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This Old Heart

Hearts age physically. They also age emotionally.

Neither is particularly pretty.

*******************

A couple years ago, the old man spoke. 

We were at lunch, the only lunch we ever shared.

"May I Tell You A Story?"
He didn't say why he wanted to tell it. But, as he shared, his motive appeared: he was processing a brutal fact of his life. 

Here is the story, a story of love and loss. He said:

At college, back in the '60s, I was in love with a young woman. She was a delight and we were soulmates.

As we faced graduation, we mutually decided to let our careers take us to different cities. We intentionally discontinued our relationship, one thing led to another, and we fell out of touch.

So far, a frequent story. He continued:

A few years passed and I was transferred to a different city, placed in an office, seated at a desk, and — at the very next desk — there she was. Imagine that! What a coincidence! Kismet? I don't know. There she was. And she was as delightful and well-matched for me as ever.

But, while we were separated, she had married. She was happily married. But here I was. There she was. And she was married. Happily married. I understood.

The old man raised a finger, to stop me from commenting. He continued:

Time passed.

One or the other of us eventually left the company and the city. 

More time passed.

It happened again. This time, I was traveling and we bumped into each other. Just like that. Can you believe it? A complete coincidence, again. What are the odds? Anyway, we were suddenly together. And between us: all the old feelings of admiration and longing. We chatted with heart, and a fact was quickly revealed: she was available, she had divorced.

But now I was married. Happily married! And so on. The situation had reversed to the same effect. Our conversation was limited by propriety; our meeting and parting, to a genuine embrace. 

Time passed. Again, we lost touch.

He paused. He continued:

That phrase — "but I was married" doesn't convey the value of my marriage. You know of my marriage. Legendary. The envy of others. But, more than that, the treasure of my life. The font of our children. My wife, our love, were, to me, everything.

I had met his wife. I had heard about their love. I nodded.

He was quiet. I waited. Then:

As you know, my wife died several years ago. Cancer. Untimely. Awful.

And, so, naturally, I have increasingly wondered, where is my friend, my college girlfriend, that woman who I thought was my soulmate, but never knew because our good lives interrupted us?

I don't know. I just don't know. I can't find her. I don't know where she is.

We sat quietly. He clearly feared the worst. That she was gone. Dead. Or disappeared.

I muttered something about how — now, with Facebook — that won't ever happen to my children and their lovers, how people of the social networking generation can be gone but remain easily found.

I wondered why the old man didn't pay a private detective $100 to find his lost friend. If I suggested this to him, I'm sorry I did. The idea is too obvious. If he had done it, it obviously hadn't turned up anything. If he hadn't done it, he had a reason. Perhaps his reason was old-fashioned mores: one just doesn't do that. Or perhaps he placed True Love in the hands of Lady Kismet.

We all know this pain.
The ache in the heart. A pressure in the chest. 

I've seen it — and felt it — in childhood. In high school. In college. Beyond. 

She said "no." Or "no more." Or "you? really?" Or, worse nothing of all. Once she spoke Russian.

I don't think any of their judgements were wrong. Each was following her heart, as she must. (And, to be fair, at times, I was the one saying, "no." Those times don't hurt as much. Huh.)

Still, when my infatuation wasn't met in kind, I was left, holding my bruised heart, not knowing what to do, feeling humiliated, embarrassed. This seems pathetic, that I should have had the maturity with which to address the challenge: distraction, learning, recovery, renewed adventure.

I chose only distraction, the weakest of the alternatives. I placed my broken heart in the trunk of my car and drove on. 

What is the cure?
I thought I knew. Here's what I thought were the cures: 

• Time. Doesn't it heal all wounds? It doesn't. Decades pass, but heartache merely goes cryogenic, as easy to thaw as a frozen meal — Heart: Ready To Eat.
• Next. Isn't new love, a true love the antidote? It isn't. The perfect marriage — of which I know, for mine, if not perfect, is surely the least imperfect — isn't a cure. The new relationship is a heart transplant, not a heart repair. The old heart lies beside the photograph, still beating its retreat in the trunk of the car, good for little else. Except, of course, to remind us we are alive.
• Maturity. Don't we ever grow up? Not I. Another widowed friend in his 70s recently spoke of the pain. His heart was freshly broken. Not, this time, by bereavement. But rather by a week of dinners, on a vacation that had to end. "How dear," I thought shallowly. "How real," he felt deeply.

