll achieve a nice peace of mind as you walk away with your slice of asparagus and feta pie.

Unfortunately, the lust for revenge seems as ingrained in us as...well...lust. And tomorrow, I'm challenging myself to be a better person, to remember that we're all woven together with invisible threads of compassion. People, if those threads unravel, we're no better than animals.

But if I catch my daughter leaving only one Oreo Double Stuff in the bag again, I'm going to...

Have fun at camp, honey...don't forget your beer hat.

"Dad, how long do you think it'll take me to stop being nervous about this?"

"The second we get there, I promise."

The school year is rounding the corner and gimping into the home stretch, with just a few unfinished tasks on the docket. Final exams and field days, locker scrubbings and library fines, yearbook signings and report cards all poke their heads to the surface during these final weeks.

Oh, and one other item of unfinished business: fifth grade camp.

As my eleven-year-old daughter and I entered her school gym this morning, she toted a pink rolling suitcase, a sleeping bag and a heavy load of tween anxiety. The room teemed with the sounds and smells of a pre-adolescent hormone potluck; girls and boys segregated themselves in gaggles of giddy excitement.

Why is it that, even though I'm sure many bathed this morning, they still exuded an earthy musk? The boys wore hats and flannel shirts, their sneakers flopping around untied and their eyes barely visible beneath shaggy bangs. The girls adorned themselves in varying shades of pink, which graduated to a brownish around the sleeve areas. Long hair plastered their scalps and tangled at the collar.

The Frisbee conked my daughter in the head just as we placed her baggage next to her assigned spot on the wall. An aforementioned male street urchin ran up and grabbed the disk as she fought back tears of pain and anxiety.

"Hang on a second," I commanded. I wanted to throttle his little turkey throat. "Why are you playing Frisbee in a room full of people?"

"I don't know." I believed him.

"I'll tell you what. Hand me that thing right now. You just hit my daughter. Now get out of  here before I find your teacher."

He did as instructed and I stood next to my girl, clutching both her the round plastic toy. I desperately yearned to call upon my mad Frisbee-throwing skills, finely honed thanks to six months of post-college unemployment, and hurl it at the young man's long-solidified cranial soft spot.

Thankfully, a calming force from within stifled the urge.

My daughter and I passed a few more minutes together along the old gym wall. We reverted to our usual roles, where I would tell her a stupid joke and she would shove me in the chest. Joke, shove, joke, shove, joke, shove and finally, she was ready for me to go.

I squeezed her for as long as she would allow, then exited quickly and didn't look back. Friday still loomed far in the distance.

As I hiked slowly back to the car, I thought back to my week at camp, sixth grade in this case, and hoped to God that her experience would be nothing like mine.

I don't think any of the guys in my cabin at Camp Auburn had read The Lord of the Flies, but they seemed to have grasped the plot quite naturally. Once we had all gathered inside Cabin Number Five, Donny, the alpha male, took over.

"Who here knows how to ride a dirt bike?" Donny had thrown down the gauntlet immediately. Eleven boys raised their hands. The twelfth did not.

I was the twelfth. Donny's beady eyes locked onto me, followed by the rest of the pack's. "Are you a fag or something?'

"No. I've just never ridden a motorcycle."

"That means you're a fag," reasoned Donny in a highly unreasonable voice.

Why hadn't I just lied? I was sure that's what guys did in prison. How many scared inmates simply made up stories about killing someone with half a Snickers Bar and two twist ties just to keep the heat off? Not this inmate, apparently.

He then examined the Olympia Beer hat my mom had bought me just for camp. "And Olympia's piss water."

Apparently, this twelve-year-old had a discerning palette for malted beverages, as well.

Fortunately, a kid named Ralph had begun unpacking his Aquaman pajamas, which drew the hiyenas' attention away from my Kawasaki virgin status. Donny, apparently harboring a healthy dose of jealousy for blond, seagoing superheroes, then labeled Ralph with the same tolerant moniker he had generously given me.
 
