Devils in the details

Because the specifics matter. It’s one thing to say that Citi wasted some of the money taxpayers sent its way via the bailout; it’s another thing to say Citi wasted some of the taxpayers’ money by upholstering the pillows on the private jet Sandy Weill took to Mexico over Christmas vacation with Hermes scarves. It’s one thing to say Wall Street bankers felt pressure to chase profits; it’s another thing to say they achieved those profits by systematically robbing a whole generation of pensioners and working-class homeowners, under the noses of the politicians they bought with tens of millions in campaign contributions.

This from Matt Taibbi, at his True Slant blog, on Fareed Zakarias's defense of capitalism as it stands.

The devils (plural) are always in the details, but that doesn't matter to those who trump ideological frameworks as Bibles for how we should lead our lives. To some, the Market is an omnipresent, omniscient force of good will that works for the betterment of all. Really we know that not to be the case. Just as communism isn't a perfect idea, or Christianity still has some kinks to work out, capitalism - as a system - is just as flawed as the rest.

It may be the best way, but it's far from the perfect way. The chasing of money for the sake of greed alone is bound to produce criminals. Period.

To say the system is flawed is an understatement, and one that we keep uttering to make ourselves feel better when this kind of thing happens from time to time.

The best there ever will be.

"You can be a good person and do everything right and it doesn't guarantee you anything." - Owen Hart


I can place the era that I started watching wrestling again, when I was 13, and it was mostly because of two events: the return of the Undertaker at SummerSlam 1994, and the fact that Bret Hart was the reigning WWE (then, the WWF) champion.

It's astonishly easy to admit: Bret "Hitman" Hart is a hero of mine.

I can blame Andrew for my renewed interest in the Bret Hart's career. His video collection is stock-piled with classic WWE pay-per-view events (including all the SummerSlams and Wrestlemanias). We spent a good portion of my time in L.A. - at least at night - watching classic matches from the '90s.

I watched wrestling religiously back then, after taking time some time off in my pre-teen years. From 1994-1998, I watched almost every pay-per-view event with my buddies Josh and PJ, and caught many of the weekly TV shows in college. My interest traces as far back as the rivalry between Hulk Hogan and Randy "Macho Man" Savage in the mid '80s. At least that's as far back as I can remember.

No matter who came and went, Bret Hart was always my favorite.

Mostly, I think it was his work ethic and overall "averageness" that made me a fan. His Hitman character was simple: technical, proficient wrestler who took on all comers. Bret wasn't big, he wasn't flashy, and he didn't have quite the charisma guys like Hogan or, later, The Rock, had.

But man, he knew his stuff. I just finished his autobiography, and the biggest thing that sticks out is that he was a consumate professional who worked hard and gave everyone an opportunity to shine. His success came as it should have: through dedication and sticking it out. It wasn't his size or his ego that got him to the top. It was his skill and professionalism. His co-workers respected him for that.

"There was always something different about my fans," Hart writes in his autobiography. "They really believed in me as a person."

And that's true. The Bret Hart in the ring was the same guy as the Bret Hart in the locker room.

Bret Hart was one of the few wrestlers to use his own name. He didn't appeal to the crowd during his matches. He was a loner, a history buff, and true to the friends who didn't betray him.

That kind of thing appeals to me. I always respected how Bret Hart's character, as World Champion, gave everyone a title-shot opportunity - even guys like Doink the Clown. He was an egalitarian.

And good lord, what an excruciating finishing move. The Sharpshooter, a modified Scorpion Death Lock, was intricate and beautiful to watch.

The Undertaker, always my second favorite, had the mood and the atmosphere and the spooky persona down. He was talented, yes, but it was his theatrics that made me a fan. Bret Hart appealed to the average guy in me. When you don't have a lot of charisma or athletic gifts, you try to out-work everyone. I understood that.

Bret Hart's hard work paid off in a lot of ways. He's, by far, the most decorated wrestler of all time: two tag teams championships, two intercontinental championships, seven world titles, two King of the Ring tournaments, various other championships, and so many fan and industry awards (including induction into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2006) it's impossible to list them all. Again, it's something I see in myself. Overachievers get my respect.

What's tragic, however, is what has happened to Bret Hart since November 1997 - the infamous "Montreal Screwjob" that served as his inglorious ousting from the WWE. Since then, it's been one misshap after another: a so-so career in rival WCW, the death of his fantastically-talented brother Owen in a freak accident, the drug abuse of his fellow comrades, a concussion, a divorce, and - in 2002 - a debilitating stroke after a bicycle fall.

In other words, my childhood hero is human, just like the rest of us, and that's helped me to respect him even more.

His autobiography lays the imperfections out there: infidelity, a bit of drug and steroid abuse, a chaotic family life. Still, when seen against the tableau of what was going on in the rest of the wrestling world, Bret Hart's life was pretty tame. That's why it's such a shame to read about what's happened to him since the glory days.

My fear, like his, is that his legacy will somehow be erased - that people younger than me won't remember what a great performer Bret Hart was.

