Lessons Learned

In my lifetime I have been places, seen things and met people.  When, as I have, one spends time among men who have chosen a life of action, one encounters some interesting personalities.  I have known soldiers and sailors and cops and real estate sales professionals.  All have their stories.  And it’s the stories that count.  As wisdom is gained, the sage listener learns to cull the cream from the crap.  So many stories told by self-described men of the world have the ring of made-for-television movie plots. Some, if one knows what to listen for, are much repeated legends altered in detail to suit the ego of the raconteur. At age twenty, we all have a naivety for such drama.  By forty, we begin to realize that if everyone who claims to have been there had, there wouldn’t be enough stretcher bearers to carry out the dead.

Rarely, luckily, one stumbles on the real deal; the guy who was there. The guy! In my case, I had the great fortune over several years to be in audience when Armadillo was holding court in some dimly lit dive bar or presiding over a late-night meeting under the low-sodium glare of a Winchell’s parking lot.

Armadillo (pronounced Arr-maw-dee-o, except in Texas where it’s Arr-mah-dill-ah) is the moniker I assign to a great adventurer.  I’m not even sure I was ever privy to his real name.  But he held himself out as a member of the clandestine services; sometimes patriot; sometimes mercenary; sometimes entrepreneur.  He had always been in the thick of the hot spot of the day. And the stories he did tell.  Most men would blush to report such wild adventures knowing they did not display the aura that accompanies such credentials.

While Armadillo’s stories were wild and wooly, challenging the credulity of his audience, he always finished each one with a lesson learned, as if it were a homily for survival. I would never presume to relate his stories.  They belong to him.  The rest of us have not earned the right.  But I believe it to be a duty of honor to pass along the wisdom he shared.

So today, I offer you what I can remember of his lessons.  I don’t know where he is presently but I’m sure it’s somewhere the bullets are flying or the daggers are being bared. And I know he’ll survive because of the lessons learned.

·         A pistol in the waistband is worth an arsenal in the trunk.

·         Sometimes the cause of death is a failure to accurately calculate probabilities.

·         The dark side of the moon isn’t, sometimes perspective should be ignored.

·         Self-worth carries no collateral, achievement increases personal capital.

·         Practice, practice, practice.

·         A flat tire is the result of a hole and gravity working in concert, the trick is to know which can be fixed and which must be lived with.

·         The single most missed luxury commodity when abroad is American toilet paper.

·         Peanut butter is a nutritionally balanced meal.

·         The perceived interest displayed by a woman is most likely inversely related to the actual interest generated by a woman.

·         Stainless steel isn’t.

·         Thirty rolls of toilet paper, in a household of one, will last four to six months, give or take, dependent on the fiber content of the local cuisine.

·         A tattoo makes a body instantly identifiable, surviving loved ones appreciate that.

·         Practice some more.

·         Fire fighters have counter-intuitive logic; who else runs into a burning building?

·         One roll of toilet paper carried afield will last one day less than the duration of the deployment.

·         If you can see them, they’ve probably been watching you for some time.

·         Identify the most talented sniper in the theater, buy him a drink, and make him your friend.

·         The memory you carry of a woman improves over time, or worsens; honestly speaking.

·         Trade your pemmican for beef-jerky before the newbies learn what pemmican is.

·         Never plan for a cold drop in an Indian Casino! Never!

·          .45acp… because shooting twice is just silly.

·         Job one; take care of your feet.

·         Floss daily, brush often.

·         Just when a woman tells you that you’re the man she’s always been looking for is time to get lost.

·         I don’t know which is worse; a skittish helicopter pilot, or a confident one.

·         If you want a volunteer, ask a fire fighter.

·         Never put off until tomorrow what you can get someone else to do today.

Cats or Dogs?

“There are two kinds of people in the world, those who believe there are two kinds of people in the world and those who don’t” – Robert Benchley

“There are three kinds of people in the world: those that can count and those that can’t.” – Anon.

It has oft been said that there are two kinds of people in the world; cat people and dog people. There are some that would argue one can feel equal affection or aversion to both species of domesticated critter but they will get no consideration here.