Donny would call each kid in the cabin a fag at least once during the week.
 
Hitting a nice stride after a few hours getting used to Donny, I eventually tolerated, if not slightly enjoyed, my time at camp. We sang songs, caught small fish and met new filthy kids. A high school-aged counselor named Claire stole my heart and I signed up for every art, craft and activity over which she presided.
 
I vowed to marry her some day...after I stopped being Donny's wife, of course.
 
I've chosen today to tell this story since my daughter is surely out of Wi-Fi range and can't be spooked by her dad's stories of mean kids and pecking orders. One thing is bothering me, however. I knew I forgot something this morning.
 
I didn't review dirt bikes with her.

You're going to bump your head around 7:38.

Wouldn't it be nice to foretell the future?

Some actually can, like Vegas oddsmakers, hairsprayed weather vixens and my wife, when she warns me about saying yes to one more French 75.

On first blush, possessing powers of prognostication appears an ideal set up; future events could be parlayed into incomprehensible riches, risks could be hedged and uncertainties clarified. A future where no fog muddles the horizon could prove to be a golden ticket to a Utopian existence.

Or could it?

What if you knew what was going to happen, yet couldn't stop it? Would you want to know the precise days and times of your family members' deaths? How about your own demise? While some would argue that being provided with Cliff's Notes to your destiny actually alters it, I'm not sure destiny can actually be altered.

And how about the smaller stuff—the flat tires and the food poisonings and the sinus infections? Would you want to know that Tuesday at 7:09 AM, you're going to stub your little toe against the door jamb with such a vengeance that your neighbors call to ask when you bought that barking sea lion?

I wouldn't. 

I also wouldn't have wanted to know:

–that on September 19, 1986, in a moment of clumsy haste, I would rake an accounts payable ledger cover across the bottom of my nose, resulting in a third degree paper cut and heavy bleeding. Actually, I don't think paper cuts are classified in degrees of severity, but this one really hurt and looked like I hadn't trimmed my nails prior to a nose mining excursion.

–that while lifting a lawn mover down three steps to the parking strip on July 10, 1990, my ankle would buckle at a ninety degree angle on the last stair. The pain seared so brightly that I swear Jesus was contemplating calling me home as I rolled on the sidewalk like an Italian soccer player waiting for the magic spray. And yes, I would have walked toward the light had I been able to walk.

–that on August 22, 1980, the day my senior yearbook picture was to be taken, I would awaken with a Defcon Five zit on my nose. And this wasn't an average zit. I've had millions of them and I'm proud to announce that this one was inducted into the Acne Hall of Fame in Fresno, California, in 2003. 

It was the kind that forms a lava dome beneath the dermis and requires eleven percent of your body's blood supply to nourish. Fortunately, it looked more like a sunburn (see image above), but make no mistake, I feared that sepsis would overtake my vital organs by the end of the day.

–that on May 28,2011, while clearing some stuff out of my mother-in-law's backyard, I would hoist an old bird house from the ground, only to discover that it harbored a speakeasy for bumblebees. I may never know why one of them decided to fly behind my ear to plant his stinger, but let's just say the barking sea lion made a guest appearance for the neighbors that day in Auburn, Washington.

I'm ecstatic, not just glad, but ecstatic, that I wasn't clued in about these events. And although they didn't contribute material hardship or permanent injury, the element of surprise proved to be a blessing.

A common bromide in my house is "Be careful what you wish for, because you just may get your wish."

I hereby proclaim, despite all of the implicit and explicit benefits associated with an ability to foretell the future, that I prefer blissful ignorance from this moment forward.

How about you?

It's not going to get better...ever.

What do you think? Are they savvy observations or merely the rantings of a cranky, old man?

Sage or cynic?

I think he's spot on.

The great George Carlin owned many talents, the largest of which was his aptitude for jerking down the curtain to expose that man at the controls. His comments, scathing and occasionally offensive as they were, cut to the core of our behaviors and value systems, and he never shied from labeling a quacking, waddling bird as a duck.