We are all freshman at the senior dance. We are all at summer camp.

Is this is a high-class heartache? 
After all, many of us are so contented in fruitful relationships.

But there are those whose heartache is based on loneliness. We must respect their sorrow. It must be greater. But from here, with these hearts on the floor, we can't tell.

We're looking at old hearts in the trunk, pained that we cannot live two lives at once. Driving on.

Will someone please call a surgeon
Who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart
That you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over... 

 

I wish us all strength and a fullness of heart.

Choosing Diversions

Different strokes for different folks.

Or, as my Australian friend Catherine says, "Horses for courses."

So what are your strokes?
I can tell you what is not a stroke of mine: violence.

I really don't like it. 

And I don't consider it entertainment.

So if your stroke includes violence that leads too often to a reckless result — like, say, permanent brain injury — I'm out. 

My friends who are sports fans will counter, "People get injured walking across the street."

Sure enough. But who cheers when that happens? I'm not standing in the way of people taking risks for their passions. I'm simply disappointed and somewhat depressed when everyone stands and cheers for violence.

Call me "old fashioned." If disdain for violence is a crime, let me be guilty.

The Big Question
To be fully human, we need to ask ourselves throughout the day, "What does this experience mean to me? How am I expressing myself? Does this experience lift me, making me my best potential self, or does it lower me, degrading my potential?"

It might seem like a ponderous question for most people. However, with frequent asking, it becomes a light and enjoyable question.

So ask yourself: "When I see two people punching each other, what is the feeling that is stirred within me? Is it sporting? Or just thirsty for violence?"

Perhaps the answer is: o.k., watching violence stirs the primitive within. That leads to this question: is that what you want? 

Will hockey truly attempt to reform? Probably not. Because the "cost to the sport," is really a cost to the wallets of those who own the gladiatorial contest.

When people speak of "the sport" as an ancient ideal, I think, "Give me a break. Your ideal is worth cheering for people who defend the game by inflicting damage on one another? If so, do tell: what are your other ideals? Are any of them in conflict with this one?" 

I love the strength and grace of college hockey. But, so long as the major league behaves like the bush league, I'll stick to baseball. Unless and until the players brawl with regularity on the diamond. Then I'll leave the ballpark and crawl back under my self-righteous rock.

But this isn't about sports.

It's about the Arts.
I don't consider violence against women to be entertainment. It nauseates me. 

And when violence against women is presented as "art," I am ever more disgusted.

The arts has a way of saying, "We don't like this. We abhor it. So let's get some popcorn and watch a lot of it."

So I walked Out.
This was about a year ago, when the movie was new. I was in our beloved Drexel Theatre. I bought my ticket. I bought my popcorn. I sat through the coming attractions before the feature presentation.

Up came The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. This movie — claimed to be a "film" because it has subtitles, was introduced in independent cinemas, and is based on a best-selling series of novels by the late Stieg Larsson —  didn't last 30 minutes. For me, it didn't. I walked out.

Walked out? Well, what else is the appropriate reaction to watching a woman being beaten and sodomized?

I'm not able to keep thinking, "This is art. I am a patron of the arts." Call me a philistine, but when I'm watching a young woman harassed, battered, restrained, and penetrated, I have very few choices:

• watch — and have the primitive within me fueled. (Really, now, honestly: what is the feeling within you when you watch Noomi Rapace raped? She's a fine actress, so it looks real enough. What are you feeling? Artistically inspired? Doubtful. Aroused? Hmmm. Nice.)
• leave — and sit outside the theatre on a nice summer evening.

Of course, if this weren't art, the third and most appropriate choice would be to call the police. (The Onion's coverage of the recent assault scandal in sports was brilliant. Here it is: "Nation's 10-Year-Old Boys: 'If You See Someone Raping Us, Please Call The Police'.")

I'm conflicted.
This is awkward. I'm on the board of trustees for Friends of The Drexel, Inc., the new not-for-profit organization founded to secure and sustain the future of the historic Drexel Theatre as a distinctive cultural asset to Bexley and the greater Columbus community.

Showing violence against women isn't part of the mission, but the Dragon Tattoo movie was great at the box office. And more articulate, more cultured people than I defend the movie with passion.