We have all been acquainted with an eccentric aunt or crazy neighbor who has an excessive retinue of feline friends oft referred to by the owner as “family”. They are generally somewhat retiring and reclusive in their habits. In extreme cases, the cats may be dressed in theme costume and use to play out some elaborate historical pageant. Upon learning of such a relation’s demise and that we were lucky enough to fall heir to the dearly departed’s home we offer, “Eew!”

 Our lives have probably been enriched as well by the committed dog enthusiast. They are never satisfied with one or two, but must own a pack.  It is not unusual to encounter a dog lover that has a breed affinity that ups their price and lowers their likely longevity due to in-breeding. Some take the opposite extreme and companion up with a tea-cup this or that which is destined to spend its life being carried around in an oversized purse that in bygone day was referred to as a courier’s satchel. I believe these are really cat people but cannot stomach the litter box regimen. And let us not ignore the little beasties that ride in the crook of their all-to-macho owners elbow as he motors his Ford F-.250 down the avenue (off-road edition, of course).

Yes, ours is a culture that clearly defines itself by pet affiliation.  This started my wondering about other cultures and how their relationships with furry friends might render some clue as to their philosophy.

In provinces in south-eastern China some people consider cat flesh a good warming food during winter months. It is estimated that around four million cats are eaten in China every year. However, in northern China eating cat is not considered acceptable. With absolutely no data to judge the tension generated by such a cultural divide, I speculate this could be the undercurrent that forces a future civil war. Or perhaps the neighboring Mongols have trapped all of the cats for use as tent material.

Native Americans encountered by Lewis’ and Clark’s Corps of Discovery offered the explorers dog meat as a delicacy.  It is reported by Stephen Ambrose in his biography of Meriwether Lewis, Undaunted Courage (Simon & Schuster, 1996) that various tribes offered to trade for Capt. Lewis’ Newfoundland Dog, Seaman, with culinary intent. Capt. Lewis declined the offers in favor of canine affection.  There is no opinion stated that said attempts at barter had any bearing on Capt. Lewis’ eventual suicide.

While the southern Chinese enjoy cat and the western Indians (American) preferred dog, the rural Swiss are more liberal in their epicurean pursuits and delight in the consumption of both kittens and puppies. I would offer that this practice of inclusiveness demonstrates the strong commitment to neutrality that defines Switzerland’s long-held political philosophy.

So how do you see yourself? Are you a cat lover of a dog fancier?  Let us know.  And if you have a favorite recipe you would like to share, you have my e-mail! 

 

 

The Chicken or the Egg?

We have all heard, if not used, the phrase, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”  Now don’t waste your time going down that thought trail because I’m going to give you the answer in the next paragraph. The question is an example of causality dilemma where the parameters of one state (i.e. the chicken) require the existence of the other state (i.e. the egg) and vice versa.  It is a philosophical conundrum employed to force an examination of creation.  That may have been acceptable to Third Century B.C. thinkers but in the era of modern genetic understanding, the answer is non-debatable.

“So Dale,” you ask, “which did come first?”

“Why,” I respond, “the egg!” To which, after the shock has passed you ask, “Well, who then laid the egg?”

The Proto-chicken!

Now you are wondering just what the heck is he rambling on about? You’ve been to Colonel Sanders’ (aka KFC for you post Baby Boomers), Knott’s Berry Farm, maybe Popeye’s and, if you’re very brave or very lost, even Church’s Fried Chicken.  But you have never seen Proto-chicken on the menu.  “Is it a special non-posted menu item available only to those in the loop?” you ask.

We’re going to take a stroll down science lane now so try to keep up and don’t touch the exhibits. Every animal (or plant or fungus, for that matter) has a genetic fingerprint that is totally unique. Members of a specific species have certain DNA characteristics in common which separate them from other species. These characteristics are passed from generation to generation and may result in evolutionary modification over time forced by competition for food or other survival factors.  Advantages gleaned from advanced evolution allowing members of a species to outperform lesser adapted members eventually allow the better developed to supplant their less fortunate cousins.  This is known as natural selection and is not what we are interested in for this discussion.