Carlin's tirade against "the owners" in the attached clip proved prophetic this week, as Washington's state legislature, facing a five billion dollar budget shortfall, decided that nearly half should bleed from the arteries of our public education system. Teachers, many of whom already personally subsidize their classrooms' pencil, paper and parental needs, were rewarded with a two percent pay cut.

I can't speak for you, but not once have I heard a candidate, Republican or Democrat, pledge to gut education as part of his or her platform. Never has a rolled-up-shirt-sleeve-wearing-town-hall-touring talking head spouted off about how our educational system spoils and pampers our children and needs to be scaled back to accommodate more pressing needs.

So why, once they are elected, do they suddenly change course?

Time to circle right back to Mr. Carlin's thesis. Do the owners, the CEOs, of corporate America really want our children minimally educated, learning only what is necessary to become corporate cogs? And are our elected officials simply their toadies?

I don't think these top dogs really care, one way or another. As long as state budget deficits aren't passed along through higher marginal taxes, the kids can eat caviar or fish heads; doesn't matter. In a land where wealth is coveted and celebrated, no one dares question the morality of a chief executive who pulls down in one year an amount which would rescue a struggling school district.

According to Forbes.com, Lloyd Blankfein, head dude at Goldman Sachs Group, pulled down seventy-three million dollars in 2007. That could purchase a couple of red recess balls and maybe some sidewalk chalk.

Howard Schulz, infamous owner of Starbucks, somehow stuffed $98.6 million into his green apron and decided that, not only couldn't he afford to own the Seattle Supersonics any longer, he also couldn't swing sending a dozen caramel macchiatos down to my wife's high-poverty school ten miles south of Starbucks headquarters.

And Aubrey McClendon, grand poo bah at Chesapeake Energy, somehow found time to purchase the Seattle Suprsonics, massively pollute the environment and campaign against gay rights while still raking in $117 million.

Now that's elite-level multitasking.

As George Carlin so brutally intimated, "It's not going to get better..ever...so appreciate what you have."

I certainly do, because I'm afraid my kids won't have nearly as much.

Should I say something?

It didn't really seem like a big deal at first.

Then it became an ethical dilemma.

I gazed a half mile into the distance, spotting the bus as it rounded the corner and slowly approached. Swiveling my head ninety degrees, I noticed an elderly woman walking as briskly as possible toward me; she had no view of the oncoming coach as I did.

Was she trying to catch this bus? Maybe, but they come every ten minutes. Should I yell to her that it's coming? I could, but she may not understand and feel threatened. How about if I just motion with my hand to come quickly? Also creepy, plus, if she picked up her gait any further, the specter of a broken hip looms with the risk of slamming to the asphalt.

What did I do?

Nothing.

I boarded the bus and watched the woman's wobbly silhouette diminish through the back window. I then sat and ruminated for the thirty minute trip downtown. By rationalizing each scenario into a course of non-action, I had possibly robbed this elderly woman of a ten-minute chunk of her day. Due to perceived embarrassment and sheer laziness, I had committed, albeit slight, an unethical act.

We encounter these situations more often than we think.

My eleven-year-old daughter and I enjoy watching a show entitled, What Would You Do? every Friday night on ABC. Unsuspecting witnesses are faced with ethical decisions through the use of hidden cameras and actors. For example, a waitress in a diner, played by an actress, refuses service to a gay couple with children and creates a scene in front of a roomful of patrons.

As the cameras roll, some people ignore the situation entirely, while others choose to confront the server and/or comfort the victim. A substantial minority actually side with the waitress. The drama builds until the show's host, with camera operators and grips in tow, bursts into the room to announce that it's all been staged.

The scenarios are intense, like a group of drunk teenagers on a public sidewalk, encouraging a sober friend to imbibe, or an adolescent couple dealing with a new found pregnancy in a coffee shop.

But those types of dramas are rare, compared to the smaller and more common scenarios we face.

When should you say something?