I suppose that's why, after I returned from Los Angeles, I immediately hit Amazon and bought his book. For my own mind, I wanted to hear Bret Hart's story. Maybe it's my dread that my best days are behind me now, or some strange need for nostalgia, when I watched a purer form of wrestling entertainment than what's on TV now.

Whatever. It's been great to relive the days of my boyhood hero. After all, when you grow up with few male role models around, you look up to what's available at the time. Bret Hart, a hero in his home country of Canada, was one of them.

Of course wrestling is staged and the outcomes are pre-determined. Telling that to a wrestling fan is like telling your parents Santa Claus doesn't exist. It doesn't take away the fun, and it doesn't take away the real people behind all the hooplah and exhibition. They get hurt and they have problems and they deal with real life just like the rest of us do.

To me, Bret Hart was more real than most.

Here's to you, Hitman.

Dave Lawrence earns Jackson Magazine's '30 and Under'

Yup, that's me.

I was honored to receive Jackson Magazine's "30 and Under" honor - a special profile section of young professionals in Jackson, MI.

The magazine profile tells about my involvement with Recycling Jackson and Rotary, and my environmental efforts at work.

Changing life's guitar strings

I haven't changed my guitar strings in years. My electric guitar has been sitting in its case for at least two years, while my acoustic still hasn't forgiven me for my neglect - even though I've picked it up more often these past few weeks.

Old strings, though, they break a little easier. They're cruddy and grimy and - if you haven't played in a while - are a bit out of tune. New strings not only look shiny and new, but they feel like it, too.

But old strings feel better. You remember the time you strung this new set into your guitar. You remember all the songs you've played on them, in front of people or alone, and the ghosts of those songs play in the ether somewhere. Most of the time, your strings will only get changed out of necessity. Either they break or they become unplayable - whatever. Still, you wouldn't change them if you didn't have to.

I think about change a lot these days. I think about how our world is changing in ways we don't even recognize, and we won't recognize how everything has changed until years later. Time equals a critical eye. Only later will we realize the sand is shifting beneath us.

A Time article has me thinking about how work is changing, and my visit out to see Andrew (and our conversations in LA) just solidified the whole thing. Freelancers are becoming the norm. A "stable job" is a rare, shy beast these days. I see it at work now. Pensions are a thing of the past, benefits are being cut or eliminated, and only recently have our 401(k)s begun to recover. Things are weird out there.

It's humbling (which, I argue, is a good thing).

Like some hippo in the Niger River, I've adapted to be wary of these kinds of changes. But lately that's changed. I'm more willing to go with the groove, and less likely to stay in the water where it's cool and safe. It's probably out of necessity. I read about things like burnout and I think, "Man, that could be me."

One thing that hasn't changed is my love of trophies and certificates. I know I'm a vain person, and I deal with it in ways that I hope aren't cloying to others, but man - give me an piece of etched glass and I glow. Very Gen Y, right? But it's always been that way. I collected awards in college like Jay Leno collects cars.

In that respect, this year has been terrific. Three national credit union awards, two state-wide credit union awards, and now my "30 and Under" designation - it's enough to make anyone's grandma annoy total strangers for longer and longer periods of time (take mine, please).

But even all that's not enough to keep me happy. Nope. For once, the prospect of change is the stuff excitement is made of. For the first time in my life, I'm embracing the idea of "different."

I'm working on changing life's guitar strings. The current ones are brittle and ready to break. Yes, they're comfortable, and yes, they still sound okay. But I can't wait around until they snap.

It's time to be proactive. I need a brighter sound.

Criticism is a good thing

John Siracusa, from Ars Technica, in his post "Hypercritical":

How is it that Pontiac and Oldsmobile managed to find their way into the hearts and minds of consumers (ask your parents about it) while perfectly competent Dell and HP have not? I contend that it's at least partly because the auto industry has enjoyed a rich history of subjective, high-quality criticism, while the technology industry has been busy measuring megahertz and counting bits.

Siracusa's answer to "feeling" in the PC biz is, of course, Apple. "Devoted customers? Subjective quality over objective specifications? Feelings? Yep, that's Apple," he says.

It's something I know from my work as a writer. I'm infinitely more capable of critiquing someone else's work (as I did as a writing center tutor in college, and as the editor of a newspaper) than I am of finding fault with my own. Given time, I can always find better ways to say something. But at that time, looking at that printed page, I usually fail to find what others can easily spot.

The important thing is to have an opinion, not just some opinion. Siracusa explains:

Even at the extreme end of the spectrum, I have a few kindred spirits. In fact, most geeks have this inclination to some degree, even if it's just nitpicking logical or scientific flaws in a favorite TV show or movie. This is actually a skill worth developing. Have you ever met someone who holds strong opinions but is completely incapable of explaining them? "I really hated that book." "Why?" "I don't know, I just didn't like it." Who wants to be that guy? That's no way to live.

To be educated is to be critical, and education provides the framework for us to think about why something is shit versus not-shit.

Life gets better, my thinking goes, when we work out the flaws - even the little ones - of bad work while at the same time living with "good enough" when it matters. The hard part is knowing the difference.

Now for something completely different.

Next week, I face the first week-long vacation of my adult life where I have no plans.

I've never taken time off from work and done nothing.