Occasionally, a genetic mutation occurs that results not in a better shrew, but a whole new bunny rabbit.  What triggers these mutations is open for debate. But such alterations are not due to changes happening in the living animal, they are the result of some alteration to the DNA within the female’s reproductive supply, i.e. eggs. When some environmental force “damages” the chromosome record in an animal’s ova so much that the resulting offspring is considered a unique species, we call this catastrophic evolution. Once an animal is conceived by fertilization, its DNA does not change. The change yielding a new species occurs in the chromosomes of the mother’s eggs.

Therefore, the first chicken emerged from an egg laid by a pre-DNA altered bird, or proto-chicken, if you will. Now you have acquired a new bit of esoteric knowledge with which you can dazzle you friends at your next cocktail party.  But I’ll bet, if you imbibe, that the answer to the question will be that time honored punch-line, “the Rooster!”

A Tale of Abandonment and Woe

 

An elderly lady entered the neighborhood pet store and addresses the proprietor, “I’m an old lady who lives alone.  I’m very lonely.  I thought it would be nice to have a bird that talks just so there’s a voice to hear.”

“Well lady,” the owner replied, “Right now I have only one parrot that can talk.  But he was previously owned by an old sea captain and his language is somewhat blue.  He might not be what you’re looking for.”

But the old matron persisted, “My children live all over country. They never call.  They never visit.  I haven’t seen my grandchildren in two years.  All of my close friends have passed on.  I just want to hear a human voice, even if it’s a bird.”

The pet shop owner was moved to tears, he relented with one caveat, “I’ll sell you the parrot, mother, but I have to warn you, no matter what he says, I cannot take him back.  If you buy him and are disappointed, it’s your problem.” With that, the two completed the transaction. The shop owner placed a drape over the cage and the old woman trundled on home, hopeful that her new pet would relieve the crushing loneliness.

When she got home, she set the cage on the dining room table and removed the covering.  The bird immediately came to life, “Squawk, show me your tits lady!” The prudish old lady was shocked.  She picked up a magazine and rapped on the cage, “How dare you use such profane language.”

The parrot answered, “Squawk, show me your tits lady!”

She was incensed, “I’ll teach you, you rude devil!” She ran into the kitchen, retrieved a glass of water and threw it on the bird that in turn fluffed his plumage and repeated, “Squawk, show me your tits lady!”

She couldn’t stand the foul fowl’s abusive outburst.  In an attempt to teach the rancid beast a lesson in manners, she opened the door to the cage, reached in and grabbed the parrot by its feet.  She carried it upside down into the kitchen, beat its head against the counter and shoved the offending critter in the freezer.

 After ten minutes, she considered the bird had suffered enough.  She retrieved the parrot and set it on the counter where it shivered from its imprisonment in the ice box.  “What do you have to say now, you evil bird?

“Squawk! What d-d-did the chi-chi-chicken do? Ask f-f-for a b-b-b-blowjob?”

Why Women Dance

“Do you wanna dance?” The use of this question presumes a man has overcome all of the anxieties associated with making a new social contact. No matter how cool he is trying to be, one can still detect the signs of nervous apprehension; darkened armpits, trembling lip, forced eye-contact, lack of eye-contact, non-sequitor conversational gushes. The well adjusted female, wily in her use of body language, ceases the chewing of her gum for a beat, tilts her head coyly, twirls her index finger up in her tresses, smiles and responds, “Sure!” Tempted to translate these gestures into signals of sexual interest, the wizened man recognizes the true meaning: “I’ll dance with anyone just to separate myself from the wallflowers so don’t get any ideas, bub.”

Let’s face it, women love to dance.  This being well established, the question is why?  I don’t know.  I don’t know anything about what goes on in a woman’s mind. If you are a regular reader of these missives, you (should) have by this time recognized that I have a pretty high opinion of my ability to assess human motivations.  This is not true for women.  They are a species unto themselves (be sure to see next week’s post) and defy rational understanding.

Lest you foster the opinion that I dislike women, let me assure you.  I love women.  They are infinitely more interesting than men.  They smell better (if you can get past, “Hey, don’t stand so close, bub!  There’s plenty of room in here for everybody.”) They are certainly more pleasing to look at. And perhaps most of all, they don’t drag you into foolish testosterone fueled agility competitions that result in emergency room visits that you now wish you had included in your health insurance coverage.

