Learn to Listen
When I first began interviewing people, one of the first people I interviewed was my late-grandpa. He, along with my dad, had owned a saw mill that made wine and whisky barrels. When the bottom fell out of that market switched gears and started a real estate company together.
At this time, I had grandiose ideas of what being a writer was and how I was going to make a lot of money doing it. So I sat down and began telling my grandpa about my idea of interviewing successful entrepreneurs, learning how they got there and because everyone wants to know how they did it, I’d sell a lot of books.
As my grandpa began to tell me what he thought about my idea, I interrupted him.
Grandpa waited patiently for me to finish and then began to speak, but I interrupted him again and continued to do so several more times during our interview.
Basically, my interviewing skills were lacking. I wanted him to hear about what I was doing more than I wanted to hear about what he had done in his past.
My grandpa finally said, “One of the first lessons you need to learn is how to listen.”
I said, “Yeah I hear you but…”
He then interrupted me and said, “No son, I don’t think you do. Listening and hearing are two different things. In order to listen to someone you have to have your mouth shut and your ears open. Right now your mouth is open and your ears are shut.”
It was a little harsh but it snapped me out of interrupting him. I realized that in an interview you are not the star, the person being interviewed is. Many times I have wanted to jump in and talk during an interview or conversation, but my grandpa’s advice has stuck with me.
In every day conversation, we’re often waiting for a break to say what we’re thinking and often we miss the whole point. When I face a person who constantly wants to talk and not give anyone else a chance to speak, I often think this person needs to hear my grandpa’s advice, and depending on who it is, I may just give it.
I was in a writers group once and a new writer came to our group of five and had an article she wanted critiqued. Her article was for a specific high-protein, low-carb diet that everyone has heard of. The lady’s introduction was great, it drew me into the article. She had personalized her article how she lost weight through this diet and had scientific data supporting her claims that this was the best way to lose weight.
As our group went around and critiqued her article she became very defensive. She interrupted and interjected her opinions. She wasn’t listening to any feedback.
I explained that in order to take in the feedback she had to be quiet and listen.
“But I have to talk in order to remember. I have to be able to write it down,” she said interrupting me.
“You don’t have to talk to write it down,” I said.
“Yes I do. Or I won’t remember. Besides, I hear what you’re saying, but I want you to understand what I was trying to say here,” she said.
I almost threw my hands up and said forget it. I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, but I decided to try anyway.
“Ok stop,” I said.
The lady continued talking over me, so I got pushy and raised my voice and said, “Hey! Stop talking. You can’t hear me when you’re talking. Ok? Listening and hearing are two different things. In order to listen to someone you have to have your mouth shut and your ears open. Right now your mouth is open and your ears are shut. So you’re not hearing anything any of us are saying to you.”
The lady immediately stopped speaking. Her eyes welded up, but not enough that a tear was shed. She didn’t say anything for the rest of the workshop except for, “Thank you,” when it was all over.
The next week when our group reconvened the lady wasn’t there. I said, “I hope it wasn’t because of me.”
The group members looked at each other and then one of the girls said, “Actually she emailed all of us and said she wouldn’t be back because you were rude and that this was her first workshop and it was the first time she’d ever let anyone read her work. Then she said something about not having to deal with that kind of pompous attitude, so she quit.”
I was in temporary-disbelief. “What? Are you serious,” I said.
The group of four looked blankly at me and I said, “Oh well, she’ll have to get a thicker skin if she wants to be in any workshop.”
Later I thought about it and realized the advice could have gone either way. I could have listened to what she was trying to say. I could have stopped talking too. But I justified it because that was the way we always did it—the writer has to be quiet when getting critiqued, and I assumed she knew the rules.
Next time, I’ll have to remember that, “In order to listen to someone, you have to have your mouth shut and your ears open,” still applies to me, as well as the person who’s running their mouth.
What’cha Got?
Looking at the outside of the old orange hard shell case, you can tell that what’s inside has been around for a while. Scratches run deep like a road map of the places it’s been.
Opening the three worn brass latches unleashes a waft of cigarette smoke that gently hits the nose. When the lid folds back, you can see the crushed orange velvet that encases a dark red sunburst 1939 Gretsch, Hawaiian-style guitar.
The floating tortoise pick-guard is held together by a small brass bracket that violently protests when it’s strummed too hard. The neck tapers from the body to the headstock and suits my small fingers as I press down the silky-smooth strings against the ebony fret board. But best of all is the crisp sound that’s made when it’s strummed. It’s harp-like heavenly.
