We can still watch reruns of Willliam Frawley playing the grumpy old landlord, Fred Mertz, in the long-running I Love Lucy television show. He was often called upon to bring the air-headed Lucille Ball back to earth. After the show went off the air, Frawley spent five years playing in the situation comedy, My Three Sons.
Frawley’s health declined such that the studio could no longer provide him with health insurance, and he was released from the show, bringing an end to his long acting career, which spanned from 1933 to 1965.
I recently discovered that William Frawley died at the Knickerbocker Hotel, one block from where we attend church in Hollywood. After watching a movie on March 3, 1966, Frawley suffered a fatal heart attack on the sidewalk in front of the Knickerbocker, where he had previously lived. He was brought into the lobby, to no avail.
More about the Knickerbocker Hotel:
Rudolf Valentino used to hang out at the hotel bar and liked to dance tango here. On July 21, 1948, famed director, D.W. Griffith, died of a stroke while standing under the lobby’s $1 million chandelier. Marilyn Monroe and Joe Dimaggio honeymooned here in January of 1954. Elvis Presley stayed in suite 1016 while filming “Love Me Tender.” Frank Sinatra, Barbara Stanwyck, Lana Turner, Mae West, Laurel & Hardy, Larry Fine (of the Three Stoges), and Cecil B DeMille all lived here.
What else is happening within one block of where I – or any of us – live our lives?
Fifty years ago, they began hanging the Stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Or, rather, inserting the Stars bearing the names of film celebrities into the granite sidewalk. The first Star was placed in 1960 to honor Joanne Woodward.
The Walk is homage to the film industry’s greatest contributors. Today it was packed with those seeking the names of favorite personalities. They paused and squatted as their companions furiously snapped pictures for souvenirs. This tradition occurs endlessly, day after day, week after week, decade after decade.
The Walk of Fame is the intersection of the living and the dead. In a cemetery, we expect to see the names who have gone on before. When we view the Walk of Fame Stars, kneeling as we do at a cemetery, something odd happens. The dead and living are united on a single, long plane that extends for several city blocks. Here, with no dates appearing anywhere on the Stars, their contributions are brought alive together, as if all are resurrected.
The devotion and hard-earned contributions of saints living, and saints gone on before, all are viewed together. That’s how I re-frame it. I reassign names and deeds of those who are dearest to me: saints both famous and anonymous, the apostles, my family, friends who walk beside me, mentors and teachers. There, together, they are part of the tapestry that is my life.
My personal Walk of Fame will turn 60 next year. How wonderful if, in time, our names may adorn the Walk of another.
Just one railcar missing from the morning train commute can easily demonstrate how far civility has plummeted. The five-car train reduced to four cars meant standing room only. The train was packed. Still, packages clustered on seats from earlier-boarding passenger remained unmoved so that other passengers could not be seated. The passengers who stood in the aisles numbered more women than men. Not one seated male passenger offered his seat to a standing woman.
Just as an English grammarian notes the gradual demise of the subjunctive case in English grammar, something feels missing. Mostly vanishing from English usage is the classic subjunctive phrasing, “If I were you,” replaced by the colloquial but grammatically incorrect, “If I was you.”
So, likewise, courteous behavior is apparently vanishing from our societal deportment. For a seated man not to give up his seat for a standing woman was once unthinkable. Now—not so much.
What I missed on this morning’s train ride was anything resembling the notion, “If I were more civil, I would give up my seat for a woman.”
I listened passively to the chatter between two computer geeks about how to keep personal computer data safe and secure. Just as I was tuning out the conversation, they identified two critical principles that go way beyond computer geekdom. I haven’t been able to get these two simple, profound principles out of my head.
Geek Principle #1: Impulse Control
The geeks explained the number one way to guard against Internet virus pirates who steal and corrupt data files is to control dangerous impulse practices. Don’t use easy passwords. Be careful which Internet sites are visited. Share personal information sparingly and wisely to keep yourself safe online.
Geek Principle #2: Proactive Practice
They described Proactive Practice as the consistent application of the Impulse Control principle on an ongoing basis.
Living by these two principles, according to the geeks, will protect us and the environments we care most about: ourselves, our families, and our enterprises. My thoughts? Like a yellow line of demarcation, these principles may help to keep us on the side of the street where we belong.
Now–ratchet the focus from computers to other life issues. How well do we implement these two principles?
The dude throwing trash from the window of his car–how does he think that’s okay? Did it start with a gum wrapper and de-sensitized Impulse Control?
The gradually growing love handles just above my belt. When did my weakened Impulse Control allow food choices and exercise habits to gradually conspire against me?
Temper and impatience can bubble below the surface, barely out of sight. When did I grant access to those treacherous partners to attach to me like remora fish?
But even after I identify the areas where I lack of Impulse Control and try to corral the behaviors that hinder me, the job is only half done.
That’s when I need to apply geek principal #2–Proactive Practice. Consistent vigilance through Proactive Practice will help to keep destructive behaviors on the far side of the yellow line.