Women are the reason men exist, both biologically and aspirationally (I may have made this word up… it’s happened before… hey, Brenda, do you remember “morphodite”?).  If it weren’t for your mother your biological self would be, well let’s say non-conceived just to be delicate.  And if it weren’t for the aspirational (spell check didn’t like it in this form either), you would spend all of your time eating, jumping off of things and sitting in the waiting room at the ER. Women save us from a life of obesity and pain.

I recall from my youth the Sunday evening dances sponsored by the parish CYO (that’s Catholic Youth Organization for you heathens).  We sponsored a battle of the bands competition to identify who would be the regular performers at these soirees. They were all terrible. I can understand why Jim Morrison would have drunk himself to death if he knew how his songs were being butchered.

It takes some effort to engage in the pubescent ballet of sexual awakening in the same room that last school year was your lunch room. The scent of peanut butter and Fritos overwhelmed the English Leather cologne your godmother had bought you for Junior High graduation.

Just last year, these girls were all makeup free and wearing knee-length plaid skirts and white blouses.  Now they were making up for lost time. Maybelline was raking in record profits as these newly liberated fillies plastered on mascara with a brick-layer’s trowel. Sleeveless dresses exposed arms with countless freckles. High heel pumps (all two inches) replaced saddle oxfords.  And the “House of the Rising Sun” reverberated off of the concrete block walls with such volume that our retinas were surely displaced. At least these bands played a lot of slow songs (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

When the summer ended I began the next chapter of my education at the local public high school. The culture shock that I experienced still influences my perception of the world today. Students addressed the teachers while seated!  The cliques from the local feeder public junior high schools were transplanted intact.  You were an insider, or you were invisible. The school had a cafeteria (actually, food service windows providing victuals to students in an outdoor quad), but I still brown bagged.

But the most interesting phenomenon was the school dances.  As they were held in the basketball gym, attendees were required to remove their shoes before advancing to the dance floor. The lights were turned down low; hubba, hubba. The bands were marginally better if exponentially louder. And the girls! From a pool of twenty the year before, I could cast my net into a sea awash with hundreds of women (almost).  And how did the fair sex handle this freedom?  They all stood around the perimeter of the dance area in their respective cliques, gossiping; staring daggers at any boy who had the audacity to inquire as to their desire to cut a rug!  It’s not like these people could possibly know me by reputation.

And now, women have the audacity to ask, “Why don’t you want to dance?”  

A Bonus 

 

Dale Holbrook’s Survival Guide: Tip One

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Repeat as necessary.

Why Men Dance

“Do you wanna dance?” A question guaranteed to strike fear in the heart of any red-blooded, American male.

The other day I was having a conversation with a female friend of mine and the conversation turned to leisure time activities.  She mentioned that she often enjoyed going dancing with her girl friends. We agreed that women do, as a general rule, like to dance and are less than particular with whom. They will dance with men, acquaintances or strangers, women, groups of people or by themselves. That is because women dance for the sake of dance, no other motivation is needed.

You can dance, every dance

With the guy who gave you the eye

Let him hold you tight.

You can dance, every dance

With the man who held your hand

In the pale moonlight

But don’t forget who’s takin’ you home

And in whose arms you’re gonna be.

So darling, save the last dance for me! 

Men, conversely, hate to dance. They instinctively know how foolish they look trying to move in rhythm to music for which they have no affinity.  Well, this applies to straight men anyway.  Gay men dance (not that there’s anything wrong with that) to the beat of a different drummer which is apparently out of the auditory range of the straight guy. None the less, straight men dance.  Why would this be?

Oh I know, that the music’s fine

Like sparkling wine

Go and have your fun.

Laugh and sing

But while we’re apart

Don’t give your heart to anyone.

Cause don’t forget who’s takin’ you home

And in whose arms you’re gonna be.

So darling, save the last dance for me! 

My friend agreed, when pressed for an explanation as to why men willingly, even eagerly engage in an activity they find so inherently repugnant: Men dance to get women (she is so delicate in her use of language; you or I would have made reference of the mechanics of avian reproduction).  And thus we have defined the underlying motivation for rhythmic gesticulation among the males of the species.

