The Passion of The Failure

I’ve been thinking about failure a lot today.  Then I’ve been embracing it.  Giving it a big hug, and really, really appreciating big, messy failure.  All because of a 61-year-old lesbian in a Speedo.

This morning I woke up when my alarm blared at 4:59.  I always set my alarm one minute before 5am for some reason that I probably need to look into deeper during some enforced period of self-reflection involving smaller amounts of dairy in my diet and greater amounts of staring at a blank spot on the wall to really “live in the moment.”  As I do everyone morning, I stumbled down the stairs of my modest home and instinctively, as a modern digitally addicted adult does, hit the keyboard of my computer to break it’s black screen sleep.

I started scanning the news, thinking about whether or not to plunk down a couple of bucks for the daily Groupon, making sure all the e-mails I firmly wanted to ignore were systematically unhighlighted, and then I saw it.  Massive failure.  Diana Nyad was out of the water.

If you don’t live with a woman who masquerades that she is going on vacation really just so she can swim across a Great Lake then you might not really know Diana Nyad the way I know Diana Nyad.  Diana Nyad at the age of 60 was damned if age was going to lick her and shunned the idea of taking up golf and instead decided that swimming through shark infested waters without a literal or figurative net from Cuba to Florida was the thing to do.  She had distinguished herself in the past by doing things like swimming around Manhattan and stroking her arms through the sea for a full day, so a 103 mile swim wasn’t totally out of reach.

But when I heard about this feat from my wife, whose hero worship of Diana Nyad made me think she might leave me for a Speedo clad broad with impressive delts, I thought that the old lady was nuts.  Wacko.  Bonkers in the head.

And yet, this morning when I saw the news item pop up on my computer screen announcing the Diana Nyad had stopped her swim sometime during the night 29 hours into her trip to Florida I really almost cried.  Boy, had she failed.

I considered walking back up the stairs to my bedroom to wake my wife to tell her the news.  She had done the same for me when my idol Frank Sinatra had died (though she called me at 3am from Japan, somehow picking up the news before I had).  I sat taking the whole moment in and realized that this was going to be one of those intensely personal moments I needed to spend alone.  There was a noticeable deficit of dairy at that particular moment, and some real touchy-feeling staring at a spot on the wall going down, I can assure you.

Failure is something that has dogged me at many times in my life.  I’ve tried and failed at more things than I care to admit.  Many former girlfriends could attest to a series of failures.  A failed business is something I have as an interesting little conversation piece on my resume.  I cannot cook rice.  I am a complete failure at that simple cooking skill.  I am a guy who knows failure.

As I stared at that wall I began to very quickly have a love affair with failure.  Diana Nyad’s monumental failure had led me to this contra-victorious moment.  She had left it all on the mat, and despite the fact that she had made it less than half way towards her goal, she had spent 29 hours swimming though an ocean.  During that time period I had eaten a bowl of pasta changed my Netflix plan and struggled to find a clean pair of underwear in the clothes basket.  She may have failed, but I think she really won.

So for anyone who wishes to trash Diana Nyad, I am prepared to give you a knuckle sandwich.  That broad has balls.

What have we learned today?

First, I look great in a dress.

That's me as Edna in HAIRSPRAY with the marvelous kids of Pius XI High School.  I am so grateful that they hired an Equity Union Thug Actor like me to play along in their super talented playground.

That's one thing you can all say you learned today.  Congratulations.  Knowledge is good.

Another thing you learned today is that if you somehow misplace 14,000 votes in a contentious election during a historic period in your state's history it's best to say, "Ooops!  Sorry!" 

Chalk that up to another lesson learned.

Along those lines it's best to make that missing vote mistake in a county that favors the person who benefits from the late discovery of your mix up because you're in an elected position so that means you might get some heat when you go on television to apologize but you'll still have a job the next morning because the good people of your community elected you into your position and so you will be around for a while more at least.

Lesson numero sixteen or seventeen (I've lost track) is that the fact that the Federal government very possibly might be shut down in 24 hours is not the lead story in your community when those 14,000 votes pop up out of the blue.

That's an important lesson, indeed.  Oh, and another bit of learning in the air is that some people love Planned Parnethood and other people don't and sometimes that is enough to possibly shut down the Federal government.

