“This is not a collegial body anymore,” [Rep. Jim Cooper, D-TN] said. “It is more like gang behavior. Members walk into the chamber full of hatred. They believe the worst lies about the other side. Two senators stopped by my office just a few hours ago. Why? They had a plot to nail somebody on the other side. That’s what Congress has come to.”

In this climate, this week should surprise absolutely no one. The Vice President was asked a question, and perhaps the only mistake he made was actually answering it. The administration rushed a plan that they had in place all along — endorse the notion that life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness were not only inalienable rights, but that they also extended to allowing you to choose who you wanted to spend your love, life and fortunes with. What a concept. But for our new American culture, this was the equivalent of Snooki kneeing The Situation right in the groin in the middle of a Jersey Shore beach party.

(I have no idea what I’m talking about when it comes to Jersey Shore. And I’m proud of that. — Ed.)

Graphics packages are rolled out. Mega-church pastors contract for satellite up link or, if they win that lottery, book a flight to be an in-studio guest analyst. Millions of dollars flow into PACs on both sides of this issue. Also-ran candidates take their talking points on the road in support of the guy a month earlier they would rather have run over with a campaign bus. People spend a lot of time drawing their lines in the sand, but half of them are actually circles around themselves, as no two people will ever agree on all points of policy. But at the core of this particular “battle”, there is a couple somewhere that looked at one another, looked at the television screen, and entertained the notion that they may have a shot at equality. I like to think at that point they turned off the television before somebody got on camera and asked the questions that absolutely nobody was wanting asked, but hey — there is a guy over there that can say something absurd and get the network higher ratings. Just wait until it ends up on YouTube.

I am glad the President offered his support to a notion that, to me, comes down to a simple question — Do you really believe in the inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness for all of your fellow Americans so that they may be with the ones they love? He finally answered, without reservation, “yes.”

But that whiteboard. That whiteboard is still going to say the same thing. Because that’s sports.

I’m also thinking a lot about the last year. And about the chores that need doing around here, but that is barely creeping into my train of thought. I changed jobs last May, and Samantha subsequently, yet unintentionally, became a full-time freelancer. Those two events in the span of a couple weeks upheaved what had been a a relatively stable sense of normalcy. I have been struggling to return to it ever sense.

Saturdays are lazy here. One or both of us usually sleep in past 11. No yards to mow or big “around the house” projects take up that time. That has its appeal when I’m sleeping through it, but today I’m just sitting here listening to the air conditioner and not much else.

I think I have said the phrase “manage expectations” at least three dozen times in the last month. It is a leftover from working at an agency and doing client work. Mistrust and frustration come out of expectations not being set, or being far out of sync. It is just as true in the agency world as it is in business, and I find more and more examples of where that fits in life in general. Better communication fixes those problems, not necessarily more communication. Putting that into practice isn’t easy.

I started this week evaluating where I could cut back on broadcasting so much. What I haven’t figured out is how to do better at listening. To stop sending tons of emails, tweets, texts is easy. Replacing that with a better set of ears is harder. Then comes the challenge of active listening.

As the regular season was drawing to a close, rumors swirled that Alexander Radulov could return to the Nashville Predators after a four-year hiatus in the KHL. I was skeptical that it would happen, and I really did not believe it even had happened until I saw a picture of Radulov sitting on a plane bound for the United States. In the coming days, I watched the press conference and even checked in on an Internet broadcast of his first practice. If you have never been to a hockey practice, it can at times be as thrilling as watching the paint dry.

But aside from verifying that he was in fact still the same hockey player and not some impostor that David Poille had hired to scare the rest of the Central Division, I noticed something else. There was David Legwand, the first draft pick of the organization, spending an inordinate amount of time talking to Radulov after every drill. The truth is, while Radulov walked into that locker room knowing quite a few of the familiar faces, the organization had changed a lot since 2008. The on-ice product was at a different level, a host of trade deadline acquisitions were there and the media spotlight had finally located Nashville on a map. So there was Legwand, talking to Radulov a lot during that practice despite not spending a lot of minutes as his line-mate. Legwand was making an investment.

That investment paid dividends Friday night.

The first Nashville goal was a feed off the end boards from Legwand directly on to Radulov’s stick. The game winning goal in first few seconds of the third period had Radulov dishing it to Gabriel Bourque and Legwand burying the rebound off Jimmy Howard. That one would stand for the remainder of the period, and it was all over but the handshakes.

So there is a lesson in the middle of all that hockey talk. Legwand invested a bit of time and energy in helping an old teammate get up to speed with his new teammates. Thanks to that, and a simply superhero goal-tending and defensive performance, the Nashville Predators closed out their single biggest rival and wait for the next opponent.

“Frustration” is an ill-applied theme as of late. Barring the success of the hockey club, this spring isn’t really going according to plan. But that might not be the right word for it. Perhaps it’s just quarter-life angst driving me to restlessness, and those missing plans that nothing is following is really just all in my head. I mistreat people I care about dearly because I am too preoccupied with everything that is “wrong” rather than acknowledging how good things really are.

Some of the frustration is justified. I have failed three times to get up and run a 5K this year simply because I overslept, or made up some other excuse. That was not a problem last year. I put in volunteer hours last year planting trees; this year I shy away from just about any cause that could use a hand for weak excuses. There are dozens of other things that fall into this category.

Most of this won’t be fixed by attacking the problem head on or any of that motivational lip service I hear a lot of. It will first be remedied by relaxing and to stop being wound up about it. Brace yourself, here comes a sports analogy.