Baby don’t you know I love you so?

Can’t you feel it when we touch?

I will never, never let you go.

I love you oh so much!

 “So what,” you ask, “of cultures where men readily embrace the rhythm and dance, dance, dance?”  I offer you these explanations:

In aboriginal cultures, dance ritual is closely tied to nature based religious ceremony.  And what is the purpose?  To ensure fertility!

Slavic and Mediterranean men participate in traditional group dancing. Why? Their liquor is not strong enough to dull their senses to the extent needed to perceive their women as attractive.

Scots, sporting the traditional kilt in cooler northern hills, need to get the blood flowing before retiring to the bridal chamber.

Pacific Islanders?  Okay, you might have me here.  Maybe there are mosquitoes in the grass skirts! But mosquitoes can’t mate unless gorged on blood.

From the time a young man first slips off his Converse All-Stars in the Junior High gym to the day he breaks his hip at his grand-niece’s wedding, it’s all about the mating ritual.

You can dance, go carry on

‘Til the night is gone

And it’s time to go.

If he asks, “If you’re all alone,

Can he walk you home?”

You must tell him no.

‘Cause don’t forget who’s takin’ you home

And in whose arms you’re gonna be.

So darling, save the last dance for me!

Mmmm-mmm-mmm!

Save the last dance for me. 

Addendum

The following e-mail message was issued to members of my blog notification list on the occasion of my 1,000^th page read, occurring May 13^th.  If you wish to be added to the notification list, send me an e-mail ( dale.holbrook@sbcglobal.net -or- daleholbrookoutwest@gmail.com ).

Mon, May 13, 2013 5:16:53 PM

Yes! Yes! Yes... er, no...

From:	Dale Holbrook <dale.holbrook@sbcglobal.net> View Contact
To:

---

...you are not being treated to an extra post this week. I just wanted to share (hmm, never occurred to me that you might not be interested) that I experienced my 1,000th page read this afternoon (5/13/13) at 4:30 PDT. That's 2130 Zulu (? if I did the math right) for you mil heads out there.

Some interesting facts:

There have been sixteen posts in total. The most hits went to the first real story, "The Great Potato Excursion" (2/2/13) with fifty-three followed closely by "...and Taxes" (4/11/13) with fifty; which had nothing to do with taxes but quite by coincidence was posted four days before our national filing date. I wonder if I just happened to pick up some hits by people using a crappy search engine who were desperate for last minute advice... oh, well!

The ignominious distinction of fewest hits is shared by "Leap Day" (4/4/13) and "A Sticky Test" (4/18/13) with 12 each; two of my favorites.

Although 788 hits have occurred in the USA, I have a truly international audience, including but not limited to:

Germany (friends of Nicky)

Mexico (friends of Chris)

New Zealand (friends of Frank)

Russia

Latvia

Romania (communist friends of Brenda?) 

I want to thank all of you for indulging my ego-trip but specifically; Nick for helping me navigate the roiling waters of blog-site opportunities; Brenda for recognizing that I am a writer, not a blogger; and Tinkerbelle for pushing me over the inertia hump to get this thing started.

No, I am not taking the week off to celebrate; I am in the midst of a brain fever readying this week's submission... stand by! 

The Big Pffft!

This submission is about Cosmology. Guys wait, don’t close this post!  Cosmology is not a course offered at the local beauty college; it is the study of the beginning of time and the physical nature of the universe.  Girls wait, don’t close this post! If you finish this article and can send me an e-mail containing the secret word of the day revealed at the end, I will send you a free bottle of nail polish.

In 1929, Edwin Hubble (preeminent American astronomer 1889-1953) was taking pictures of space with the 100 inch Hooker telescope located atop Mt. Wilson in Los Angeles’ San Gabriel mountains.  What he discovered was the most important contribution to science since Copernicus had delivered the heliocentric model of our solar system in the sixteenth century.  Which, in turn was the most important contribution to man’s thirst for knowledge since beer.