By "nothing" I mean no cross-country trip, of course. My first dose of vacation time took to me my first solo trip, a long weekend in Chicago, and from then on it's been 1,000 miles or more. It's the only way I know how to operate.

But it's not like I have "nothing" to do. I've got an entire list of projects, errands, and favors I can attend to. In fact, I plan to use some of my time off to plan my next giant interstate (or inter-province) trip.

Through May, I'm using the last of my remaining vacation time. There's an entire week off next week, and then there's a five-day weekend for Memorial Day later this month. For that, I've had a few ideas. I've wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail, so I thought about heading down to the Tennessee/North Carolina border and roughing it. Yosemite National Park is also on my to-see list. Part of my big end-of-July trip involves me actually having money, however, and each of those trips seemed costly. What's a budget-minded person to do?

Here's the beauty of Facebook: I planned a long weekend in Los Angeles with Andrew thanks to a few wall postings. How's that for planning? All it will cost me is the plane ticket and money for food. And perhaps a Dodgers game.

All that's in the future. Next week, though, I plan on tying up any loose ends in my life. That includes thinking seriously and deeply about what I want to do with the next five years. Where do I want to work? Where do I want to live? What else do I want to do?

My mom's death left me introspective. It's not that I didn't see it coming, but I realized that I've been stuck in a rut. Mom dying woke me out of it. So from here on out, I'm not going to be so nervous about trying on new things, tasting new experiences, and quit living life day to day as I have been.

We get comfortable. You've probably felt it yourself.

Then we wake up 20 years down the road and have a lot of unchecked items off our big To-Do List. I don't want that to happen.

So that's what I'll do next week: work on the next big project. I'll have plenty of free time to think, do, and plan.

On resting, and living, in peace.

My mother passed away last Wednesday. She left us peacefully, in her sleep.

Her death stands in stark contrast to the freewheeling life she led. Us kids, my oldest sister and me, were merely along for the ride.

Many that know me know that I cut off any relationship with my mom in high school. It wasn't due to any lack of love, but I had my own self-preservation to think about. A decent life could not co-exist with my mom.

I've reacted to the news the way anyone would react to the death of a long-lost aunt or distant cousin. There's that tickle in the brain when you lose someone you love but have no real relationship with: it hurts a little, but only a little.

I just finished reading The Grapes of Wrath, and in the book the character of Ma Joad becomes the head of the family after instability rocks the ground underneath the Joad men. Through her steady hand and strong will, Ma Joad becomes the solid foundation of the Joad "fambly" - despite the move cross-country to a state full of unknowns.

My own life has lacked one continuous "Ma Joad" figure. When I was young, my Grandma Bonnie (my mother's mother) was there for me. As I grew up, my Grandma Maxine (my dad's mother) and my Grandpa Bill (my mother's grandfather) helped me along until I moved in with my dad right before high school. I needed the help because my own mother was the anti-Ma Joad: a constant source of chaos, instability, and high drama.

But all that is gone, now.

My sister gave me an old photo album Monday night, when her, my grandma, and me paid respects to my mom in our own, traditional way. Inside were pictures from when my parents were still together and I was a newborn. These pictures, combined with many others I have from my childhood, reveal the chimera that was my mother. Sweet, fun-loving, easy to laugh - this is what I remember and saw in those pictures. In fact, it's obvious that she cared about me as a baby. Then there was the ugly side.

Which is why looking through the pictures points out my mom's tragedy. A person so vibrant and so happy eventually ruined her own life with drugs and alcohol. Things could have been so much different.

As it was, I never had that sense of "fambly" or stability that I read about in Grapes. I attended 10 different elementary schools, three in the 5th grade, and four different junior highs. We lived in more houses and apartments that I can remember. We were homeless for a while. Life was a whirlwind, and that kind of living has a tremendous effect on kids.

So there are other things, besides pictures, that my mother left us. For myself, I've learned over the years that I have a neurotic attachment to stability. I have my schedule, and my routine, and I hate it when things don't go "according to plan." I show up early, and I fucking hate moving. The direct result of my mother's chaotic life was an aversion to chaos; I swung toward order and ritual, and I swung hard.

My sister - my poor, poor sister - is another story entirely. She bore the full brunt of my mother's behavior, and she deals with the consequences ever day. And because she never left my mother behind, my sister is having the most trouble dealing with my mom's death.

But even she said, at dinner the other night, "I kind of feel relieved."

This is the legacy of my mom. Being with her was like living in Florida, knowing there's a high possibility that a strong hurricane would come and blow your shit out to sea.

I chose to up and move to my dad's when I was 14, in search of a stable household and a parent who didn't abuse themself or those around them, but I'm sure in some ways my mom never left me. She was always outside the boarded-up windows I built for myself, howling away and wrecking havok.

It's sad that we all feel relieved now that she's dead, because we should be feeling something else. Not sadness, not peace, but that we lost something important to our lives.

That's not how it happened, and so I haven't felt much at all in the week since she's been gone. I did such a good job of keeping her out of my life for the past few years that I didn't really lose anything when she passed. She was gone to begin with, in my eyes.

Now she's finally at peace. And so am I.