I can say only this: "I know what I'm seeing. It's a woman being beaten and raped. Watching that is not — anytime, anywhere, under any Cloak of Sophisticated Culture — a form of entertainment or enlightenment for me. Never."

Independent arts cinemas turn their noses up at showing what they consider low-brow, like Terminator. And, so, we are showing this?

What's The Big Deal?
The big deal is that we are what we eat. And we are who we know. And we are where we go.

Let me add: We are what we cheer for. And we are what arouses us.

Can we make a case for not being who we are when we are cheering for — or aroused by — something violent? (I've tried. It's a weak case.)

Where can we turn for wisdom?
Not to me. I'm not the arbiter of taste.

Now that you are an adult, you have to decide what is beneath you. I'm just asking you to draw the line — rather than letting popular culture draw the line for you. Because we all know where popular culture will draw that line.

Columbus's native son, James Thurber once said (I'm paraphrasing here, because I cannot find the original quotation): "I'm glad to be going blind, so I can't see where popular culture is headed."

Want something more helpful?

The actor Bill Murray: “When you become an adult, you get to choose your diversions. You should choose them carefully.” 

Where is God?

[This morning, the rabbi is out. So a friend and I will lead Shabbat services. The friend has skills and will do all the hard stuff: Hebrew, music. I'll do what I do best: distract people throughout the service. And I'll give the sermon. Here's the sermon.]

Shabbat shalom. The Rabbi is off the bima. You are about to learn that this would have been a good time for you to leave town. Here we go.

It's been more than a couple months since Simchat Torah, when Jews everywhere rewind every Torah scroll in the world. And we start over with Genesis. 

We've read about creation and the patriarchs and matriarchs. This week, in the portion of the Torah called Vayeishev, starting with Chapter 37, we still have Jacob and we are turning to Joseph and his brothers. The stories are interesting and, frankly, with Joseph, his brothers, Potiphar, Tamar and Onan, among the most salacious reality television the Bible offers.

This week is a religious school teacher's dream. The stories are fascinating to parse and debate. Why are they in the Torah? What do they mean for those of us who attempt to live Torah-centric lives?

There are great questions.

But I'm not going to discuss any of that.
I'd like to step away from those stories and contemplate the question: Where is God?

This seems like the time to do it because, as Gunther Plaut points out (The Torah: A Modern Commentary, page 244), this portion's long literary unit — which could be televised as Survivor: The Coat of Many Colors — is notable in a number of ways. One is the the increasing absence of divine revelation. Except in one small part — though the role of God is no small part — God has left the stage.

So the question I would like to explore today is: Where is God?

Ask yourself: Is God near? What does it mean, "God is near"? What are the signs and your feelings that God is near?

Ask yourself: Is God far away? And what about "God is far — or gone"? What are the signs and your feelings that God is far or gone?

Moving Away
In the Torah, God starts near and gradually moves away. The sole actor at the beginning, God creates the earth and populates it, speaking directly with Adam in the Garden of Eden. Some years are spent in training the people. And then, God steps away. Eventually, later in Exodus, God retains a lawyer, Moses, who serves as local counsel in God's place.

God seems like a parent; humanity, the children. God creates humanity, raises them, then steps away and let's them live their lives. 

What do you think? How is God like a parent? How is parenting not like being God? When is God a good parent. When is, if I might ask, God not a good parent?

However we might judge our Parent, God, like a parent, starts out all powerful, or at least seeming all powerful. At the end, parents are left only all loving. The power is gone, eventually or sooner. God is left all loving, whether you look to the original Chasidic tradition or Christianity, which are both traditions based on an all loving God. 

A Disclaimer on Belief
When I was 12 years old, it was time to meet with the Rabbi for the first conversation about becoming Bar Mitzvah. Back then, as I recall (which might not be accurate), fewer students than today led a Bar Mitzvah service. So the rabbi started by asking my intentions.

Rabbi: What are you thinking about Bar Mitzvah?

Artie: Would it be wrong to do just for the presents?

Rabbi: Yes.

Artie: Would it be wrong to do it if I don't believe in God?

Rabbi: Yes.

Artie: Well then, Rabbi, I'm 0-for-2.

Within a few years, I had completely walked away from Judaism — a walk that spanned 26 years before returning in my late 30s.