Prior to Hubble’s work, our galaxy (named in honor of the most heavenly candy bar ever, the Milky Way) was thought to be the entire universe, containing everything we see in the night sky. His observations led to the realization that the numerous blurry smudges known as nebulae, heretofore thought to be interstellar gas clouds residing within the Milky Way, were in fact galaxies external to our own.  His work essentially rewrote the book on the size of the universe; it was expanded by magnitudes inconceivable to human experience. I would use numbers to illustrate this, but I’m afraid I would wear out my zero key.

As amazing as this discovery seems, it was only the first evolution of what Hubble’s continuing revelations offered us.  Using a technique known as spectroscopy and applying the principles of Doppler Effect he found the galaxies he had been photographing were red-shifted. No, that does not mean they were dressed in their most gay finery in anticipation of the Nobel awards ceremony. It demonstrated they were travelling away from us.  It was as if our galaxy had farted and all the others were trying to escape the stench!  The same was true in every direction Hubble turned his telescope. This phenomenon led to a singular conclusion; the universe was expanding, and at an amazing rate!

Well, scientists’ natures being what they are, they immediately began analyzing this new data.  I apologize in advance for the complexity of this next statement, but it seems that if you work in the opposite direction of a body’s line of travel, you will find the point at which the journey began.  Application of this technique to the flight paths of the aforementioned galaxies seemed to demonstrate that they all came from the same place. This in turn led to what we have come to call the “Big Bang Theory” which replaced the then widely held Steady State model.  The steady state model holds that the universe is, has and always will be the same size.

The Big Bang Theory, if you believe CBS, is a highly rated sitcom about a group of quirky but loveable nerds living in Pasadena and their growing retinue of female romantic partners.  I find it delightful.  Is it more than coincidence that Pasadena is in the shadow of Edwin Hubble’s tor of triumph, Mt. Wilson? But I digress.

The Big Bang Theory that we’re discussing here actually received it’s moniker from British Astronomer and Steady State Universe advocate Fred Hoyle during a 1949 BBC radio interview in which he was attacking the idea of a universe that began with a single event. According to Hoyle (who, to my knowledge knows nothing of the rules of popular card games), he was using the term as a descriptive rather than a pejorative in trying to describe the theory he rejected.

Pejorative or not, the Big Bang Theory has become the popular model for the formation of the universe as we see it today.  The theory holds that the entire universe; all energy, space, mass and time, were created by the expansion of a singularity, an infinitesimally small and dense point in… well, there is the rub. If there was no space or time before the expansion began, just where was this alleged singularity?

Singularity is defined by Webster’s New World Dictionary as the condition or quality of being singular; a unique, distinct, or peculiar feature or thing.  It is nice to know that I enjoy the same characteristics as the progenitor of the universe.

The theory proposes that this singularity, for reasons totally unknown, began to expand rapidly in a great release of energy. And the result of that continuing expansion is all of the energy and matter we see today and the space and time in which they reside. There are some problems reconciling the theory with observations.  Perhaps the most important is the flat universe. No, this is not a pancake house. The distribution of matter in the observable universe (keep in mind, we cannot see all the way back to the beginning of time, yet) is flat.  What we know of energy release (like an explosion) is that the force, and all of the matter carried along with it, is generally distributed in a uniform manner in all directions from the point of the energy release unless some other force interferes.  So, if there were no other forces or structures to influence the pattern of universal distribution, why is the Universe not a big ball?

Well, the staunch defenders of the Big Bang Theory would have you believe that a phenomenon they call inflation is responsible. At 10^-36 (that’s a really small number) seconds after expansion began, the process sped up until 10^-33 seconds when it slowed to a much more reasonable rate. If you blinked, you missed it. It seems very convenient for the theory of inflation that all of this occurred beyond the limit of our powers of observation. It does, if you believe the proponents, explain away several glitches in the Big Bang measurements but there is no empirical evidence. It also asks us to believe that for those few very, very, very brief nano-moments, the Universe expanded at a rate greater even than the speed of light. Hmm!

So what these learned men of science are asking us to believe is that unobservable data that applies only to this singular event that is inconsistent with to our understanding of the natural world is plausible because it makes their model of the creation of the universe work!

I don’t mean to be the skeptic, but it kind of sounds like religious dogma to me.  What do you think? 