Musicians spend a life time looking for that perfect sound. It only took twenty years for me to find mine.
Subway Sandwich Artist–Mitch the Mayo Kid
I went to Subway today and as soon as I walked in the door, I knew I should have turned around and left. There were literally fourteen people standing in line.
The line wrapped around the corner from where the first Sandwich Artist takes your order. I was person number eight past that corner.
As I contemplating leaving when the Indian Owner/Sandwich Artist #1 asked the lady directly in front of me, “And for you ma’dam?”
Wow, I thought, this guy’s got his shit together, and that’s the only reason I stayed. Well that, and the fact that I was playing hookey from work.
During my lunch break, which I don’t officially get, I went to talk to my tattoo artist whose shop is about 15 minutes away from my work. I normally wouldn’t do this, but I knew that I had to stay late to help with some things, so I figured I just wouldn’t turn in an overtime slip and we’d call it even.
I had already been gone from work for about an hour when I walked into Subway. And even though I know no one would miss me, I was really considering leaving right when the owner/sandwich artist #1 said, “And for you sir?”
I ordered a Sweet Onion Teriyaki Chicken sandwich and followed the rest of the cattle line to sandwich artist #2. Who by the way, was a dead ringer for the long brown haired kid who played Mitch Kramer, the nose-touching tortured freshman, in Dazed and Confused.
This kid might have been Sandwich Artist #2 to these guys, but to me he was Mitch Kramer—The Mayo Kid. He put more mayonnaise on a sandwich than anyone I’ve ever seen.
Normally a Sandwich Artist will put on one stream of mayo straight down the middle, then ask, “What else would you like?”
Mitch would grab the bottle, hold it up side down, and then he kicked out his leg like Dave Lee Roth in the Jump video. He then started spraying down thick lines mayo down the center of the sandwich. He did two double swipes—back and forth, then back and forth again—on each of the sandwiches he made. I think he may have even cut the nozzle on the bottle because the white squiggly lines were as wide as magic-markers.
Note to self, no mayo.
The line did move at surprisingly fast pace. The speed of this assembly line of sandwich-making was mainly due to the Mitch the Mayo Kid’s pizzazz. When someone said lettuce, Mitch crammed a whole handful on top of the bread. When someone said onions, Mitch grabbed them with both hands and sprinkled them back and forth like thick falling snow. But when someone said, “Mayo,” you could tell that it just made this kid’s day.
There was a rather large black lady standing in front of me. She was wearing a black tank top with a black and brown printed skirt. Her hair was long and braided and she was about five feet tall and probably four and-a-half feet sideways. She had ordered the Italian sub, which had salami, pepperoni and ham on it.
“What do you want on it?” The Mayo Kid asked.
The lady said, “A little lettuce, extra pickles, thousand island dressing, extra pickles. Oh wait, I said that,” she said as she perused the toppings on the counter and then said, “Oh, and some mayo. Extra mayo.”
This lady was The Mayo Kid’s jackpot, his sandwich score of the day. Mitch sprinkled the lettuce. He then grabbed at least 12 pickles and piled them on. Then the lady said, “Can you give me more pickles than that?”
Mitch grabbed about 20 more pickles and stacked them on. Obviously he had floated off to sandwich Nirvana because he stood there in a daze looking at his condiment counter for a few seconds and then said, “What else did you want with that?”
“Thousand island dressing,” she said, which Mitch applied the same way he did with his mayo in the double-swipe method.
“And extra mayo,” she said.
I think at this point Mitch got an erection. Not that I was looking, but it’s hard not to notice a guy who’s about to make your sandwich shift his crotch. Mitch then did his patented Van Halen kick and almost kicked the owner. He then began spraying the mayo back-and-forth, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. He repeated this process eight times.
This was the most disgusting sandwich I have ever seen. There was at least an inch-and-a-half layer of mayo on top of the half-inch layer of thousand island.
Then the lady said, “Oh and could you put parmesan on that? And some oil too.”
“Looks healthy,” I said.
“That’s the way I like it,” she snapped.
When Mitch finished wrapping her sandwich, he gave her a little nod like a stoic departing sailor saying goodbye to his wife. He then said to me, “What do you want on yours?”
I said, “A little lettuce, and little onions and a little sweet teriyaki sauce.”
I have to say that Mitch showed restraint with my sandwich and made it exactly as I had asked.
“No mayo?” he said.
“No mayo.”