What About The Professional Jew?
One of the few things I've learned about Judaism is that the Rabbi might have overstated the answer to the second question. Today, as I understand it, belief in God isn't a prerequisite to being a Jew. In fact, this is a case where some of our best, don't.

Years ago, I asked a beloved Rabbi, "Do you believe in God?" I was expecting the simple answer of a true believer.

"May I speak frankly and confidentially?" the Rabbi asked. I nodded. (I think enough years have passed for me to tell this story.) His answer: "That is a complex question."

Wha? "Do you believe in God?" is a complex question?

For me, it's a simple question when the answer is "no" and it's a complex question when the answer is "yes." Because for anyone whose faith is on-again/off-again, "yes" needs a complex qualification.

Personally, I don't consider my religion a faith. I consider it an ethical tradition that — from time to time — might achieve moments of faith. So, I think the Rabbi of my childhood, the one who told me that belief in God was necessary to be a Jew, offered me an easy exit.

Here's what I believe now:

1. Whether or not one believes in God, it is better to live as if (a.) we are all related and (b.) we are never alone. This way, even without belief, we won't abuse our neighbor and we won't behave as if our actions have no meaning.
2. The mind of God is very big. It's inconceivable that any one of us would know the one true way. As Mrs. Isaac says, "It is conceivable that everyone is right." That is, everyone except those who sacrifice people, literally or figuratively. This has led me to a humble preference: I prefer to believe in everything, rather than to believe in nothing. 
3. Facebook is, in at least one important way, playing God. (Here is my Theology of Facebook.)

So, where is God?
I don't know. But I know what I feel like when I feel that God is near or far. 

Does distance make the heart grow fonder? Or as the Roman poet, Sextus Propertius put it: "Always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows."

As God and humanity see distance growing between them, so must parents and children.

This year has one of our children off to college. I know how helpless I sometimes feel to have my power diminished by distance. It leaves me all loving, with little I can do about it.

In the late of the night, when I cannot sleep, when I am consumed with worry for our creation, all I can do is wonder if I still enter into my child's prayers.

God is near when we pray for the well being and healing of our friends and family.

The Purpose of Management

I've spent the past several months having increasingly deeper conversations with entrepreneurs and business owners. It's been an enlightening, joyful honor for me.

Observing these businesspeople is humbling. Most of them have a highly defined sense of purpose.

Here's one way of describing what I am seeing.

Guess What? It's Lutheran.
I heard this first when I taught creativity to MBA candidates at the Capital University Graduate School of Management. (This was years ago, before I came to Ohio State.)

The dean of the business school, Lisa Dolin, informed me that Capital University was founded by Lutherans, based on Lutheran ideals. And, if memory serves, she described a fundamental Lutheran mission like this:

The Lutherans recognize that we are more effective in some roles than we are in others. Some people are best at making shoes. Some people are best at dancing in those shoes.

So it is the purpose of education to help each person find his or her most productive role. Because, if we are all at our most effective, doing the thing that we are most meant to do, doing the thing that we do the best, doing the most important work of our careers, then we will — as a human population — really be moving the world forward.

We will truly be completing the act of creation.

Is that really Lutheran?
So I'm told. But I think even the Lutherans would agree — with delight — that this is a universal ethic. It would be universally beneficial if universally applied. And where it is not applied, it ought to be.

I might have added that last sentence, about finishing the act of creation. (I always try to worm that idea in.) But, it's fair to say that this world — as we have it now — is surely not finished. One only needs to look at the front page of the newspaper to realize that.

So What Is Management?
Management is helping our employees — and customers and families — identify their most important roles. And then helping them to focus on that work. The work of their careers.

Everyone profits.

This is where Management intersects with The Meaning Of Life.

Heavy. 

Another Take On This Idea
My wise cousin Steve Weiler said to me — years ago, just when I needed to hear it — that he tries to focus his life on doing "only those things that only I can do."

I asked him, "Well, what are those things that only you can do?"

His answer — with a humble laugh — is like mine: "Not all that many things!"

There are relatively few things that only I can do. But one thing is certain: I know when I'm doing them. And I know when I'm doing something that someone else could do. And, frankly, in those moments, someone else could surely do it a lot better.

