fumbling for change

the curative power of bitterness

Fri, 8 May 2009 15:26:21 -0700

For a while, I sold booze. (Hang on for this one: You have to get to the end for it to make any sense.)

Now, don't get excited. I wasn't a moonshiner, though I've more than once fantasized about rocketing through the back roads of Alabama in a souped-up 1970 Chevelle SS 396, with the revenuers in hot pursuit.

It was nothing like that. I wore a jacket and tie and flogged cases of cheap wine and low-end spirits in airplane bottles to bored Yemeni shopkeepers in the seedier neighborhoods of San Francisco.

Commendably, many of the liquor-sales jobs in California are unionized, and I was a Teamster during this short phase. One of the well-intended points of our contract stipulated that management could only compel us to attend on meeting per month. Management scrupulously held up their end of the bargain and only called us together twelve times each year.

Of course, each of these meetings was ten hours long. And they occurred in hotel ballrooms, where the doors were locked from the outside. Caterers delivered three meals a day: Danishes sealed in plastic, fruit grown without the assistance of the sun, and great troughs of refried beans, all washed down with water glasses of undiluted gin, tequila, and flavored rum--and the occasional cup of acrid hotel coffee. From time to time, one brand of spirits or the other would field a troop of coeds in bikinis to wander through the ballroom dumping shots down our throats from little glasses they wore on lanyards around their necks. In our weakened states, deprived of fresh air, natural light, and the ability to move around freely, we could neither be aroused or appalled by the young women's antics, however our sensibilities might have inclined us.

I have only one pleasant memory of this phase of my life, and it happens to be associated with one of these meetings (and, no, it had nothing to do with the Cuervo Girls.)

Do you know about Fernet Branca? It's kind of a cult digestif, hugely popular in Buenos Aires and San Francisco. It's a brown, bitter liquid, forty percent alcohol and vaguely minty. I'm being charitable when I tell you that it tastes spectacularly, splendidly bad.

Anyway, the area brand manager from Branca products was a regular speaker at these epic meetings. To tell the truth, I can't remember the guy's name to save my life, but I think it was Chuck--and that will just have to do.

No one could envy Chuck his job. They guy had to feed his children by convincing people to buy, serve, and consume liquor that tasted for all the world like battery acid (or, at least, what I imagine battery acid tastes like.)

Chuck was totally forgettable to look at--shortish, thinning hair, spare tire, pretty average features. But the man had the charisma and rhetorical flourish of Southern preacher. He would come to the podium with a Jagger-esque swagger, put his hands in the air, and fire flew from his fingertips. He literally glowed.

He didn't sell Fernet, he preached it. It cured his acne. Pouring the stuff on their nests got rid of carpenter ants. Just having a bottle in the house or bar would keep bill collectors away and was sure proof against kitchen fires. Fernet Branca could get you up in the morning and put you to bed at night. If you had, it would fix it. Hallelujah.

You just wanted to believe the guy. And if you had any doubts, they were dispelled when, at the end of the show, Chuck performed his miracle.

"I've been drinking Fernet Branca since I was seven years old," he'd cry. "And this is what it has done for me!"

With that, Chuck would turn in profile to the howling audience. He would start to do a kind of chicken dance, pulsing his head far out over his chest. Then, in time to the thundering claps of the salespeople, Chuck would stick his tongue out and out and out, until he looked like a giraffe going after the really hard-to-reach leaves. To everyone's amazement, he would bend it up to cover his nose. And then--wait for it!--he would bend it down to cover his chin. His chin!

Two takeaways for those of you who read this stuff looking for self-help tips (I told you you had to hang on for this one):

The first, the lesser moral: Find hope, ye bungled and botched, in the story of Chuck the Branca rep and his double-jointed tongue! Here's a guy who managed to turn a physical anomaly into a career selling unpalatable swill to bartenders, restaurateurs, and shop keepers. And he sold at least enough to keep a roof over his head. So what if you can't hold a job, keep a relationship together, or manage to stop stealing? There is something valuable in you. You just need to learn to see it!

The second takeaway, though, is the real meat of the thing (but it involves a little more story):

Before I saw Chuck the first time, I'd never tried Fernet Branca. At the end of his presentation, Chuck gave away 50 ml bottles of the stuff for people to try (unlike the other brand people, he never encouraged us to taste his stuff while he was still in the room.) I left the meeting wanting more than anything to do a good job for this guy, and I wanted to really like the stuff he sold. I took it home, cracked the bottle, and dumped its contents over ice. I took a good swig.

And then I spit my first taste out in a huge aerosol cloud.

You see, Fernet is really, really disgusting. I'm not just making that up or trying for a cheap laugh. I couldn't keep the stuff down, but I really wanted to become a soldier in the service of Chuck. So I took another drink. And then another. In the coming months, I forced myself to swallow bottles of that astringent crap at restaurants and in bars.

And, lo and behold, I eventually started to actually like it.