Perhaps the most important lesson of the day, however, is to always take a sweater with you when you leave home during April in Wisconsin.  It might be the only thing that we all can agree upon.  That and the fact that I am a sweet piece of ass as a lady.

Modern Romance

Here is the view from my bedroom.  Hot, right?

This is the eve of the Spring election in Wisconsin and my wife and I have decided to head to the sack for the night.  With our laptops, of course.

Isn't my bride a hottie?  That's her behind the laptop...I'm sure you can see her, right?

It's true that in my house over the past few months, things have gotten really steamy.  Hot.  Turgid. 

We've become political junkies, and the picture of our boudoir is one that has become fairly regular.  Hot.  Let me repeat, hot. (Laptops really do get warm.)

I'm contemplative now as I watch our new County Executive Chris Abele give his victory speech.  I am considering something that Chris told me time and time again as he advised me as a former Board member and major contributor to my late great theatre company Bialystock & Bloom:  UNDER PROMISE AND OVER DELIVER (I might not have listened as soundly as I should have or it might not have been a former, okay).  I wish anyone who chooses to become a public servant (and that's what I think Chris has just officially become tonight) a great deal of good vibes.  Speaking as a public person to our public servants we all have put our faith in to lead, I hope all our winners tonight do that UNDER PROMISE AND OVER DELIVER kind of thing in a big way.  Dazzle me with surprises. 

Also, I think it is important to acknowledge that our new County Executive has really well made suits and will look great shaking Lee Holloway's hand.

As for the hottness in my bedroom, there is a lot of clicking and clacking going on.  I just got to scratch my wife's back, so that's kind of cool, but the discovery of Twitter from my better half has ratcheted up the romance in ways I had never considered when we tied the knot.  160 characters at a time, of course.

A Short List of Trivialities

1. Today I woke up thinking I was voting for one guy, and decided to vote for another guy. Research is good. Sorry, Pedro.
2. In the past month I have decided it is important to not spend my money in places or on people that give me the hives. Why did I need to be 40 to understand this?
   
3. Discount Liquor is good for so many things. Especially pretzels at the checkout for kids you drag into the liquor store.
4. I have no use for creeps. None. That means you.
   
5. I am concerned that the legs that I shaved for dramatic purposes over three weeks ago are not as hairy as I thought they would be by now.
6. You should never serve lunch at a five-year-old's party. Snacks, yes. Lunch, no.
7. I'm a Mac, definitely not a PC.
8. Many women I know chose the small serving bowl when the large one is the better choice.
9. I'm reading a book that irritates me so much because it actually got published that I think it will be the thing that causes me to finally finish my languishing book project.
10. Feed The Dragon is a game similar to bean bag toss, I created it, I designed it, and it is the most awesome game in the world (you'll have to ask for pictures if you really want to see it.)
11. I think the Brewers season opener is a clear indicator of the rest of their season and reason for me to breath a sigh of relief that I will once again be ignoring baseball in Milwaukee this year.
12. Kids today. They are smarter, more talented and prettier than we were back in the day. Must be the iPad.
    
13. When I am stuck in a writing purgatory, posting lists of trivialities on my blog is a good release (sorry).

Listen...that's the sound of the great American lame-o

In the past week I have had many doors slammed in my face as I canvassed neighborhoods looking to recall a Republican State Senator, told that my "friends" in Madison, WI are a bunch of thugs, and given a lesson in economics by a very good friend who happens to have a Ron Johnson for US Senate and Leah Vukmir for State Senate bumper sticker on his car.

Tough week, right? The tears are rolling down my cheeks? I'm biting my pillow and not coming out of my room?

No, no. I'm just doing what dear old dad taught me so wisely to do. Smile.

I should elaborate on this a bit. My dad once gave me a very fine phrase that I come back to again and again. It's pretty simple, but sometimes those simple things prove to be the most effective. Ready? Get your pencils out. Here it is:

"The best way to say fuck you is with a smile on your face."

Pretty nice, huh? I imagine you're smiling now, too. My pop's smart little credo is a lesson in negotiation and reason. The smile is not easily mounted on your face. Far from it. What it requires is listening and a real ability to keep your mouth shut when it is best to keep your mouth shut.

I jot this thought down after watching a short clip of a Town Hall meeting led by U.S. Represenative Jim Sensenbrenner and State Senator Leah Vukmir. If you live in the state of Wisconsin, or, better yet, reside in Wauwatosa, I'm sure you've heard that Sensenbrenner shut the meeting down after folks in the audience were vocally challenging everything that came out of Vukmir's mouth.