 

“Platypus”

What's the Worst that Could Happen?

This is the first in an indeterminate number of volumes authored by Dale Holbrook (internationally renowned creator of the “So?” method of accountability avoidance) designed to help those afflicted with anxiety create a stress free life.

Many people suffer from stress in some aspect of their lives, be it at work, home or outside a pay toilet while wearing pants with no pockets.  In fact, I would venture to say, without any research data to back me up, that at some point in a lifetime every human being suffers anxiety about something.  And let me set your mind at ease.  You will never be able to eliminate the sources of stress in your life.  They are just going to keep hammering away at you from birth canal to sepulcher; day after day, year after year (and for those Hindus out there, lifetime after lifetime), relentless in their assault on your peace of mind.

Yes! Yes, you got it, because if you have no pockets, you have no change! Now back to the point.

First, some personal history; I learned at an early stage in my life (pre-alcohol, of course) that my personal reaction to stress was sleeplessness.  And as I love to sleep as I love living, it was obvious that I must find methods of driving the stress out of my life, or at least my perception of life.

This series of essays is intended to share my experiences in developing stress elimination techniques for my own use in hopes that it will offer you some guidance in building your own stress fighting arsenal. To keep it simple, and reduce the need for you to reconcile conflicting concepts, I will limit the content of these missives to one approach per.

The first is, and I know that those of you who have spent time with me will recognize this, “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Well, that’s it in a nutshell. Yeah, I guess that sums it up pretty nicely. But, as I write to boost my self-esteem (remember, you don’t pay to read these… so you owe me) and a writer’s self-esteem is measured by word count, I will continue.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” is predicated on the belief that most stress is induced by the need to make a decision; the more imminent and hazardous the event, the greater the stress level, but this approach works for trivial matters just as well.  Let me give you a somewhat contrived, albeit historically validated, example.

Let’s say you are taking a leisurely stroll through the Burmese jungle one afternoon, having left your 12 bore Howdah Double Rifle at the lodge because of its prohibitive weight and the dearth of suitable gun bearers due to a lackey labor-management dispute when unexpectedly you happen into sunlit clearing concurrently in the possession of a tiger. Suddenly, you notice your stress level leaps into the red zone.  Now those uninitiated into my techniques will immediately identify the tiger as the source of subject anxiety (or stress, if you will, but is this really the time to pick nits, your staring down a lethal killer and all?) But there you would be wrong.  The tiger is not the source of stress.  He is there and will decide on his course of action without regard to your needs, want and concerns. Your stress is one hundred percent driven by your need to make a decision as how to handle this all too common phenomenon.  Your choices would seem to be limited to: a) run like hell (GTFO in testosterone speak), or b) yell loud enough to strike fear into the heart of the beast (let’s face it, in the world of flight or fight, screaming like a little girl is likely to be as successful as any other defensive maneuver one could employ in this oft reported scenario) hoping he will opt to avoid conflict now in favor of finding a more cooperative meal in the future.

So then, to the application of my technique: Having identified the source of stress is your need to make a life affecting decision post haste, we turn our attention to the options and their likely outcomes upon implementation.  First, you could run for your life.  What’s the worst that could happen? Well, as we know that the large predatory mammals are genetically programmed to chase down and kill fleeing prey, the worst that could happen is you would die.  If you die, then what do you have to worry about?  Nothing, stress supplanted by recognition of one’s own fate.

Then what of option two?  You begin shouting and waving your arms in a threatening manner. The tiger is suitably annoyed by both the noise and your impudence in the face of a fifteen-hundred pound killing machine and he chooses to use you as a claw sharpening implement to allay his disgust at your pitiful behavior. What’s the worst that could happen? Once again, you would die. Then what would you have to worry about?  I think you are probably starting to understand the power of this stress elimination process.

There is yet another option. You could stand there whimpering (I’ll bet you are wishing you’d paid the extra money for the waterproof boots right about now) frozen to inaction. The tiger is moved to embarrassment by your girl-like display and leaves for another part of the jungle in hopes he can find one of his deer-eating buddies to share his new joke, “Did you hear the one about the hunter who wandered into the jungle without his Howdah?”