This perfectly mediocre picture may elicit mixed reactions. For me, another Amazon package arriving might make me excited about my new thing…angry about their wasteful deliveries and packaging…sad about all the local, face-to-face businesses that have died…and worried about materialism, neighborhoods, and their underpaid employees.

Travel can take you away from these worries. And my next major-league BreakAway should be Amazon-free—where no giant PRIME trucks block quiet streets. Where children don’t consume on their phones as a routine pastime. And where chirpy shopkeepers take pride in running a family business, and somehow make a living doing so.

I’ve been to these places—and hope you have too. The villages of Italy. The ports of the Caribbean. Small towns in the Midwest. And independent countries all over the planet that think outside the envelope. Meantime: I’m guilty as charged. When you need a THING, it’ll magically appear on your door the next day. May you shop in interesting times.

Earlier this month, some powerful Apple shareholders (including teacher retirement funds) raised a stink about the addictive-ness of the iPhone, particularly for youth. Then they went back to their abacuses and high-fived themselves for 1) saying the right thing; 2) making 50% gains on Apple in the last year and; 3) finally figuring out how to use their iPhones.

Has anyone else about had it with Apple? I have. That makes me a brazen hypocrite because I depend on these toys and tools too. BUT BUT BUT. This Apple-head feels bruised to the core. I’m on screens too much—and more all the time—and still I barely can keep up with the flow. I’m sickened by my own kids’ (and millions of others) absolute inability to put them down—and weary of being That Guy who actually still nags about it.

• A history of innovation and…what, exactly?

As for that savvy corporation, it’s too easy to be unimpressed with Apple’s record of addressing crappy conditions in factories abroad, modest pay for US employees despite their profit-per-employee (~$400K), and an uninspiring track record of doing anything much for the public good with their billions of profits and cash.

Shall we arrange a lunch (or must it be “coffee?”) with Messieurs Gates and Buffett, Mr. Macintosh?

And what about the recent expose’ that new phone operating systems intentionally make your old phone run slower? And fry your battery? Planned obsolescence is one thing, but forced? This is a new level of customer discourtesy. Corporation over consumer. Profit over service. Greed over good.

Elmer L. Anderson, a great Minnesotan who ran a large company and has passed on, preached the simplicity of successful business and ethics: First, take good care of the customer. Second, nurture your employees. And if you do those things well, then third: Profits will follow.

While we liberal-ish culties happily diss other giants in other industries for their shady ways, we can’t conceive of a bad Apple. Instead, we gossip like little girls about the Next Big Thing (is it called the Ten of the X!?!) and line up for hours in hopes of obtaining one before, well, before you do!

The fanaticism might compare to football fans who watch their heroes get quickly and quietly hauled off the field with torn ACLs, shattered bones, and chronic concussions that morph into a lifetime of pain and mental hell. We care little beyond how it affects wins while we suck down $15 beers and scream, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

• Closer to home

But that’s all on the Big Screen, or at least the Big Stage. Around here (which would be most anywhere), you can’t walk into Chipotle without seeing a gaggle of people eating alone, tapping away, spilling salsa on their device, and mumbling (reading?) to themselves like President Trump singing The National Anthem.

You just know they take it to the toilet with them, too. And the bed, car, and classroom. Don’t google how many people fondle their phones while having sex.

This parent and teacher has sat through training and straight-faced discussions about Nomophobia. It’s a thing. So…Yep. It’s the educators’ job now to gently empathize with the students’ anxiety about not having access to their phones. That’s IF you make them put it away, that is. And good luck with that. (They’ll just surf the same stuff on their computers—maybe half-pretending to take notes. Maybe.)

• Kids these days!

All to say: Kids these days! Kids! It’s so much worse than our worst fears. Conversation comes and goes, but it ain’t what it used to be. When youth gather, the chatter often revolves around something from the phone. The biggest giggles will be inspired by the screen.

Their lives happen on their screens. Screens light them up. Like coke excites cokeheads. But at some point, it’s fails to be so fun. Because now it’s an addiction. Life is difficult without it.