Easy To Focus? (No.)
So, with so few activities that only I can do, it should be easy to stay focused.

Sadly, no. I'm easily distracted. I often find myself doing work that would be better done by someone else. 

That's why I made this chart.

Agenda-Free Advice for the Perpelexed

Here's the draft of a sermon I plan to give tonight at Temple Israel in Columbus, Ohio.

Agenda-Free Advice

(A Temple Israel Sermon)

Where were we? What was I saying last time I was up here? 

This is Shabbat Shuvah. Shuvah is about returning, so I'm trying to return to where we were when I was last on the bimah. 

Well, it was last year around this time. It appears that the rabbis are full up writing their High Holy Day sermons. So, if I offer to give a sermon at what might very well be — amid the rush of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur — the least attended service in the history of Reform Judaism, I might be allowed to do it.

So I offered. And here I am. (I'm glad both of you could be here.)

So, where were we last time I was up here? Oh, I remember: I was boasting about how distracted I get during services. I tried to make the case for how daydreaming might be the most effective form of worship.

And I encouraged you to try to get lost in your worship. Stop stressing about keeping up. Fall behind everyone else. Go wherever the moment takes you.

That was either great advice, deepening the experience of the High Holy Days for you.

Or it was terrible advice, giving me a slight advantage over you in getting my prayers heard — while you were daydreaming.

In either event, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be giving religious advice.

And, that brings us to where I left off last year.

This sermon is about bad advice. And good advice. And what makes one different from the other.

***************

This sermon is about agenda-free advice.

During the past couple months I've been doing a lot of reading about the subject. By "a lot of reading" I mean "I've skimmed the better part of a book."

For me, that's a lot of scholarship.

That's the reason I'm not a rabbi. Because a real rabbi knows that reading half a book is not being a scholar.

Still, now I am an expert in agenda-free advice.

First, I will define it. Then I will tell you where you can find it. Then I will tell you how to give it.

Then I will sit down.

***************

What It Is
Agenda-free advice is advice given by someone — an "advisor" — who has no direct investment in the advice. The advisor won't be helped or hurt substantially by your decision to accept or reject the advice.

The advisor wants to help, so there is that agenda. But the advisor seeks Tikun — your healing, your advancement, your improvement. The agenda driving the advisor is your agenda, not the advisor's agenda.

What's the opposite of agenda-free advice? Let's call it: "agenda-rich advice."

What might be the advisor's agenda?
A mentor of mine says: "After a business meeting I want the other person to think three things: 1. That I'm smart. 2. That he or she likes me. And 3. That he or she feels vaguely uncomfortable because there is work to be done."

I love that description of agenda-rich advice. It's when the advisor wants to do more than help. The advisor wants to move you toward a mutual agenda.

Sometimes the agenda-rich advice is an attempt to make you more like the advisor.

That's not bad. It can be quite good.

But it isn't agenda-free advice.
Agenda-free advice doesn't want to make you into someone else. Agenda-free advice wants you to be more authentic. Like that midrash about Louie arriving in heaven and apologizing for not being more like Moses. The gatekeeper says, "But the goal was not for you to be more like Moses. The goal was for you to be more like Louie."

That's shuvah. Returning. Returning to authenticity. Returning to who you are.

Agenda-free advice is when the advisor has only your agenda in mind — and the advice is pure, purely in service to you. Then the advisor walks away, with no ownership in your next steps.

Where can you find agenda-free advice?
I have found it in only two places.

Round Trip

Several years ago, I was sightseeing in the beloved Negev Desert. Our group had paused in a heavily visited wadi — where passers-by had left thousands of cigarette butts.  

Disappointed by the litter, I asked our Israeli tourguide, "Why doesn't Israel do something about all this litter?"

He looked down at the mess, as if he'd never really seen it before. "Litter?" he asked. "Right. We should do something about it. And it's on our list. But there are other things we have to get done first. Litter is not at the top of the list."

That's easy enough to understand. Higher up on the agenda are the existential challenges.

Same Here
My commute downtown this morning isn't the Mideast Peace Challenge.

But there are many expectations of me and I'm favoring the existential ones.

You see, I'll be on a bicycle.

What Expectations?
The law, the automobile drivers, and — especially — the local bicyclists who advocate for mutual respect on the road want me to stay in the street, on the right, and stop at traffic lights and (I suppose) stop signs.

