Reading / Watching / Listening - July 2012

Too tired to write anything earth-shaking. In fact, too tired to write anything even mildly amusing. So today, I pinch hit.

What I'm reading:

Buddhism Plain and Simple by Steve Hagen

Man, this is it. I've followed the Buddha-dharma for some thirteen years now, and that has included extensive study and reading. I don't know that I've ever encountered another book that presents it all, removed from most of the cultural bells and whistles, so simply. I've given away and worn out more copies of this book than I can remember.

If you're into Buddhism, or just want a clear head, this is one of the greats.

What I'm watching:

Ronin directed by John Frankenheimer

This is one of those really good movies that no one knows about. When it comes to spy movies, I think Frankenheimer was one of the best. This film has got really nice cinematography, a well-unraveled plot, and of course, De Niro. While it isn't the best role he has ever played, I think he does a great job injecting a lot of depth and texture into material that is fairly stark. As opposed to the tidal-wave of testosterone rolling off of most of the protagonists in modern action cinema, De Niro's portrayal here has this deep sense of practicality that you just can't help but appreciate.

Clue directed by Jonathan Lynn

I cannot tell you how much I love this movie. It has been one of my all-time favorites since I saw it as a kid. I love the campy setting and very play-like dialogue. It has the feel of a well-rehearsed live production, and the chemistry between the actors is phenomenal. I think Wadsworth is arguably Tim Curry's best role, but it is a stiff competition, because Madeline Kahn, Michael Keenan, Eileen Brennan, and Chris Lloyd all steal the freaking show. If nothing else, you should watch this movie just so you can memorize the quotes and use them at opportune times.

What I'm listening to: 


The Idler Wheel is Wiser... by Fiona Apple

I love me some Fiona Apple. She's just so nuts, and so totally unashamed about it. Her lyrical stylings are a bizarre mix of emotional vulnerability and the lilting progressions of ee cummings at his avant-garde best. It has been a delight to see her sound grow from something more mainstream (Tidal) into the realms of acid jazz, soul, and folk (this). This album is definitely some exploration on her part, but I think it works well. As weird and off-key as it gets, it always has that dark honesty that defines her work. That said, I'm not sure how this would strike someone that hadn't already been listening to her for a decade, so listener beware on that one.

Act II - The Father of Death by The Protomen

If you grew up in the eighties and love video games, you are pretty much doomed on this one. These guys have taken the basic plot of the Mega Man games for the NES and composed two acts (so far) of a rock opera. When I first discovered it, I thought it was going to be a kind of fun, tongue-in-cheek sort of thing, but imagine my surprise when I actually discovered a lot of soul in both acts. The material is well-composed, and the plot (you'll have to look up the "bridging" bits of action on the net, unless you happen to see it live) is actually thought-provoking. Act I is harsh, fun, yowling, off-key punk rock punctuated by eight-bit chiptunes.

The sounds in Act II are a bizarre and delightful mix, which is much more polished. All of the Dr. Light pieces are done in the tone of Johnny Cash in his middle period. This is directly juxtaposed the Joe numbers, which are driving synth pop that sounds like a hybrid between The Darkness, Cheap Trick, and Meat Loaf on their best respective days. And to complete the mix, Wily's number almost sounds like something from the Stray Cats. It is shamelessly melodramatic, and if you're prone to that 1980's musical excess (or just musicals, really), it will suck you in like a tornado.

Charm School

For most of my life, my associations with the term "charm" have been positive. Shocking at it may be to those that know me well, I was often described as a "charming" person when I was younger. I had always considered it close kin to "pleasant", "kind", and "genial". Call it a bit of egomania if you will, but because the term was pointed at me, I always considered it to be a positive thing. In fact, I went out of my way to be charming. It is a behavior that I studied and honed over time. It became one of the primary tools in my toolbox in terms of dealing with people.


I recently read a very interesting defensive tactics book by Rory Miller. His description of charm is an interesting one. While he describes it in the terms of a tool that predator uses to get close to a victim, he makes an interesting discussion of charm as a whole.


The short version of his theory: charm is not a natural behavior for human beings. It is a goal-oriented manipulation tactic. The goal need not be nefarious. People use charm to calm tense situations, fit into new social groups, and advance their careers. While these may seem different from the rapist trying to get close to a victim, I think Miller has right about the underlying mechanics being the same.


Charm is a subtle attempt at controlling another party.


This theory jives with my own life experience. I am not charming when I am taking out the garbage, doing the laundry, or buying groceries. I am not charming to people who do not have anything that I want. I don't really describe any of my close friends as charming, and I find that I do not (these days) employ any of my childhood tactics on them to "win them over". With those that I feel safe around, I simply do not exhibit charming behaviors.