• Old (but at least not fake) news

Of course, this is not news. Nor is the notion that this stuff is addictive, and the brain reacts just like it does for, say, booze, blow, and opioids. Opioids: Now there’s a national crisis for you. But I wonder if opioids will kill more innocents than distracted drivers on their phones? I wonder which will harm more relationships? I wonder which will be called a dreadful crisis and which will be considered cool?

I wonder which will make the most people rich?

My phone gets plenty of use. But I try to practice tough-love self-discipline about how, when, where, and how much I use it.

I wish that didn’t make me feel so alone and alarmed.

The Amazon Christmas ad running lately features smiling, otherwise faceless boxes travelling from a robo-warehouse to a little girl. It’s a fine ad that no doubt brought prosperous smiles to some ad agency. And that about sums up what Christmas has become, eversomuchmoreso, every year.

There was a time when the dominant imagery was about singing carols, trimming trees, decorating cookies, and gathering friends and families. Now, one may have to seek to find those icons in the media, on the streets, or even in your own home.

President Trump has made a thing lately of announcing that the “War on Christmas” is over, with his minions (elves?) oh-so happy to cheer him on and foist new, post-MAGA signage confirming same. Yet this only seems to re-declare the ongoing war on Christmas. But there is good news: The upcoming new tax code will bring much, much more profit to Amazon and Companies.

Most people’s childhoods are like life itself: A complex quilt of sensual recollections, for better and for worse. The holidays rank right up there. But with any luck, there were dark evenings with twinkling lights, hungry afternoons making home-baked cookies, and silent nights of singing traditional songs. Grandma made it so.

Having been out running errands today, Christmas shopping looks alive, if unwell. The stores are mostly chaotic, Big-Box voids. The underpaid workers look and act like the walking dead. The merchandise is strewn about like the bulls just left the building. And many stores don’t even seem to bother decorating.

Cue back to that commercial. Indeed, the most familiar holiday sound this X-mas may be the r-r-r-r-rip of opening Amazon boxes. Who packed it? Did anyone wrap it? Who was so thoughtful to go click click click, or did you just order it yourself? There is one difference, though: I’ve never seen a real box smile. Nor anyone opening one that came via a faceless delivery service.

Still, still, still, Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Hug your living relatives. And pray for peace on earth. Amen.

As another Hallmark holiday happens, I pat myself on the back (this time) because I remembered to send a gift—one that I know my dad will enjoy. One hopes this makes up for the dozens of times I probably forgot to even call. With every passing year, I appreciate my dad more and feel grateful he’s still kickin’, fishin’, and golfin’.

This dad can only hope my kids feel approximately the same way, now or later. And as for gifts, I’ll take an unplugged Sunday supper—with all devices put away. Maybe help me with the gardens (I have too many). And, oh yeah, cook me dinner: procure, prep, serve, clean up and put everything away. PBJ will do. Just prove you could feed yourself if I kick the bucket list– and lavish me with five KP-free hours.

• Dads who rock: Caught in a hard place

A recent WashPost article highlights the rise of the “stay-at-home” dads; a Pew Research Center study found that the number has doubled over the past 25 years. Some dad-advocate groups, meanwhile, contend that the actual number is much higher.

First, let’s acknowledge the stupidity of the label, “stay-at-home.” I mean, what parent raising their kids as a primary purpose lounges around their crib? They’re erranding, heading out for activities, volunteering at schools and daycares, and managing logistics that might rival a wedding planner in these crazy-busy times.

Frankly, it can be a pretty sucky job. Several studies—that focus on moms, naturally—have found an alarmingly high incidence of depression in professional moms who take lengthy career breaks to raise children. I remember one touching essay by a mom longing to get back to work. By most mid-afternoons, she felt like burning down the messy house and swilling her first glass of wine.

Yet for dads, not only has the chief-parent option been largely discouraged, the unflattering stigma has kept many men from even considering the possibility. So how come—for decades now—women’s lib has been letting them roar and gradually march toward both equality and freedoms of choice, while men have been expected to work work work?

We’ve fought for the rights of women, minorities, gays, the disabled, and more. But the mere mention of asking for improvement in areas where dads often get short-shrifted (like primary-parenting and custody) elicits snark, disbelief, or even anger from, well, many women.