Vocally challenging is a pretty kind statement. They were crawling up her ass--let's face facts.

I must first admit that Jim Sensenbrenner has struck me as a blow hard wind bag ever since I saw him speak when I attended something called the Hugh O'Brien Youth Leadership Seminar back in my squeaky clean teen years. (It was nerd camp held in a motel focused on making nerds leaders. You can be the judge of whether or not Mr. O'Brien, a B-list movie and television star, got his propers with me or not.) I will also claim to believe that Leah Vukmir is a fairly incapable public servant and is probably in office now more because she possessed an unbelievable amount of yard signs in the last election than because of any capability or leadership qualities.

I am not fans of either of these elected officials. And this is precisely why I wish to say "fuck you" with a smile on my face.

I mention this, and I know that some of my activist friends think this is a wimpy thing to do, because witnessing a five minute video online of the end of the Sensenbrenner/Vukmir meeting last night, I really kind of wish all the people who were angry in that meeting (believe me, I own that anger right along with you) had zipped it a little more. Had Vukmir and Sensenbrenner continued to talk without interruption, the truth would have been abundantly clear: they are morons.

But morons can hide behind moments like this and say, "But there was no point going on, no one would listen to anything I was saying...blah, blah, blah, blah...more moron talk...blah, blah." I gotta give the morons of the world a point or two on that one. Vukmir didn't have a chance of finishing one sentence in that Town Hall meeting, and that is a shame. Had she been able to do so, today we would have had a full set of on-the-record statements to rip apart, refute, gnash or teeth over and ultimately use to say "fuck you."

Listening is hard. Very hard. (Hearing even more so, especially when you are a man like me and your wife can prove time and again that you suffer from a male pattern of hearing loss called Selecto Wifo Sayo--that's Latin, I think). My father reminds me in my head on an almost daily basis, that I shouldn't tell the asshole in front of me to kiss me where the sun don't shine, but to rise above, listen hard, and slam them good when the time comes.

The end of the video I watched as good men and women frustrated with the political scene in Wisconsin shuffled out of a community room in their neighborhood was filled with the increasingly familiar chant "THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE". Almost, folks. Almost. Democracy is about everyone having a voice. Even the ones who deserve a little "fuck you."

TAXES!! LOVE THEM!!

I found this old fourth grade essay I wrote years ago in some old clippings (okay, I'm lying to you, but I like the dramatic effect of that last statement) and thought I'd share it with you all today as we celebrate democracy and austerity with the presentation of a new two-year budget for the State of Wisconsin. Enjoy.

Why I Like Taxes
By Jon West

The title of my essay is why I like taxes and in this essay I will talk about why I like taxes.

Why I like taxes is because of many reasons. I like taxes because when I finish all the potato chips in the house and throw the bag in my garbage so nobody finds out I'm the person who finishes all the potato chips in the house the garbage man Bill comes to my house and takes away the garbage. He takes the potato chip bag away because taxes help him be a garbage man. This is one of the reasons I like taxes.

Why I also like taxes is because I was riding my bike to school and my front tire got flat one day because I rode over a big pot hole in the street and then later that week a man came and fixed the hole in the street so other kids wouldn't get flat tires on their bikes and that was because of taxes. I like taxes because of that reason.

You know why I like taxes? Let me tell you another reason why I like taxes. I like taxes because there was once a time when I left my football shoulder pads that really didn't fit me but were mine anyway and somebody came and stole them from my garage. Then a policeman named Officer Bob came and asked me all these questions and gave me a plastic policeman badge that was really cool and that I liked more than my shoulder pads so I didn't think about them no more. I like taxes because Officer Bob made me forget about my shoulder pads until he came to my house with them two days later, so that's one other reason why I like taxes because Officer Bob can do that for kids because of taxes.

Why I also like taxes is the reason that I am writing this essay and knowing that I am not so good a writer as a fourth grader but know that I will become a better writer as I grow older and become a fifth and sixth grader. I know that I like taxes because they will help pay Mrs. Tunney who is the really good fifth grade teacher who I really, really, really hope I get next year and I know she will teach me how I can write more better. I like taxes because they help me be smarter because of better teachers.