(Here's a fun exercise: ask my wife if I am charming. Report back here with the response.)


While charm does work to an extent, I think somewhere in our lizard brains, humans recognize these attempts for what they are and either reject them or dole out a heavy dose of distrust to the would-be charmer. While I think some people are more susceptible to charm than others, I think this natural resistance is something common to humanity.


My reliance on this behavior has waned over the years. I understand why I did it as a child. I had a lot of uncertainty and anxiety in my home life, and I did not have any other tools at my disposal (wasn't faster, stronger, bigger, smarter, or better funded), so I used charm. It became a compulsive habit, a manifestation of my inherent insecurity. I controlled with charm for not reason other than that control made me feel safer. I did it unconsciously.


The first place I encountered where my charm hit a brick wall was martial arts. My teacher, and to a greater extent, his teacher, recognized the behavior for what it was immediately. Both made damn sure not to let it work on them even a little bit, openly pointing out my subconscious attempts to control situations. I ended up looking like an ass quite often. (We tend to adhere to our childhood safety strategies well beyond the time when they stop working.) Time passed, though, and instead of charm, I tried honesty, sincerity, commitment, and willingness to be vulnerable. Those worked a lot better, and infected the rest of my life. (But that is another book, in and of itself.)


In the earlier days of my law practice, I leaned on the charm tactic heavily in front of juries. After prosecutor gave a relatively dry and exhaustive voir dire to a jury pool, I'd get up and make them laugh. I'd joke about the free coffee, the boring nature of the process, and the bizarre little world the potential jurors had been thrust into. I used to attribute some of my victories to that charm, but in light of the revelations above, I've changed my mind.


Like my teachers in law, I've come to the conclusion that evidence wins cases, plain and simple. (I once had a juror tell me, after finding my client guilty, "You made a fine speech, son, but that guy was as guilty as the day was long. Better luck next time.") I've seen a mediocre attorney easily win a case against a magnificent one because of the evidence. If a lawyer's personality has something to do with an outcome, it is a very, very small percentage of that outcome.


Interestingly, a lot of professional jury analysts and behavioral scientists agree. I have recently started studying the scientific research that has been conducted regarding the jury system and why results happen the way they do. While I do not agree with all of it, these conclusions seem to keep repeating themselves in the literature:


1. There is a powerful negative stereotype about two types of lawyers - criminal defense lawyers and plaintiff's lawyers in injury cases. Criminal defense lawyers are hired guns that will get any hardened criminal off for a buck, and plaintiff's lawyers are parasites that grow rich the suffering of others. (Having been both, plaintiff and defense, I'll tell you that this is horseshit, and you'll get an earful from me if you suggest it around me. Regardless, this is the public perception, whether I like it or not.)


2. The hours or days you have for jury selection will not be enough to counteract this stereotype, no matter how persuasive you are.


3. Utilization of charm and other overt manipulation tactics in picking juries just confirms the negative stereotypes, and harms the attorney's credibility from the outset.


I've tried to tailor my approach to one that is more of a "just the facts" approach. I think this is helpful, because it builds credibility and, more importantly, allows the jurors to draw their own conclusions based on the evidence. I think this is a much more powerful and engaging approach. It goes back to what I was taught in law school: "Never tell, always show."


So, that is why I thought Miller's description was so interesting. It helped me articulate a revolution that has been going on in my own life, as well as my professional practice. I encourage you to look at your daily behaviors, and see if you utilize charm, or one of its cousins, as a habit.


And I'd further encourage you to see what happens if you stop. You might be surprised.

Of Aardvarks and Zebras - Politics and Me

I very rarely engage in political debate. Some have pointed out that this habit is very odd, for a lawyer. After all, don't lawyers like arguing? Especially about matters legal?

I have thought about that for a while, and this is my answer.

I do not judge people based off their words. Fact is, words are just too easy. Too easy to say, repeat, and eventually start believing. A man can build entire illusory palaces with his words, worlds that become real over time. So real, in fact, that he will start attacking anyone who threatens his ephemeral creation. It gets too easy to get embroiled in conflicts over things which ultimately are not real.

My first question, when considering any source of opinions, is "What has this person done? What do they really know, and what is just bullshit that they are guessing about?"

There is a certain authority that comes from taking action, and having real experience. I can talk about war, but my words are academic. They pale in comparison to those have gone through the visceral experience of life and death struggle in the service of one's country, witnessing the rending of flesh and the death of comrades. I can speak about war as an intellectual concept, but I do not know it.