They want me to follow all the laws as if I were driving a car.

Even Doug Morgan gives me disapproving puppy-lawyer eyes when I ask if he really thinks I need to follow the traffic laws. "What you are doing is, of course, wrong," said Doug when I described my standard bicycling procedures, which are indeed, of course, wrong. 

What I'm Doing
I ride guided by the following priorities, in order of my obedience:

1. Maximize my personal safety and the safety of others.
2. Obey traffic laws.

The traffic laws are important, but — with the order of my priorities — I will always choose personal safety and that of others over traffic laws.

Some Laws Were Made For Obeying
I hereby promise to follow the laws of physics: gravity, centrifugal force, momentum, and center of balance.

I also promise to follow the laws of etiquette. I will stop, dismount, and walk my bike whenever I am anywhere near a pedestrian. That's just simple courtesy. I will signal my intentions to all.

But Some Laws Might Get Me Killed (This Morning).
The law that I ride in the street might get me killed.

We all know how distracted drivers (including me) can be. 

The clearest view of this sad state of affairs is from the handlebars of a bicycle. About half of all drivers are surprised to see me, because they are erstwhile occupied with sipping, tuning, reading, navigating, texting, singing, thinking, eating, picking, and — oh, yes, with whatever cranial capacity remains — operating a one-ton assembly of steel, rubber and glass.

I have almost been struck by several cars, driven by people who either never saw me or lost their momentary focus on my safety. (In their list of priorities, I am not much higher than "3. Don't drive over the dead skunk.")

(For more on automotive safety, read Malcolm Gladwell on automotive safety.)

Where People Are Killed
I once told our kids, when they were playing near the street, the following statistics as quickly I made them up:

 

Ninety-five percent of kids killed by cars are killed in the street. Five percent are killed in the first 10 feet of the lawn or on the driveway. None of them are killed when they are upstairs in the house.

Where I am on my bike has a lot to do with the probability of survival. 

You will find me on the sidewalk. Or in intersections that are empty, even if I am crossing against a signal, if that's what is safest for me. 

I live a fairly legal life. Feel free to call me inconsistent. I also teach ethics. Feel free to call me an annoying fraud.

Not Yet Enough

I'm not sorry. Not about this. 

The recently publicized scandal at News International — about hacking phones and bribing police — has drawn an official letter of apology from News Corporation's Chairman and CEO, Rupert Murdoch.

But his apology falls short. An apology requires certain technical aspects. (For those, read here.)

What's Missing?
Mr. Murdoch doesn't take the step to the first-person singular. He's apologizes on behalf of the corporation, which is appropriate, but like Oedipus, he seems unaware of his own actions.

Perhaps he's avoiding legal exposure. O.K. But, until he apologizes for his personal actions — encouraging phone hacking and bribing police — he hasn't fully apologized.

And he certainly hasn't demonstrated that he's not currently continuing the same behavior.

Oh, he's sorry, all right.
He's sorry. And his ethics — manifest during decades of tasteless, blindly ambitious media, encouraged to break stories at any cost — are especially sorry. 

But he seems only sorry that his flunkies were caught.

Tattoo, redo

Last month's post on tattoos received more views and more responses than any other post ever on Net Cotton Content.

Why?

It's a topic that is like a tattoo.
Positions are taken seriously, for the long term. It's a matter of judgement: everyone reserves their own, and doesn't like being judged by others. It's at the heart of self-expression and our democracy is (partly) based on our freedom of expression.

The responses — which came by every form of social media, including the phone and in person —  were caring. People care about this topic. It must be important.

On all sides of the issue, some folks were contemplative, some regretful, some disgusted (by tattoos or me).

Some folks didn't like my being judgmental.
I appreciate not liking — and well know the feeling of — being judged negatively. But judgement is how we navigate. And the spice of life (until it turns despotic) is our disagreements.

Still, my advocacy against tattoos was truly offensive to some readers. Perhaps because the tattoo is truly the color of skin, my comments seemed (to a few readers) conceptually discriminatory.

What now?
I'm not going to rebut any of the critical comments. I've had my say and will stick to the original post, even though I have been taught much by readers in the interim.

There are a lot of fine tattoo blogs out there, I'm sure. This isn't one of them. 