To end why I like taxes I can tell you that I like taxes because everyone pays taxes so it's something we all do together. It doesn't matter if you are rich or not rich because you get to pay taxes like everyone else and that is a good thing. I like taxes because it means we all get to do stuff together and that is cool. Thank you for reading my essay, and thank you for paying taxes, too.

And that, my friends, is pretty much still why I like taxes. Sometimes you just get it in the fourth grade, I guess.

The end.

Atomic Prank: Scott Walker's Booty Call

I have a confession to make. I have enabled serial prank calling in my checkered youth.

It's true. And when I say I was an enabler, that's simply what I was. I could never fully muster the courage to take the lead on a prank phone call. But, I had a very fun house growing up, and with four phones that were available for one caller and three listeners, my house was prank phone call central. Plus, my parents didn't mind if my pals and I smoked a cigar or two in the house while we drank black coffee and listened to Roger Whitaker (yes, I was a strange teen). Full disclosure, my mom was often one of those listeners, but no fears; this was long before she was a teacher represented by a union--prior to that she was clearly no good.

The phone call scenario became routine. My three best friends in the world, Chris, Chad and Tom would come to my house for Sunday night dinner and eat like we were at a Shriners' convention. Full of beef, potatoes and probably a wedge of ice berg lettuce with cheddar cheese (blue cheese would have been too haute cuisine for us all back in high school), we would put the percolator on and boil up a pot of the thickest, blackest coffee you've ever been unable to see through, let alone drink. We would get all hopped up on a few cups of grounds with a dash of hot water and decide which unsuspecting victim would fall that evening to the vocal charms of Chris, our mighty leader.

Chris was always the best. He was the absolute king of the prank call. Beyond our Sunday night calls, Chris was involved in a semi-serious club called The Fun Bunch, a men's club of sorts into which you were initiated after you could get a pizza delivery driver, a cabbie, and a chicken truck to arrive at someone's house for pickup and delivery within 5 minutes of each other. I continue to be in awe of the seeming effortlessness with which Chris embraced his talents of trickery. Dialing someone on a phone and convincing the person on the other end of the line that he was not who he was came easy to Chris, and I suspect it has not held him back in his meteoric career as a tremendously successful salesman.

We would contemplate a call sheet. There were one-offs with girls we kind of liked, but were too shy to approach face-to-face. There were multi-caller efforts which required callbacks and insider information regarding cars that teachers were trying to drive or planned orders of French pastries. One memorable storyline had Chris acting like a car buyer who had purchased a notorious brown car from one of our high school teachers, dialing the seller up because he was stranded on the Hoan bridge. We three friends provided background sound effects with cupped hands and throat thrills sounding like the grinding gears of rushing traffic. Nerds, but nerds with flair.

The penultimate moment, however, was The Pete Indus Escapade. An underclassman, a fairly decent if easily dupe worthy fellow, was the person Chris had his sights set on for this particular set of shenanigans. Chris began with a simple phone call, introducing himself as an older man named Peter Indus. He had seen our younger classmate's signs up around town that suggested he was the boy to hire for all those things you hire suburban boys to do in the Midwest. Think lawn mowing, think leaf raking, think snow shoveling--your normal kind of stuff.

Pete Indus lasted for weeks, and then months. We would leave our Sunday night calls, laughing so hard it hurt, taking time in person during the week to draw more stories out of our sometimes friend who was receiving our calls, all the while he never knew that it was in fact Chris who was an elderly man who apparently lived in a home with a dance floor, room for a samba band, and parking for his super enormous Cadillac (cars, there were always cars in our stories). The fun had to end after a couple of months, we knew if just couldn't last. I made my debut one night, effectively killing Pete Indus as I took the phone, put on a phony voice and claimed to be his attendant at the looney bin (tragic that we resorted to a kindergarten ending after so much effort, but the sheer volume of the material made up for a soft ending).

Those days seem long past, and the victory lap of making a really effective prank phone call seemed a thing of the past to me in these days of caller ID, smart phone tracking, and Facetime chats.

Until today.

Chris was king, but a successor has taken the thrown. Ian Murphy, Scott Walker's prank caller is the rightful new owner of the crown.