Sometimes, it's simply a matter of reaching a boiling point, like when I encountered a guy scattering his toe nail clippings on the floor of the gym locker room.

Other instances, we're trying to do someone a favor. It's easy to tell your spouse that she's got a piece of chickpea in her eyebrow, but try it with a stranger:

"Excuse me, ma'am, but that leaflet of romaine lettuce between your teeth flaps like a little green flag whenever you make the long "e" sound. I just thought you should know."

I've got a big problem with people who need to just blow their nose, but won't do it, even when an Aloe-lotion-coated nose wipe lurks ten feet away. It's easy with one of my kids: "For the love of Kimberly Clark. You've been sniffing since Monday. Stop doing nose Kegels and get a freaking Kleenex."

But when it's a stranger, I'd feel pretty jerkish asking him if he'd like a tissue.

Yesterday, again on King County Metro Route 21, a man sat beside me, zoning out on his palm held electronic pacifier.

Remember as a kid, when your big brother would pin you down and dangle a thick saliva rope over your face, only to slurp it back in just before it splashed down on your little oily forehead?

That slurper was my seatmate, only he was playing professional Duncan snot yo-yo master, performing amazing nasal feats prior to snorting his inventory safely home in the nick of time. Growing distracted to the point of obsession, I highly considered ripping my shirt off and offering it to him as a small token of my irritation.

Before doing so, however, I felt compelled to play the scene out mentally. You know...a little cost/benefit analysis:

"Shit! Just blow your nose!" barked the pallid, shirtless, middle aged man, extending a torn Old Navy polo toward the startled commuter. The irate passenger's arm quivered as the striped blue material offered itself to no one.

The bus halted and idled at the next stop as Transit Security pulled up behind. The bare chested perpetrator was led away in handcuffs.

I'll just put on some headphones next time.

No rapture? Hey, honest mistake.

Hey, everyone makes mistakes.

I recall believing wholeheartedly that the castaways from Gilligan's Island, after so many close-calls and with a professor who could build a radio out of Mrs. Howell's Cross-Your-Heart Bra, simply were not karmically meant to be rescued.

But in 1978, they finally were, after fourteen years and possibly a couple of Gilligan/Mary Ann love children.

When Fresca came out with two new varieties, Sparkling Peach Citrus and Sparkling Black Cherry, to compliment their classic grapefruit flavor, I sped to Safeway for a case of each. On the way, I pondered renting a back hoe to dig three deep holes, fill up each with a different variety of Fresca, and plunge rapturously backward into each on a sizzling summer afternoon.

Unfortunately, there would be no pools; the new flavors tasted worse than curried sand.

So who am I to judge Harold Camping, the man who predicted a May 21, 2011 rapture, the day Jesus would return to lift the righteous into heaven, while the remainder of the sinful masses would suffer on Earth until roughly Octoberish?

And this wouldn't be the biblical J.C., the guy who forgave everyone including his torturers, hung out with prostitutes and may have actually possessed a northern African ethnicity.

Nope, the dude who came back was going to be a Caucasian bad ass, and this time he'd probably be sporting a fresh crew cut and pulling a trailer filled with water boarding supplies.

Oh yeah, and he'd be clean shaven except for an awesome mustache.

Alas, Mr. Camping erred, and as far as I can tell, nothing happened. His rationale involved a complex numerological calculation, concluding that scriptural signs pointed to May 21 as the day of "harpazo," the Greek word for being "caught up," or "snatched up."

Have you ever read the Bible, especially the Book of Revelation? I can see how Gaming could've concluded that such nastiness was at hand, especially after so many prophecies have already come to fruition. For instance:


Revelation 16:1—"Then I heard a loud voice speaking from the temple to the seven angels: ' Go and pour out the seven bowls of God's anger on the earth."

Back in college, some of my fraternity brothers got a little drunk on a Saturday afternoon and made some chili. It was terrible, because they used ketchup instead of tomato sauce, and our president, whom we referred to as "God," told them to dump their bowls out in the alley.