However, to be fair, here is a thoughtful, opposing point of view for your enjoyment. This appears on Facebook by Johnalan Norris, in a point-for-point rebuttal to my post. (Thanks, Fred and Johnalan.)

Here's his entire, unedited response:

1. Time: Most Americans make time to watch crap like 3 1/2 Men, so we have plenty of time to get a tattoo.
2. Better use of money? Who are you to judge what's a good use of my money? To get a tattoo you have to go somewhere local. Tattoos can never be outsourced. You're keeping a business open in your town. That might be worth the $200 (which this guy is just guessing at, I've seen nice tattoos that were done for under $50, but I have also seen ones that must have been well over $1000)
3. He's basically saying that he's going to judge me by some old standard that hates tattoos. Tattoos have been viewed positively by different cultures for quite a while. In fact, the reason they're looked down on is because sailors came back to Europe with them. Dirty, filthy, poor, uneducated sailors. The aristocracy was just shocked and appalled. Then they were told about the native savages whose bodies were covered in tattoos. That's right, I'm saying tattoo hate is tied with racism and classism.
4. People choose their own tattoos. Many people design their own, or work with the artist to design it.
5. I'll actually agree with this one. Tattoos are permanent. You need to be sure you really like Bugs Bunny before you get his face put on you forever.
6. I had no control over my nose, my face, etc. Maybe I want something that I had a say in to be part of how I look.
7. People get tattoos for many different reasons, not just to make a message. This guy seems to think that everything everybody else does is directed at him, personally. Not everything I do is for or about you. Maybe you're just some guy.
8. He's just repeating point 6
9. a) Who thinks that chewing off a finger is a good idea? b) Who doesn't know that would make it bleed? c) A tattoo doesn't do any real physical damage to your body, so the comparison just doesn't work.
10. Missing the point of a tattoo. Sometimes a shirt isn't enough. I have a tshirt from the lunch counter I worked at in college. To I regulate my strongest beliefs to the level of that place?
11. Point 5 again
12. He's telling me what I should or shouldn't do? Is he my father? I thought he was outlining the points on why you shouldn't get a tattoo. Reason number 12 of why not: because, that's why.
13. Yes, many people regret it. I regret a lot of things. But not really. If you like who you are at all, you must accept that it was your life experiences that made you that way, good and bad.
14. Here's point 5 again, again.
15. Blood diseases are EXTREMELY rare, especially if you go to any reputable tattoo parlor. Many states regulate the sanitation of tattoo needles and equipment. The Red Cross needs to update their standards. They also don't want blood from gay people, so take that into consideration.
16. Even people with tattoos will say this one. Sit on the idea for a while. Really consider it. In a lot of better parlors, you'll sit with the artist and discuss what you want weeks before you actually get your ink done. 

If you want more, you can see other comments posted on the Facebook appearance of the post.

 

Questions We Must Ask Ourselves

Oh, you don't have to ask yourself any questions, I suppose.

But there are some questions — the biggest ones — that the world won't ask you. You are left to ask yourself these questions. Or they might just go unanswered.

I'm going to ask these questions of a lot of people.
You can leave your answers as a comment here. (Menacing legal note: by leaving a comment here, you permit me to include your words, with attribution, in any eventual publication.)

Then, I'm going to write a book to encourage more asking.

For now, here's a page you can carry into the woods or post in your cubicle.

The title question — "What is the greatest thing in the world?" — was a first-day-of-class ice-breaker annually asked by John Detrick, my high school geometry teacher. He just wanted to get to know the students and was usually surprised that the question had not been previously considered.
 

 

 

We know not why we are doing.

Finkelman showed this to me in his office on Finkelman Friday.

So, What's This About?
Oddly, this is about everything.

It's about all of us, because it's about human behavior.

Dan Ariely on Irrational Behavior.
By "irrational behavior," I mean, of course, "your and my behavior."

Could be buying bread and milk in the grocery in the afternoon. Could be getting a tattoo at night. (Because Dan is a survivor of third-degree burns over 70 percent of his body, there is some aspect of Skin Deep here, too.)

I'm going to read Dan's books.
He's brilliant in a plain-spoken and engaging way. Or so I think, through all my irrationality.

You be the judge. You might be somewhat less irrational than I. I hope so.

Here's Dan Ariely.