I've listened to Ian's amazing feat, his really bad vocal patter as billionaire Tea Party wallet holder David Koch. I bow to his greatness, and know what Ian knows as a master prankster. His actions were all impulse, all bravado, all cocksure "what-the-helledness." And the most amazing thing about this phone call is that no incredible plots are unearthed (okay, maybe a few nominally incredible plots were discussed) and no new light was shed on Scott Walker's character that surprise the left or the right (we on the left still think Scott Walker is a weasel, and the right has every right in the world to continue to say that Walker is steadfast, strong and won't back down). Ian Walker can pin the label on Scott Walker that all we prank callers hope to be able to claim. SCOTT WALKER IS A RUBE.

A RUBE. It's such a lovely word. Not really a dirty word, but its four letters don't make it something you get to brag about actually being. A rube is someone who really can't look beyond the tip of their nose. A rube is someone who doesn't think deeper into a situation to understand they are being played. A rube is someone an ill-prepared blogger can keep on the phone for nearly 20 minutes when the rest of the world can't get through. Scott Walker, you sir, are a rube.

Here's the thing that the uninitiated need to know about the goal of a prank caller: time means everything. Our goals as teenage callers gently nudging our friends and teachers were not to have "Eureka!" moments. We cared less about finding out any secrets or weird ticks from any of our callers than clocking some serious minutes. Being able to hold the line with the most talked about Governor in the United States right now for the better part of a half hour and sneak in a phrase like, "They’re probably putting hobos in suits," without the conversation falling to shreds tells me that we pranksters have a new God. Ian Murphy--you da man!

I won't analyze the details of Walker's talked about plans for Senatorial shell games. Didn't we all think those were going to happen anyway? I'm sure the folks on the right think their Scooter is even more of a rising star because he didn't blink, while we on the left continue to have more gasoline to put on the fires of our protest. That's not the point of this set of shenanigans.

The greater point is that we have a rube leading our state. The folks we called in high school were by and large really decent people. But they were, to a person, great shining examples of rubes. You might buy them breakfast at some point just because you felt bad about how easy it was to dupe them, but you never really wanted them to be making decisions that would effect your life in big ways. Rubes have never proven to be too good at that.

This prank outranks any others I've heard, however, because it is not only an Atomic Prank, but it is one serious Wiggly Booty Call. This phone conversation works on so many levels as one for the history books. Of course, you've got the prank element, that we've established already. The added exposure of Scott Walker taking a booty call from David Koch makes this richer than rich in ways we all need to appreciate for a moment. Let me put it this way--if you've ever made or had a booty call made to you, think about who is on the other end of the line. It's always someone you want to get into bed with, right? What private citizen (or imposter claiming to be that private citizen) gets through to the highest ranking elected official in our state during a statewide protest that recalls the biggest surges of activism in the 1960s? One with a tremendously appealing Koch.

Let's face the facts, this probably isn't going to make or break the next moves in this addictive chess game we are calling democracy in action/inaction. We on the left are certainly planning to work on a recall effort for Mr. Walker as soon as we are able (314 days, but who's counting), and I feel quite confident that since he has exposed himself so successfully as a rube, we have a great chance to get him out of office as soon as possible given the dictates of laws of the land. In the meantime, we who wish for this must get on two trains running and arrive at the station at the same time we show a rube out of the bar car with someone very un-rube-like to take his place. Females need apply, as I pretty much believe we'd all be better off if chicks were running things. (And, no, that was not my middle aged male plea for a booty call, thank you very much.)

I know the conservatives who are backing Walker as a man of principle are steadfast in their belief that their man won't back down, and that he is no one's push toy. But don't you think after hearing that call, there might be a few flecks of doubt about how un-bitchlike their man Scott Walker is? Don't you think the words "Koch Bitch" might be swirling around somewhere? Thought so.

It's a triumph in a way to crown Ian Murphy the new king of prank calls today, but I do feel bad for my long time friend Chris. Today's fallen ruler is a guy I care about very much. Most of all I feel bad for my pal because this former Poobah of The Pranksters, one of the dearest friends I have in the world, a guy I would do anything for, someone I absolutely adore and love, is one of the most staunchly conservative guys I know (I even remember him waxing poetic about what a progressive, smart guy Walker was as Milwaukee County Executive as I held back the rush of vomit in my throat). Today a liberal threw down and exposed a rube. It's gotta hurt my pal Chris a bit, but I hope he's laughing a little at that hobo line.