Revelation 12:1—"Then a great and mysterious sight appeared in the sky. There was a woman, whose dress was the sun and who had the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head."

Hello? Cher, Academy Awards, 1986. I'm not sure if she came out of the sky, but she may have been on one of those cherry pickers.

Revelation 13:1—"Then I saw a beast coming up out of the sea. It had ten horns and seven heads; on each of its horns there was a crown, and on each of its heads there was a name that was insulting to God."

Okay, this happened last summer. This aircraft carrier was docked in Seattle. I saw seven sailors walking out of the waterfront Red Robin, and man, they looked horny.

See? Maybe Harold Camping was simply off by a few thousand or million years. It doesn't mean it won't come down the way he's calling it.

But dude, enough with the billboards. You're making it look like Jesus has been in Cabo and he'll need to be picked up at the airport.

Regrets, I've had a few...

"...the record shows,
I took the blows,
and did it my way."
               -Old Blue Eyes

That's the climactic refrain from "My Way," one of my favorite tunes by Frank Sinatra.

As my fingers silently tap the keys in this quiet room, my memory queues up the song. I feel Sinatra's raw emotion as he belts it out and brings it home.

Why do I so love this crooner's tale, this story of taking a difficult path, stumbling often, yet harboring no regrets as the end of the road approaches?

Because I'm attracted to the unorthodox.

I think a lot of us are.

Dirk Nowitzki is a seven-foot-tall forward for the National Basketball Association's Dallas Mavericks. An overwhelming majority of seven-foot professional basketball players are centers, never straying too far from the basket on either end of the court. The center position involves blocking shots, rebounding and pulling the trigger only on high percentage, point blank shots.

But not Nowitzki. While ascending the amateur basketball ranks in his native Germany, an enterprising coach detected skills in the youngster which usually were demonstrated only by the shorter players. The mentor honed the teenager's talents as a three-point shooter and ball handler. He effectively tranformed Nowitzki into a highly unorthodox hoopster, one who became virtually unguardable by other big men.

He's now a lead pipe lock for the NBA Hall of Fame.

The sports world thrives on the unorthodox, since unpredictability equals advantage, but to what degree is the unconventional celebrated in other areas of our culture?

Let's investigate, shall we?

Arnold Schwarzenegger recently revealed that he's been engaging in a little unorthodox behavior, impregnating both his wife and housekeeper at the same time. We'll see how going against the grain works out for Arnie in the long run. Facing America with this revelation is one thing, but when it involves the wrath of Oprah and the Kennedys, God help him.

I suppose he could claim he was only filming the sequel to Pumping Iron, entitled Pumping the Ironer.

Teenagers often practice unorthodoxy. Whether they realize it or not, I salute them for presenting parents with so many ridiculous requests at once that the least ridiculous seems reasonable. For example:

Me: What are your plans for tomorrow?

Teenage daughter: Well, I'm either going to plan a summer trip to Mexico with my friends, get something pierced or ask you for thirty dollars for a mani/pedi.

At that point, I don't even realize that my wallet is now in an open position on my thigh.

Many others march to a drum which plays its cadence in 7/4 time. Some people actually floss prior to eating ribs, so they feel intense satisfaction after finally wedging that meat chunk from between their molars while watching Antiques Roadshow.  

Others, such as Michele Bachmann, Glenn Beck, Sarah Palin and Charlie Sheen, although highly unusual, should not be misinterpreted as unorthodox.

They're unsane.

My final example is Newt Gingrich, who possesses an unorthodox perception of his public image. While he looks in the mirror and sees the face of an intellectual patriot statesman worthy of admission to SEAL Team 6, the rest of American gazes upon an adulterous hypocrite who sounds singlehandedly responsible for the Earth's critical shortage of helium.

So join the ranks, even if it's just for a day. Try something unorthodox.

Sleep on a different side of your bed. Eat with your opposite hand. Hop in the shower and wash your bottom before cleaning your face and shampooing your head.

Then reward yourself. Pour a big, frosty glass of chocolate milk and drink it from the opposite side.