And you bet your ass that when someone who actually knows war talks about it, I listen to his opinion and give it a hell of a lot of weight, because it ain't bullshit and speculation. The rest of us, despite how educated and respectful we might be, are only making guesses.

The guesses are not worthless. Some guesses have lead to revolutions in the way we live. But I give those guesses a certain weight. It is considerably less than observations based on direct experience.

This is why I avoid many political discussions.

In our political discourse, this country has developed a cottage industry of professional "opinion-havers", who say much but have rarely, if ever, actually had their "boots on the ground" in the areas they speak so passionately about.  I have a hard time having any meaningful dialogue with these people, or any of their devoted sycophants.

Strangely, it is often these people who are guessing the hardest that are the most vocal in their opinions. I am not a psychologist, but I suspect this is based off the insecurity that comes off of pure "guesswork". Look at it this way: if you've never seen a certain animal, and you think it is an aardvark, your conclusion is a pure construct of thought. The aardvark is a guess. If someone says it isn't an aardvark, their opinion is a real threat - it is an idea, just like yours. The two compete on equal footing. On the other hand, if I see a zebra with my own eyes, touch it with my hands, and know it's a zebra, you can call it an aardvark if you want to. That won't particularly threaten me. While I am willing to listen to your logic... I know I saw a fucking zebra. It isn't a mental construct. It ain't guesswork, either.

Knowledge and experience.

I'll share a particular illumination I experienced about immigration and this country. Like many Americans, I believed that coming here illegally was wrong and unfair to the citizens of this country. It was a nice, tidy, easy unilateral idea. Then, as an assistant public defender, I had the opportunity to really talk with and work with many people who had come here illegally. In my experience, the vast majority were decent, hard-working, and humble people. In fact, I found many of them to be more decent, hard-working, and humble than many natural-born Americans.

I had a good discussion with one man in particular, from Juarez, in Mexico. If you haven't been reading the papers, this is one of the most violent parts of the world, outside of war zones. The violence perpetrated by drug cartels is unbelievable. People are gruesomely and horrifically murdered. This man told me about his life there. He had a wife and three children. The picture he painted of his daily life was visceral and deeply unsettling. Nothing in his life was untouched by the shroud of violence and corruption that hung over that place. He explained that his options were to stay in that hellhole of misery and violence, at the mercy of corrupt government and drug cartels, or illegally come to the United States.

I imagined what it would be like if I was in his position. I imagined if my family was in such danger, and there was a safe place I could get to within a day's drive. It didn't take long to figure out what my decision would be if my wife and child were on the line: I'd do what he did, and I wouldn't lose a millisecond of sleep over it. Maybe this makes me ignoble, immoral or unpatriotic. I'm willing to live with those labels, but I suspect that there are a lot of folks out there that agree with me that the safety of their family trumps damn near everything.

How am I any better than that man? I won the freaking lottery. I was born to educated parents in a free country where people have rights and a good shot at prosperity. I didn't chose that. I just lucked into it. His situation was the reverse. From a moral standpoint, I just can't bring myself to look down on him. It is easy to talk about what he should or shouldn't have done when we, ourselves, have not been in that particular crucible.

I still agree that it isn't good for people to come here illegally, but that idea is seasoned with what I've learned from people that have really had to wrestle with the problem from a very human position. People who know that problem. Not just the talking heads.

Having said all this, I guess the reason I rarely discuss politics with people is that I have little to no desire to argue over imaginary aardvarks. I am willing to engage in political discussion, but it is only with people that A) are not trying to bludgeon me with a perceived threat to their imaginary aardvark and B) will appreciate a pure idea for what it is - an educated guess that always weighs less than actual zebra experience.

Portraits

Funny thing about children... they'll help you rediscover memories that you'd thought were long gone.

Saturday morning. 7:30 a.m. Bright sunlight streams through the windows and illuminates the toys strewn on our floor, and gives a golden hue to our battered, comfortable, mostly second-hand furniture. I am up because, despite a relatively sleepless night, my body simply will not remain asleep beyond 6:00 a.m. anymore. (I used to think Dad was crazy for getting up early on the weekends... I'm starting to realize he did not have a say in the matter.) I make cafe au lait for myself, and a much weaker version in a sippy cup for my son. My wife remains asleep, nested firmly in the spot that I recently vacated. 

We sit in silence and sip our respective beverages. His sober little morning face is an incredible reflection of his mother's. 

"Something is missing," I tell him. 