Meanwhile, women can now, with any luck, choose between work, parenting, and yes, career breaks. Speaking of, it’s no coincidence that research finds that the vast majority of career breakers are women. Same holds true for maternity/paternity leaves. Don’t like it, men? Shut up and get back to work.

• No one gains from oppression

So on this Father’s Day, I salute the admirable way that males have adapted to radical gender role changes at a rapid pace—and generally welcomed women into the workspace, the sports fields, and the VIP positions. Above all, I commend the dads, “stay-at-home” or otherwise, for the countless ways they put others first to make the world a better place.

My dad worked his butt off—with full-time positions featuring long hours and moonlighting jobs to boot. But he was always there for me—and he still is.

That holds true for millions of dads in this country, and billions more worldwide. So happy Father’s Day, guys. You rock. Let’s just hope that, in the future, that increasingly includes the option of rocking your children to sleep, while putting your day job on hold.

Vacations. P-shaw! People keep sending me balderdashian articles about the need to take a few weeks off every year, if only a few days at a time, and one wonders why they spend so much time worrying about other peoples’ spare time when they could be getting things done. Anyway, vacations are for the meek and sluggish.

Let us dispel some myths about this Pollyanna utopia that one allegedly lands at when, say, you pack your bags and fly to Vegas or Cabo or San Fran or wherever.

Myth #1: Vacations offer rest. This, of course, is poppycock—since vacations stress the already over-stressed routine, require months of planning, days of packing, and hours of travel—often on jets with bad air, dangerous food (if any at all), and seats the size of one butt cheek. Once “there,” simple but essential acts like procuring Subway and finding a toilet can be a chore. The R&R happens when you finally get home and collapse back into your harried life.

Myth #2. Vacations are affordable. You kidding me? You gotta buy gas to drive anywhere, if only to your uncle’s musty cabin. And what about sandals and straw hats and Tommy Bahama shirts for the cruise or beach? And airfare and sleeps? Better to save your hard-earned cash for more important things, like big cars, Myley Cyrus concerts, and the newest iPhone.

Myth #3. You meet interesting people. Nonsense! Vacationers (and the people who serve/sell to them) are unrealistic dweebs who like to set aside sanity for careless silliness. Take this guy. He’s been living on St. John, entertaining lazy grinners, making guitars out of cigar boxes, and mastering his own musical style for years. Poor guy. He could have been a banker in North Dakota and gotten rich on the oil boom.

Myth #4. You bond with family. Yeah, so what? Who doesn’t get enough family? Why go play Frisbee or make castles on some beach when you already spent the holidays with them? Stay home and stay in your room—after you take out the garbage and shovel the driveway, that is!

Myth #5. Vacations encourage exploration. Ya sure, you can leave your comfort zone and go swim with man-stinging rays or climb rocks. But those are slippery slopes—and you could get your eye poked out. Stay home, I say, and keep up with your BookFace and SnifChat and GetIntoMe accounts. There’s SO much to explore online!

We’ve only just begun. This topic grows more vital daily—as frozen Americans fly recklessly away for warm “escapes” to potential doom and destruction.

Stay tuned, and stay home. Part 2 will be forthcoming before you can make a risky plan to get away…

 

 

 

 

Who are these a-holes shutting down the government? Don’t they know 800,000 just-folks employees depend on their paychecks? That millions more work on the food chain that serves them? That our economy (which has been though quite enough lately) could lurch back into near-depression?

This website avoids getting political. Until, of course, we’re mad as hell and can’t take it any more. I mean: This country has flaws, but dang it, we do good work. And for our hard work, we get an occasional day off. A vacation. Maybe even a career break (of our own choosing, not Uncle Sam’s). And with any luck, retirement before the c-word or heart attacks strike us down.

Speaking of: It’s about a healthcare law that a few troublemakers don’t like. They don’t want to provide; they want to Just Say No. They don’t care that it’s been debated for decades. Gradually (almost) phased in with tedious compromise and consternation. And even passed our Supreme Court’s smell test—the same Supreme Court that has otherwise has leaned right and sucked up inappropriate power for a long time. Our founding fathers would puke, regardless of party affiliation. Let’s get on to the next spat.