And not only did I like it, but I discovered something about the stuff in the process. Fernet is kind of magical. It has the power to instantly resolve most digestive complaints (this, I'm told, is what the Italians rely on it for.) Though the stuff is bitter, or maybe because it's bitter, Fernet seems to have amazing curative powers (and now I must remind you that I'm not a doctor, and your mileage may vary.)

This long story popped into my head this morning as I read an article about the American Psychological Association's ongoing trouble with torture. The article continues to explore the extent to which psychologists put their training and expertise behind this despicable practice and whether the leadership of the APA colluded with former administrations, structuring ethics rules to give psychologists who abetted torture a get-out-of-jail-free card.

I have passing faith that the APA will do the right thing in time. At the very least, the investigations within that body are ongoing. Unless the current (and otherwise praiseworthy, IMHO) administration changes it tune, though, the investigations into the criminal use of torture authorized by the Bush Administration at the federal level are not. That really bothers me, and I hope it bothers you too.

Of course, there is a chorus of political voices that actually supports the use of torture. The less said about those folks, the better. Next to them, though, is a herd of "pragmatists," like Alberto Mora, who affirm the moral grounds for seeking justice for those responsible for the torture protocols but argue against doing so because of the political implications of such an inquest. In his 3 May 2009 article in the New York Times, Albert Hunt references Mora and remarks that the prosecution of Dick Cheney and other officials from the Bush Administration for crimes against humanity "would tear the country apart and set a dreadful precedent."

And maybe it would.

But what would this dreadful precedent be in the service of? From where I sit, it would serve the laudable purpose of cleansing my conscience of the stain that resulted when human beings were tortured--tortured!--in my name.

This isn't a political soapbox, though, so I'm going to let that one go.

I will say, though, that my experience has been that, sometimes, I have needed to swallow bitter stuff in order to start to cure what ails me, to get me to where ever it is that I want to.

Bitter: the frank acknowledgment of shortcomings.

Bitter: both sincere contrition and sincere forgiveness.

Bitter: the fact, indifferent to desire, that some things just won't get any better.

There's a lot of talk nowadays about acceptance. Good stuff on the whole from what I can tell. But I'm struck sometimes by what, exactly, it means to be truly accepting. It's all fine and well to say it. Doing it often really sucks. But learning to say yes to the world--all of the world, all of the time--seems like a useful endeavor to me.

I'm not there yet, but I'm trying.

If you've set out to do the same, I wish you all the best.

two boats and a helicopter: thoughts on stress management

Tue, 5 May 2009 13:35:28 -0700

Hold this thought gently as you read on: despite centuries of science, technology, and evolution; regardless of the miracles of medicine, psychology, and social development; irrespective of progress in all its forms, how you feel today probably has as much to do with whether the sun came out as anything else.

Okay, continue.

An old joke has stuck with me since I heard it, what? Twenty-five years ago, now? It goes like this:

A storm descends on a small town, and the downpour soon turns into a flood. As the waters
rise, the local preacher kneels in prayer on the church porch, surrounded by water. By and by,
one of the townsfolk comes up the street in a canoe.

"Better get in, Preacher. The waters are rising fast."

"No," says the preacher. "I have faith in the Lord. He will save me."

Still the waters rise. Now the preacher is up on the balcony, wringing his hands in supplication,
when another guy zips up in a motorboat.

"Come on, Preacher. We need to get you out of here. The levee's gonna break any minute."

Once again, the preacher is unmoved. "I shall remain. The Lord will see me through."

After a while the levee breaks, and the flood rushes over the church until only the steeple
remains above water. The preacher is up there, clinging to the cross, when a helicopter
descends out of the clouds, and a state trooper calls down to him through a megaphone.

"Grab the ladder, Preacher. This is your last chance."

Once again, the preacher insists the Lord will deliver him.

And, predictably, he drowns.

A pious man, the preacher goes to heaven. After a while he gets an interview with God, and he
asks the Almighty, "Lord, I had unwavering faith in you. Why didn't you deliver me from that
flood?"

God shakes his head. "What did you want from me? I sent you two boats and a helicopter."

Frankly, I think about this joke a lot more than I wish I did. This is, I suspect, because I have never fully absorbed the lesson it has to teach me. The joke popped into my head this morning, as I read an opinion piece in the Christian Science Monitor about life in Finland.

Helsinki is rather dull, the article's author, Trevor Corson, reports, and this is how the Finns like it. In exchange for the security of things like free health care and education, the Finns are apparently content to forgo many of the first-world luxuries that living life in the Rat Race affords us Americans. Also, the article reports, most Finns decamp the cities for austere cottages in the woods for five weeks each summer, where they life simpler still.

Granted, the author does mention that depression and alcoholism are endemic in Finland, and many Finns report low self-esteem. And the rate of adult suicide in Finland is about twice that of the US. But remember what I wrote earlier, about the sun? Note that, in some spots in Finland, the sun doesn't rise at all for fifty-one days each year.