He continues drinking from his sippy, his huge brown eyes studying my face. 

"Something important." 

His silence continues. Like myself as a child, Jack's consumption of coffee is an all-or-nothing ritual, where he does not rest until the cup is drained to the last drop. 

"Donuts, Jack. We need to get some donuts for Mommy. And flowers. Why flowers? Not because it is a special occasion... it's just that when you live with a woman, periodically giving her flowers buys breathing room for those times when you royally screw up. Free tip, kid."

"Donuts!" 

"Indeed." 

I stand up to get him out of his pajamas, and then I stop. It hits me like a freight train. 

It is probably 1987. New Orleans. The weather is that same muggy warmth, with the same sunlight that seems to turn everything to gold. My father and I are on the road. We're in his immaculate Nissan Maxima, with its square lines and uniformly gray everything. We're on our way to Morning Call, which is the other restaurant in town that sells beignets, French donuts with powdered sugar on top. Dad and I are both wearing our pajamas and flip-flops.

This is very strange, because my father is a very proper man. Always with immaculately combed hair, clean shaven, pressed shirts and pants. Always appropriate. Composed. Controlled. Even in his own home, I could never say that the man relaxed. I only got to see little cracks of my father's humanity on rare occasions. 

This was one of them. Riding in that old car, sitting in his ragged pajamas, my father wasn't quite my father. Or, at least, not as I knew him. His hair was unruly and his chin was covered with dark stubble. Chuck Berry warbled "You Never Can Tell" on the radio, and we bellowed along. (I tried, at least. My knowledge of Berry's songs was limited at that time.) Dad dropped the hammer and we tore down the road, likely considerably faster than the speed limit.  Both of us laughed in delight. 

It was one of the few times I ever remember him doing so. This is one of my favorite memories of my father, because I got a little glimpse of who he was as a kid, before the world went to work on him. Rakish, impulsive, and a bit irresponsible, there was a certain delight in him that day. I'm not sure exactly why the walls came down, but I'm glad they did. 

I smile at my son and leave his pajamas on. I neither shower nor shave. My hair looks like I've mixed it up with an electric socket and a battered "Tron" tee-shirt adorns my chest. 

"C'mon, kiddo. We're keeping up a tradition."

"Donuts?"

"Yes. Still the donuts. And flowers for Mommy. And whatever the hell else we feel like." 

I load him in the car. Through the magic of smart phones and little cables, Chuck favors us with another rendition of his classic. I roll down the windows and tear down the causeway, with the ocean wind roaring in my face. We sing along to the radio and shamelessly procure our treasure from the store. For a bit, the rest of my life with all its cares and worries fades into non-existence. I am 100% present, and I am delighted. Jack smiles his mother's beautiful smile. 

When we get back home, he surprises Mommy with our treasures. 

Hopefully, one day, something will remind him of this, and he'll smile at this glimpse of me, just as I did of my own father. 

Book Review: Wayne of Gotham

I just finished reading Wayne of Gotham by Tracy Hickman, and I figured I would get my thoughts down while they were fresh.

Short version: fun read, interesting story, and thought-provoking without providing a full emotional or intellectual lobotomy. Worth a read, but you may want to wait until it is available in paperback or at the library... it isn't life-altering. Just good.

Long version:

I like it. I haven't seen anyone challenge Batman "canon" like this since the Frank Miller era (The Killing Joke, Batman Year One, the Dark Knight Returns). There was a time in my life when I would join in the squalls of outrage when anyone had the nerve to change the way the story was "supposed to be" for one of my comic book idols. As I've gotten older, I find that I actually respect anyone with the salt and creativity to turn a comfortable feature on its head. I don't get any stimulation out of the same thing over and over again.

Time has passed, and I've re-examined my comic book heroes, just as I have everything else in my life. Adulthood and parenthood have piled new layers of meaning to the heroes that I have been watching my whole life. Hickman's story brings a lot of those adult questions into the four-color comics of my youth.

As long as I can remember, Bruce Wayne's parents have been set-pieces. They are a necessary foundation for the more interesting story of Batman. Hickman's preliminary question is a simple one: Just who the hell are these people? Clearly they are the motivation behind the whole Batman story, but they are often just idealized shells of real human beings.

Or perhaps, more accurately, they are people who retain the giant stature that parents occupy in the minds of their young children. An interesting piece in the Batman puzzle is how early he loses them. I can tell you about the unsettling journey I took in my twenties, when I started seeing my parents as real, flawed human beings instead of the giants I perceived them to be in my youth. I remember that time in my life as a series of painful revelations, which made the world seem a lot less simple than it had previously been. I remember questioning who I was and where I came from.