Americans are a blissfully blithe bunch. But this citizen can’t say, “How are you?” today without somebody expressing anxiety. An admirable centrist shows anger. A probation employee wonders when his “grace period” might expire. A radio report compares us to Italy. Italy? It’s a great place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to vote there.

Last Friday night, under the lights, I watched a high-school football player go down hard with a possible neck or back injury. Action stopped for a dreadfully silent hour while trainers and coaches did their best, an ambulance eventually arrived, and they boarded him and drove off to the hospital.

Who knows if he has health insurance? If his family doesn’t, the tab on that unfortunate stumble probably runs around in the thousands—before any serious care might occur. Does our nation not want to take care of innocent pre-schoolers, minimum-wage workers, and high-school athletes?

Guess not. In fact, let’s shut the world’s largest employer down over this tired argument. Let’s drag down the whole nation—nay!—the whole free world!—while these arrogant, ignorant, belligerent butt-heads play war games with our daily trust at stake.

Never been a fan of Merr-ka’s gun laws. But supposedly, they were created to keep the government in check, which made sense at the time. Maybe it’s time again. If we march and throw them into the Potomac River, there will be no government guards to protect them.

Twice this week, while on the phone trying to expedite matters of consequence that had become stalled, this was what my teleconference-mate told me.

“Uh, okay, as you wish,” was my delayed response—though I secretly wanted to teleport myself to them, bonk their cranium with the telephone, and not leave their face until we’d solved the matter.

• What we have here…

is a failure to communicate. And to collaborate, create, and connect. Call me crazy, but I miss the days when life happened in real time, face to face. Now, a relentless chore we all face is simply dealing with our inboxes. Our texts. And our calendroids.

How did THEY ever survive when, as in my grandparents’ time, food was planted and canned and cooked for every meal? When communication was by visiting your neighbors or going to town (until that new-fangled “party line” arrived)? When entertainment was swapping stories in the sitting room (before radio wowed the masses)?

• Do you ever wonder…

If “send me an email” really means, “Leave me alone. I’m busy with my screen right now.”

If “kids these days” will know how to endure decades of marriage that (to work) require ongoing communication, compromise, and commitment?

If “kids these days” are getting short-shrifted when they sit around texting, even when gathered together; where’s the mischief and laughter in that?

If texting as a now-dominant form of communication comes close to conveying the detail, nuance, and emotion that can make even little moments (if I may) amazing?

If online teaching can match the rigors and surprises of a convivial classroom experience? (Two friends have started new gigs in this growing field, whereas I love the challenge and exhilaration of teaching a classroom full of living, babbling millennials).

• LIFE goes on…

Fortunately, both of my emails did get replies. The matters got resolved. Life goes on.

But this reluctant screen-stronaut longs for living that happens in real time, and in your face—like these Italian gentlemen enjoying la dolce vita. It’s raining and they’re late for lunch. But they might blow smoke in each other’s face until happy hour, and then head the bar to continue the conversation with a few dozen amici.

To them, I lean in, clink our glasses loudly, and shout, “Salute’!” To those who keep saying send me an email/text me/check your inbox, I retort, “Vada via!”*

* Italian for “Go away.”

 

 

Let’s face it, nobody’s going to the bank preaching the gospel of career breaks; they just haven’t swept our cultural consciousness (yet!)…

That said, I hope and believe that most folks find a way to get their yayas out now and again.

So I’m introducing a new series that salutes and comments on various forms of leisure. Even when some of those releases seem peculiar to the rest of us.

• Today, we take Harley Davidson for a ride.

That rough, tough, renegade brand of mega-motorcycles screams independence, ruggedness, and machismo louder than 100 Harleys on the open highway, right?

Well, maybe. Yet a handful of impressions and experiences make this bike-skeptic question that. Like, there was that time when I was about 10 and a (truly nasty) biker gang was passing through the lake region where my family was vacationing. I ended up walking by dozens of them, and some made sexual slurs at me. That’s intimidating and mean, sure. But, really? These scary, dangerous dudes had to resort to bullying a pre-pubescent boy? I was frightened, for sure. But not impressed.