This article was in my head when I stepped out of the shower to find my wife on the couch, covered in our two pugs, reading Frank Lipman's book Spent. Now, I haven't so much as opened Lipman's book, so I won't say anything about it. His publisher reports that in the book, Lipman "identifies the things in modern life that lead to energy depletion, such as stress, light deprivation [Ha ha! That explains the Finns' predicament!--TD], an erratic sleep schedule, and a diet high in sugar and processed foods."

Folding the book in her lap, my wife wondered aloud whether she might be addicted to sugar. I wondered whether her twelve-hour workdays and the restless Blackberry she keeps as a pet might be more central to the problem.

"What about Finland?" I asked her, and I related Corson's Op-Ed piece.

"When do we leave?" she asked.

We shared a nervous laugh. And then we both went off to work.

What was I thinking about on the way to the office? The-preacher-in-the-flood joke, of course. I imagined myself, heart sprung like a cheap watch, across the table from God:

"What's with the heart attack?" I demand.

"What did you want from he?" He replies. "I sent you yoga, Buddhism, Wordsworth, mindfulness
practice, road cycling, progressive relaxation, Brahms, acceptance and commitment therapy,
Monet, children's laughter, sunsets...[He talks for a really long time]...and even that damned
article about life in Finland."

I get the feeling that I missed my canoe a long time ago, and I waved away my motorboat too. I'm holding out hope for the helicopter, but we'll just have to wait and see. It's pretty obvious that knowing what's good for us isn't terribly helpful. Ever meet an alcoholic that didn't know he needed to quit drinking? An agoraphobic who didn't know he needed to leave the house? A sixty-hour-a-week business guy (or girl) who didn't, at a very intimate level, know that each evening ended in a sunset--and that the cost of missing five (or more) of them a week was going to be very, very dear?

Frankly, as a self-help writer, this poverty of knowledge leaves me feeling not a little disingenuous. I feel like I should be writing just one very short book: "You remember all those things we've already said? Do that."

As a guy fumbling for change, thought, recognizing the poverty of knowledge gives me a little hope. I'm getting comfortable with the fact that, try as I might, I'm not going to be able to read everything, absorb everything, figure everything (or anything) out. Instead, I'm going to try slowing down enough to be able to hear that voice calling to me through the megaphone from above.

And with that, I'll leave you. From my desk, it looks like the sun has come out. Finally.

starting off with a confession

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 17:01:44 -0700

About a month ago, Psychology Today asked me if I was interested in participating on their blog site. I happily accepted, encouraged that my publisher, New Harbinger Publications, had recently made a similar request, to which I also agreed. Scheduling for the first posts was something of an issue since I was coming up on a short tour of Australia with my coauthor to promote our recent book, Mindfulness for Two. I deferred committing to the first posts until I had completed the book tour, but I told myself (and just maybe an editor or two) that I would find a few quiet moments on the trip to start working on my first contributions. And this, dear reader, was a lie.

No, I wasn't an overly optimistic or ambitious goal, a misestimation of my free time. I wish it were. It was a bald-faced lie, and what's worse, it was a lie I cheerfully told myself--as if I weren't the last person on the Earth who would believe me.

You see, I'm lazy to an almost comical degree. When deadlines press upon me, you can count on me to be anywhere but at my desk: I'm sprawled on the bed, shopping for ceiling fans on my laptop or driving aimlessly across town to buy guitar strings. Or I'm hunting for plastic jellyfish at an import store (you see, I took it into my head that an acquaintance needed to hang a sea-life-inspired mobile in her office, which, by the way, I never finished.)

And now that I think of it, procrastination and sloth aren't my only shortcomings. I'm not the best son in the world, as I have no doubt my mother, who lately hears from me only quarterly will tell you. And I give my wife flowers somewhat less often than I call my mother. Scattered around the Bay Area are literally dozens of drivers who probably still bolt up in the middle of the night, cold sweat on their brows, remembering the ranting lunatic in the car behind them, screaming obscenities and pounding his fists on the steering wheel. By no means am I finished, but I'll spare you the rest. All in all, I'm really a pretty lousy person.

But I really want to be more disciplined, more dependable, more understanding, compassionate, and loveable--to be better. It might look clumsy, ridiculous, and insincere much of the time, but I really am constantly fumbling for change in my life--and I know an awful lot of people who do the same thing. We wake up each morning undaunted by the fact that the day before ended up, well, somewhere not quite where we hoped it would. And we get up anyway.

So this, dear reader, is what I plan to write about in this blog, which I've decided to call "Fumbling for Change": that resilience we seem to be able to find in ourselves as we try to change for the better. This spirit is apparent in the best psychotherapy, and it's absolutely evident in self-help--a body of work that is born from the impetuous notion that anyone as broken as I am could do anything whatsoever to make my burden a little lighter. I'm not an expert at anything, and I'm not particularly insightful, but I feel like I'm in right in the soup with you, trying to make good. If anything I can observe and peck out in this space proves at all useful to you, my work will be well rewarded.