He looked at me with a disappointed look on his face and I knew he wanted to spray mayo all over the wall, but instead he wrapped the sandwich up and he sent me down the line.
“What do you want on yours?” Mitch asked the semi-attractive lady wearing a red dress standing directly behind me.
“Lettuce and light on the mayo. Light. Real light,” she said.
I watched Mitch only spray one line down the middle like every sandwich artist does at any other Subway when you ask for mayo.
The lady looked to be in her early 30’s. She was talking to her friend, who seemed to be about ten years older than her, and was most likely her co-worker. She was talking about the new red dress she was wearing. “I got it for $30,” she said, “but it’s supposed to be $160. It’s Calvin Klein! And it fits perfectly. I mean look at it. It fits so well. I just had to get it.”
Mitch’s head was down, but his eyes looked up. I watched him look the lady up and down. And when he realized she wasn’t watching him, he sprayed one more line of mayo right down the middle of her sandwich. He then threw the top piece of bread on it and had it wrapped before the lady knew what hit it.
“Thanks,” he said to her, “and see you tomorrow.”
“Ok thanks,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
I’ll take bets that that red dress doesn’t fit by the end of the month.
McDonald’s Changes Happy Meal
McDonalds has decided to add apples to all its Happy Meals. You can already get apples with Happy Meals, but you have to ask for it. The new Happy Meals will include a smaller portion of fries with a smaller portion of apples.
All the fat kids out there will be happy to know that they can still get a full-order of fries if they ask for it. Read more here if you’re interested.
Now that you’ve gotten to the bottom of my literary Happy Meal, it’s time for your toy. Click on the video below to see how McDonalds is helping teach kids abstenism.
I Visited Google+
I wrote about Google+ yesterday on my blog thinking that I would have to wait a while to actually get on it. Well as things usually go with me, Google+ let me in as soon as I published that it would not let me in.
The site’s design is very clean. I love the fact that you can put people into circles of, “Family, friends, acquaintances, and following.” Then from those groups, you can chose who you want to see your status updates. I haven’t figured out what the, “following,” circle means yet, but I’m assuming it has something to do with Twitter.
I don’t have a lot of contacts on Google+ yet, but I’m sure that within the next few months, word will spread and people will defect to Google+ from Facebook. If you’d like to be included, and you’re not a spambot, please feel free to email me and I’ll send you an invite.
Google+
In case you haven’t heard, Google is coming out with their version of Facebook. It’s called Google+. I have received three invites from people to join Google+ by people who are now part of the beta test version of the social networking site. However, I am unable to join right now.
The three times I have accepted these invitations, Google has told me that they will accept me as a new user, “Once we’ve ironed out all the kinks.”
Why on Earth would I want to allow yet another giant corporation to have access to every little detail of my life? Because like it or not, social networking is a part of modern life. There was a recent study that says social networking is the equivalent of having half-a-spouse. Meaning, you have a lot of support from family and friends that you would not have had in the past without social networking.
Do you ever refrain from saying something on Facebook in fear of, “getting in trouble?” With Google+ you will be allowed to filter what your “circles” of friends sees by putting them into groups. They won’t know what, “circle,” they’re in and this is supposed to be easier than doing it on Facebook. This one feature alone will keep you out of trouble with your boss and your mom when you decide to tell someone to, “Fuck off.”
I guess we’ll all see in the next year or so, “Once they’ve ironed out all the kinks.”
Death Doctors
Dr. Jack Kevorkian died last month on June 3, 2011. He said he assisted in 130 suicides. “Dying is not a crime,” he famously said. At least in Dr. Kevorkian’s case, the patients wanted to die. But if you live in Europe, you may want to reconsider seeing a doctor the next time you’re feeling sick.
Dr. Marcel Petiot was convicted of multiple murders after the discovery of the remains of twenty six people in his home in Paris. He was executed in 1946.
Dr. John Bodkin Adams, a British doctor, was suspected in 160 suspicious deaths of his patients between 1946 and 1956. He was tried and acquitted for one murder, which led to him being found guilty of 13 offenses of prescription fraud, lying on cremation forms, obstructing a police search and failing to keep dangerous drugs registered.
No known Death Doctor was as prolific as Dr. Harold Shipman. Shipman, an English general practioner, was convicted on 15 charges on Jan. 31st, 2000 and sentenced to 15 consecutive life sentences. There was more than enough evidence to prove that Dr. Shipman killed at least 215 people and probably killed 35 more.