These days, large Harley stores—you see them outside of many towns—look rather like bricky Wal-Marts. One rarely sees much activity there. I’ve read that Harley makes more money on clothes and stuff than on actual bikes now. That makes sense. Doesn’t it seem you see way more Harley regalia than actual motorcycles?

Harley Davidson has gone from symbolizing unconventional free-spiritedness to a sort of clipped-wing conformity. It’s hit-the-road, fantasy fashion statements for folks who are stuck in their recliner watching football and working on their beer guts (if we pass by the actual biker gangs).

The people I do know who own Harleys (and wear the attire) go for a ride, oh, maybe once a month, in the warm months. They do sometimes ride to that huge Sturgis rally though—in their pickups and motor homes and SUVs that tow their bikes behind until they get to a nearby truck stop and then—SHAZAMM!—they ditch their comfort and climb on their uber-bike. Is that hot, or what?

In other words, Harley seems anymore like a brand that doesn’t have a lot of “there” there. Still, my I tip my leather cap to them for creating such an American myth. I love that they’re made in Milwaukee, a cool town I once lived in. And I can even say that my dad used to ride one—until, legend has it, he wrecked it in a head-on collision.

In closing, I do hope Harley fans are having fun in Hog heaven. And yet I ask, have you ever seen a Harley-head smile?

A meager 6-day BreakAway was all the Gods were willing to offer in atonement for this heinous, interminable winter. And though I really shouldn’t complain, I will—as the retreat became Dickensian in a fractional way: 5/6 the best of times, 1/6 the worst:  after I brought home a case of severe E. coli (along with some charming souvenirs).

I’ve spent many moments trying to pinpoint what food (or water or ice) item made my body go much further south than Mazatlan. But I blame myself.

This winter-blues daddy-o has taken the M train at least 6-8 times now with nary a scary fart. So it’s no surprise that my one-time divine canons of foreign-country travel hygiene washed away years ago, while even Guidebook 101 common sense seemed superfluous.

All to say, I had a great time. Travel is MUCH more fun (and relaxing) when you don’t worry about the dangers that lurk around every corner, cocina, and ceviche. So in celebration of that free-spiritedness we all crave—that may work forever or fail you at any moment—here are some ways to throw caution to the ill wind and maybe, just maybe, make yourself sick in Mexico.

• Drink the water. Oh sure, you could always buy your own bottle. But doesn’t every hacienda worth its peso already purify their own?
• Underhydrate. I always—always!—carry water and sip. But I guess I took a vacation from that practice, too.
• Drink too much. Their wine lists are lousy. And I don’t love most Mexican beer. But smiling Mexicanos kept bringing me more anyway.
• Eat raw fish. Tuna? Mahi? Scallops? Shrimp? Sure. They’re abundant.  And so fresh they don’t need flame. Throw in a few more I can’t pronounce. Refrigerators are cool, but not always visible there.
• Eat whole fish. Nothing better. Just keep scraping that flesh right off the bone and eat everything but the eyeballs.
• Eat big salads. Finally! Some eateries are serving ample, fancy veggies. Some say skip the salad course when south of the border, but, naaaaahhh…
• Take leftovers home. Why not? They might be your lunch sitting poolside tomorrow!
• Buy pre-prepared meals at the OXXO (think 7-11). They look pretty good. They’re cheap. And God knows you don’t go to Mexico to cook!
• Eat ingredients that generally disagree with you. I hate onions and garlic. And they hate me. In Mexico, everything includes onions and garlic.
• Get tons of sun. Mexico has an endless source. And they share. We vacationers are just making up for lost shine.
• Skip washing your hands or using antiseptic. What if the water’s not pure? BYO Purell! (If you think of it.)
• Shake hands a lot. Donald Trump doesn’t do it, and calls it barbaric. For the rest of us, though, it’s typically just low-risk politeness.
• Eat and drink at several venues a day. After all, you can’t cross a street without stumbling into another bar—and many are truly alluring.
• Use toilets anywhere and everywhere. Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.
• Sleep erratically. Those waves are LOUD! Anyway, who goes to the coast to spend those precious hours in bed?
• Repeat daily. (And nightly.)