In my late teens and early twenties, I was very idealistic and set out to pursue a life that would honor the heroes, both real and imagined, in my life. As I got into the actual process of doing so, I realized that it wasn't so simple. Not all the heroes were heroes. And I didn't always get to be the "good guy", and the person I opposed wasn't always the "bad guy". In fact, most of the people I dealt with were just... guys. Or girls. Gender irregardless, most people tended to exist somewhere in the middle of the moral spectrum, as did I. It made life a lot more difficult to understand and pursue. I had to come to a much deeper understanding of who I was, and why I did what I did.

I imagine what it would be like if that journey didn't happen until my fifties. I imagine what it might be like if I built my entire life, my entire world-view on an inaccurate illusion of people who did not really exist.

I don't have to imagine too hard, because Hickman pulls it off pretty damn well in the book. The psychological conflict is often portrayed in terms of symbols and images, instead of out-and-out narrative, but I think that works fairly well in the course of his work. Some might opine that there are too many dark and decaying buildings in Hickman's landscape, but remember that the landscape is ultimately just a reflection of the mindscape of the creature who is definitely Batman and, at times, Bruce Wayne.

The apex of the book resonates pretty strongly with me, and I think it goes something like this: you come from a complex, difficult, and to some extent (greater or lesser) fucked up system (read: your family), and like it or not, their baggage is yours. Ultimately, though, you choose who and what you are, and no one else is responsible for that choice. And at times, that might mean putting to rest pieces of your identity from childhood that no longer matter.

The Race

When I first began training in Japanese Budo, I was totally consumed with it. I could not stop thinking about it. When I wasn’t training with others, I did solo practice. When I did not do solo practice, I read books. When I could not read books about it, I would think about it or, if I could find a willing victim, talk about it. At twenty, my responsibilities were virtually non-existent, so I had all the time I wanted to pursue my passion.

Missing any training was agony. Any missed training somehow registered as “losing ground” in my brain, and it would color everything that I did. Irritation would hang around me like a cloud for days on end. Everyone around me felt it. I would be short and waspish with anyone that I had to deal with.  I was like an addict without his fix. It only dissipated when I got back onto the mat.

I clung to the practice desperately. In retrospect, it was a lot like a new relationship for me. When two people fall first fall in love, they cling to each other, unsure if the whole experience is just a temporary sensation that will quickly fade away. Touching is constant, as if to reassure themselves that what they have is real and lasting. There is a lot of insecurity there.

 In my mind, the practice was a race. I had to get as good as possible, as fast as possible. I constantly compared my performance with everyone else that I trained with. I kept a careful mental tally of whether or not I succeeded more than they did, on any given night, in a thousand different ways. I had to exceed my training partners, and if I didn’t, it bothered the hell out of me.

Fast forward a decade. My responsibilities have expanded quite a bit. I am the father of a little boy, someone’s husband, and a lawyer. My father is disabled, so I have to help Mom look after him. I have a great group of friends, and they need me too.  And of course, there’s always work to do and bills to pay. I don’t have as much spare time as I used to, and by the time I do get to the little spare time I do have, I’m often exhausted and unable to muster much in the way of mental focus.

In short, I don’t train nearly as much as I used to. For a while that bothered the hell out of me. I was “losing the race”.

But my relationship with my practice has changed. Like the one I share with my wife, it has grown and matured. It is not some ephemeral thing, likely to fade away at a moment’s notice. I have faith in it. The practice is part of who I am, just as much as being a husband, a father, or a lawyer. I don’t have to touch it every waking moment to make sure that it is there.

After a decade, I know that I’m in this training for life. It isn’t just something fun to do. It is the prism through which I view the world, and the tool I use to shape my interactions with the world.

That’s the “do” part of Budo. It is a “way” or “path” because it continues, and traverses all things and places in one’s life. And each place along the path presents its own unique difficulties and rewards. I’m sure there will be places on the journey where I will have more time to train again. At any given point in my training, my intention is the same: to do the practice to the absolute best of my ability, with everything I have to offer at that point and time.

I’m not racing with anyone anymore, because that is not the point. I do want to get as skillful as I can, do the practice as best I can, and when appropriate, transmit it to others as best I can, so that future generations can reap the same rewards and use the same tools I have. I do those things because they are worth doing, not because I am competing with anyone.

Maybe it comes to this: I’d still get on the mat every day if I could. But somewhere along the way, I realized that even when I’m not on the mat, I’m still on the mat. That’s the path.