Feeling sick now?
Forth of July Myths
July 4th Myths Debunked
There are many myths surrounding July 4th that we Americans consider fact. Brian Handwerk wrote an excellent article for National Geographic regarding these myths. Here’s the link if you’re interested in reading more. Below are excerpts taken directly from Handwerk’s article regarding five of these myths. He has several others in his article and I encourage you to follow the link to find out more.
1. The first biggest myth is that The Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4th.
Independence Day is celebrated two days too late. The Second Continental Congress voted for a Declaration of Independence on July 2, prompting John Adams to write his wife, “I am apt to believe that [July 2, 1776], will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival.”
Adams correctly foresaw shows, games, sports, buns, bells, and bonfires—but he got the date wrong. The written document wasn’t edited and approved until the Fourth of July, and that was the date printers affixed to “broadside” announcements sent out across the land. July 2 was soon forgotten.
In fact, no one actually signed the Declaration of Independence at any time during July 1776. Signing began on August 2, with John Hancock’s famously bold scribble, and wasn’t completed until late November.”
2. Paul Revere Rode Solo
Patriot Paul Revere really did hit the road on the night of April 18, 1775, to alert the countryside that British troops were on the move. But the image of an inspired, lone rider isn’t accurate. Revere was part of a low-tech—but highly effective—early-warning system. But Revere was actually captured by the British.
3. July 4, 1776, Party Cracked the Liberty Bell
U.S. independence surely prompted a party, but joyful patriots didn’t ring the Liberty Bell until it cracked on July 4, 1776. In fact the State House Bell likely didn’t ring at all that day. Due to poor casting of the bell, it was cracked and recast several times. The crack that is in it now wasn’t done until sometime in the 1800’s.
4. Betsy Ross Made the First American Flag
There is no proof that Betsy Ross played any part in designing or sewing the American flag that made its debut in 1777. In fact, the story of the famous seamstress didn’t circulate until it was raised by her grandson nearly a century after the fact, and the only evidence is testimony to this family tradition.
5. Patriots Flocked to Fight for Freedom
This enduring image is accurate—when describing the beginning of the Revolutionary War. But as it became clear that the struggle for independence would be long and difficult, the enthusiasm of many American men for fighting began to wane, while their concerns for the well-being of their farms and other livelihoods grew. The government resorted to cash incentives and eventually drafting soliders, to rally an army.
So this weekend while you’re out barbequing, drinking beer, shooting off fireworks, and feeling patriotic, remember that not everything we think about the Forth of July is true. Regardless, America is still the freest nation on the Earth…or is that becoming a myth too?
(BTW, this is my 150th post. Thank you for reading.)
She Knew
My sister and I used to be able to read each others minds. This was long before she moved to Berkeley to get her PhD in neuroscience to prove that human beings were incapable of doing so.
We were born two-and-a-half years apart. One look from me and she knew what I was thinking. Whether it was a short, side head-nod to the right, where she knew to leave. Or a longer nod to the left, where she knew to follow, she always knew.
When we were in high school my sister had a friend named Iris. She’d catch me looking at her and she knew what I wanted. She’d turn her eyebrows down and I knew that meant hands off.
Iris loved to send my heart racing, wearing nothing but a long white T-shirt, no bra, and short-shorts which always seemed to mysteriously disappear once my parents went to sleep.
I would hang out downstairs and watch TV with them and as soon as my sister would go to the bathroom, Iris would stretch out on the couch, or reach across the coffee table for the remote control, giving me a little peek.
When my sister would come back into the room, she’d catch me staring at Iris as she reached innocently for the blanket, pretending she was cold. My sister would spin on her heels, girt her teeth and glare at me. Then she’d make a four-fingered slicing motion at her neck, and I knew I better stop eye-fucking her friend.
I moved out of my parent’s house when I was nineteen. A year later my sister went to college in Texas, and then later to Berkeley, to study brain-mapping with some of the most cutting-edge neuroscientists in the world. In those ten years I thought we had lost our mind-reading abilities as we grew apart.
My sister and I both had gotten married and my wife and I flew out to San Francisco for our fifth year wedding anniversary to visit. We ate and drank in some of the city’s finest restaurants.
On our fourth night there, we were walking back from a little Mexican place in the Mission District when I stepped off the curb. I didn’t see the bus barreling down the street until the last second. As time slowed down, I looked over and caught a glimpse of my sister’s wide-eyed frozen face. And in that split second before impact, I knew what she knew.