Funny thing is, at about the time that Mr. Belly started mumbling, we were sitting in Mazatlan’s best restaurant, Topolo, eating a divine invention that included about five pounds of chopped raw ahi, wasabi, ginger, avocado, capers, cuke—and NO onion or garlic! It went perfectly with Negra Modelo.

Some sad, aging woman was quizzing the waiter about their water and ice and all, “I was just sick for a week!” Moments later, an email arrived from an elder rellie who wondered if he should come to Maz for a golf gathering, “Or is there too much food-borne illness?”

I pooh-poohed such paranoia, slurped some more silky tuna, and ordered another cerveza. The rest is a blur, though I remember a delirious 103-degree fever followed by the worst travel day ever.

Back home on the still-snow-covered tundra, Mr. Belly is gradually moving beyond Gatorade and rice. Meanwhile, Mr. Heart can’t wait to get Back to Mexico.

Ideally, the teen years should be a time of finding your freedom, growing with gusto and hanging with friends (no, not the app). Sadly, those “Happy Days” have devolved instead into an extended chapter of school stress, sports madness, and window-dressing for college. If this is how we prepare our kids for the Real World, we may be failing.

In the local paper today, writer Aimee Blanchette profiles some “Superscheduled” high-schoolers aspiring to be super-achievers—with possible pit stops not only at the coffee shop and energy-drink stand, but also in mental breakdown, illness, and insomnia disorders.

The article barely mentions the straw breaking many a youth’s back (and bank): digital devices and addiction. I mean, have you seen how students study these days? It’s not easy—and often takes three screens (TV, laptop, phone) just to get started! At least 75% of teens have their own phone toy now.

• Hey, we parents suffer too!

Let’s not get lost in a rant here. But really, has anyone written the story about parents who have compromised or surrendered their career (and other) hopes to, instead, drive drive drive, coach, fund-raise, serve pasta feeds, sell concessions, and usher their kids to lessons and injury-fixing doctors? For this, we needed higher degrees?

Has anyone done the research on the less-privileged students whose parents can’t drop everything to make their future rosy and their high-protein meals mobile?

Has anyone proven within a reasonable doubt that all this chasing super-performance truly amounts to success in future years? Does this student earn more money? Create more innovations? Attain more contentment? Make the world a better place?

Or do they just burn out? Let’s not even get started on the epidemic of high-school athletes who quit because they’re just sick of it (perhaps literally). Or the age-old risk of high-test teens turning to substance abuse to escape agony and find ecstasy.

• Will it matter in 10 years?

At any age, that’s a good question to ask yourself when you’re worrying about something—but especially when you’re over-working on something. We Americans are obsessed with believing that whatever we’re doing is profoundly important. And right. And urgent.

Well, try this chill pill: Maybe it’s not. Get over yourself—before it’s too late. This website promotes finding one’s passion in free time, travel, and career breaks. Yet most folks don’t even take advantage of their modest vacation days.

Even superscheduled superachievers still face setbacks like super-recessions. 50% of college students are living at home. 21% of college grads have boomeranged back to their hometown bedroom. Too many are flipping burgers at McBurger or greeting bargain hunters at TarMart.

Meanwhile, student debt has surpassed credit card debt. Something is broke(n) here, indeed.

Anyway, shouldn’t college be not only a time to learn about making millions, but also a time to learn about pleasure, exploration, and growth? Heck, you’ve got your whole life to work and worry. Let your higher education be a big punctuation mark. A period. Of evolution. Transformation. And hedonism (if not then, when?).

• LWWY

Thank God we have boy bands like One Direction to sing us carefree, bouncy songs like, “Live While We’re Young.” Youth flies away fast enough as it is; why become a fretful curmudgeon before your time? THAT kind of precociousness is not a gift!

“We’re about to make some memories,” sings One Direction. Kids, make sure those memories include beaches, banter, and laughter—not just libraries and calendar-dependence.

Or as the multi-dimensional thought-leaders 1D summarize the whole high-stakes quandary,

Don’t overthink; just let it go.”