On Sunday I tried to purchase a portable cooking grill at a local hardware store. The floor sample was priced incorrectly. I was looking at the higher-end model, but the sample’s mismatched price tag was for its smaller, fewer-frills sibling. Hoping the adage that “the customer is never wrong” held true in this case, I decided to push back and ask to be awarded the lower price. The salesman dug in his heels. He advised me that I would have to take it up with the manager, which I did. After I explained my quandary to him, he fell silent; I knew not why. He pulled out a calculator, and after a few minutes, he came up for air. “I believe in compromises,” he said. How about if we take a percentage off the price of the higher-priced grill–say, twenty percent?” Ah, 20%! The magic number! “Sold, Bill!” sez I, seizing upon the opportunity to make a life-long friend out of the situation. I felt like latching onto him with a bear hug, like a contestant from The Price Is Right putting the death squeeze on Bob Barker. My final price was within $10 of the cost of the cheaper, far-fewer frills grill, and we both came out looking like winners.
Researchers tell us that 20% is a significant number in some management rules of thumb. For example, that’s the average percentage of participants who “buy in” to a particular enterprise or vision. And the efforts of those 20% provide 80% of the effective results of the enterprise.
A case in point. I used to work as a consultant for non-profit organizations. As I helped them strategize how they would meet their budgets, I knew my main task was to identify and target the top 20% of the constituents–those who were most highly involved in the organization. They were already often the top financial supporters. Ironically, we would craft ways for these very active givers to help provide even more financial support. The other 80% of supporters most probably would not significantly increase their efforts, no matter how much they were encouraged, coerced, or “stick-and-carroted.” It’s a waste of energy.
This phenomenon is appropriately known as the “vital few and trivial many” principle. Participants in many enterprises are passive (that’s the 80%); while they may count in the census of those who attend or consider themselves a part of an organization, they mostly go along for the ride, contributing little “value added.”
Some folks have turned fretting into an art form. Fretting about how one person can’t change much about life’s injustices. Fretting about famous folks that get all the attention. Fretting about having so little ability to influence. Fretting about lots of people involved in a cause or an organization, so why am I needed?
In a crowd of 100 folks, I might see myself as insignificant. Against such numbers, what do I have to offer? But wait! That doesn’t factor in the 80/20 percent principle. Only about 20 of those 100 people might have any sort of significant measurable impact. If I become one of those 20, now my efforts have been quintupled! Suddenly, of the original 100 participants, I find myself among only 20 significant “players.” And that gives me the opportunity to become an important 80% contributing member. Maybe I’m the person who can offer just the right “missing piece” of effort. By choosing to be significantly involved, I have just multiplied my formerly-measly efforts by five-fold.
Let’s take it to a personal level. I’m guessing that the average individual has far fewer than 100 significant relationships. Maybe 20? Maybe 10? But if we truly care about those persons that we know casually, and we invest quality time into each other’s lives, could we eventually enter into the top influencers in one another’s lives?
And I thought that all I accomplished today was getting a good deal on a gas grill.
Sunday’s soccer World Cup Championship game between Spain and Netherlands capped a long series that only occurs every four years. Neither country had won previously, so the stakes were high–and exciting–for each. The game was decided in overtime, in a 1-0 Spanish victory. I watched part of it on Sunday at the L.A. Farmer’s Market, where I shot this picture of a very involved crowd.
I grew up in Germany, so I’m supposed to “get” soccer. I love the simplicity of the equipment required (how complicated is one ball?), and the nearly universal international appreciation for the sport.
But I have a suggestion. Could we have more scoring? That would make it more like real life, where we make incremental progress. Okay, give big soccer points for scoring a goal. But also give a few points for getting a good shot on goal. Award points to the team with the fewest fouls. And sprinkle a few points to the team with the sharpest-looking (or least offensive) uniforms. Does nearly every game have to be neutralized by a 0-0 tie or decided in a spare 1-0 victory?
If it were more like life, I could relate. Give me a point for shaving and a point for brushing my teeth. As a man, I’ll need a point for wearing clothes that match and another if they’re clean. I’ll take two points for getting to work on time, and a couple of dozen for being a good husband or dad for the week.
If I have to wait to earn a lone 1-0 score by becoming famous or rich before I finish my race, it’ll be a long time coming. By that standard, I’ll far more likely end in a 0-0 draw.
Please, let’s give more points for soccer, and for each one of us, more than the lonely and super-rare “GOOOAAALLLLLLLL!”
Today is our usual lunch date. After attending church, we head over to the Los Angeles Farmers Market. Cajun blackened red snapper salad is our “go to” favorite lunch by far.
Today was different. Sure, I attended the Sunday service, then headed over to The Market as usual. But I didn’t need a nice table in the shade. I didn’t require the special view of the most interesting people around me. I sat in the sun, fiddling with my iPhone. I even forgot to get our choice treat, a Pinkberry yogurt: small-size original flavor with carob chips, thank you very much.
Today it didn’t matter if I sat in the sun, or which direction I faced because I sat alone. Jackie is in Alabama for the summer, spending time with her father. And I’m jazzed about that. But it sure will be nice when that green chair fills with her presence again.
This hand dryer and wastebasket were positioned exactly as shown. After using it, I gathered the assorted trash and towels out of my hair and off my face. Then I had to push the button once more, this time with the camera running.
Each work day, I walk two miles each way to and from the train station to catch the Metrolink to El Monte, where I teach students at the parole office. So listening to the rhythm of the train tracks has become an unexpectedly big part of my life.