Why does a golfer’s swing go bad? Why can’t a hockey player hit the net? Or a basketball player get a free throw to drop? Baseball pitcher. Kicker. Those clutch players suddenly cannot do what they have done thousands of times before.

Many reasons. But if they already had developed the skill, it’s likely just because they are too rigid to make it happen. Gripping the stick too hard. Nerves. Fear of failure. All in the head.

Relaxing and trusting in one’s own ability is nearly impossible when frustration sets in. Happens at work and in relationships too. I know that I have a hard time getting back to fundamentals after the swearing starts.

It’s solvable. Just relax.

“Where the hell did you come from?” is often the greeting I get in a group setting. I am always a bit perplexed by this question, but after the twentieth time I am asked it, I realize it must be a character trait. I am hard to hide — 6’2″ and kind of wide does not exactly “sneak up” on anyone. But I am mostly invisible in social situations. My comings and goings go undetected mostly by my own “avoid being the center of attention” demeanor. You could attribute this to my introverted tendencies to be as much a part of the conversation as not involved in it. Scenery. I take up space, but just as another spectator in a crowd.

It is not like I try to be invisible. I am just not fond of the spotlight. It takes a fair amount of effort (perhaps of the liquid variety) to get me to a point where I am at ease enough to engage with the conversation. Until then, I relish in my supporting cast role. All I care about is being a good friend, a good listener, and a reliable voice of reason. It is part of who I am — keeping the peace, maintaining the sense of calm no matter the turmoil.

So, I often walk up to a group of friends without looking for acknowledgement from everybody. I really do get a kick out of the surprise at my presence. In the physical world, I am hard to hide. In the social one, I can disappear and re-appear without even being detected. I suppose it is good that I at least have fun at the phenomenon.

It feels a lot like Old Man Winter was particularly lazy this season, barely dropping the temperatures below freezing for a few days and not giving us a notable snowfall at all in the mid-state region. I think he just mailed it in to make way for an um-holy summer swelter that is all but certain. The pollen count has decimated me quite a few times already this month, and failing to take my assigned medicines and sprays renders me a 6’2″, 200-pound pile of worthlessness for a job that requires a fair amount of cognizant thought.

One thing that did come along with that whole “in like a lion” business were nasty thunderstorms. One of which in particular broke two windows in our now-departed office space and turned my new Honda Civic into over-sized black golf ball. With $2,000 worth of damage and only being two months old, I had no choice but to have it fixed. Luckily that coincided with our office move, so Samantha could drive me into work for those days while it sat at the shop. I had no idea how long body shop work typically takes, but apparently even doing cosmetic dent repair takes three full days, and probably could have stretched into a fourth if they had not been doing countless other cars with the exact same procedure. So I guess that is a milestone of growing up — first run-in with the insurance claim and waiting on repairs. I am happy with how it turned out, so all I am out is three days without a car and a couple hundred bucks.

Tonight the hometown hockey club throttled their timezone counterparts in Chicago 6-1. Any of the struggles the Nashville Predators have faced of late have been how to wrangle a lot of new talent into an existing defensive scheme. Whatever they are doing, it appears to be working. The return of the Prodigal Predator in Alexander Radulov has created a buzz on and off the ice. I would love to be a torch and pitchfork salesman outside the league office if this trend of a point-per-game continues, because every general manager in the NHL is going to want one for their march right up to Gary Bettman and Bill Daly’s office. “How could you let them add talent like that after the deadline?” they’ll ask. If the public comments and familiar refrain from fans of the 29 other clubs is any indication, they are still steamed over the very lucrative offer given to Radulov to come back to play for Nashville — help us win a cup, and we’ll count a year off your contract and let you become a restricted free agent in the summer. It’s win-win for Radulov, and if it ultimately leads to a deep playoff run, it’s win-win for the Predators as well.

I am nearly as fascinated by what happens off the ice with this team as I am the on-ice product. It is a business with metrics and personalities that all must be measured and accommodated for.

So here comes the spring. Playoff hockey and warmer weather come with it. We our almost settled into our offices down in the Gulch. It is an exciting time because it is just the start of a lot more excitement. With it will bring anxiety — huddled in hallways as tornado sirens blare; trying to will the next goal to come before time expires; pushing hard for deadlines to be met and to get the product out the door — and that is just what can be anticipated.

Game on.

In a little over a week, my employer will have moved offices to our new home in The Gulch, an area defined loosely by what parts of town it is not instead of what it actually encompasses. The office(s) are moving off of Music Row and into this trendy neigborhood, of little surprise to me given that my previous employer was in the Germantown neighborhood, so I have grown accustomed to working in a mixed-use area. If I am lucky, I will be able to avoid working in an office park for the rest of my career. It is not that I have anything against traditional cubicles, bad art on the walls and carpet that could be used to shield tank — it is just that I have not had to deal with it in quite a while. My first professional job was attached to a warehouse, so even it had its own brand of character.

Workspaces are interesting things. My home desk is actually an upgrade from what I had when we first moved to this apartment. I find myself actually wanting to spend time at it now that it is not just a rolling computer cart with a monitor perched atop it. Before, I would bounce aimlessly from here to the couch, try to watch television without losing IQ points (a futile endeavor) or simply pick up a game controller. I actually have been able to do freelance work faster, finish up things I might have left over from the office, or tinker around with my own projects. A good work space is so important, so I am very happy for the pending upgrade.

But it does mean some adjustments. It is closer to home, so I can be at the office a bit earlier (maybe five minutes or so) without changing my morning routine. On the flip side, there are more questions about parking than answers right now, so I may have to change things up just to make sure I get a spot in the same zip code. I guess I will find out how that works later. Being under the same roof means I will actually get to be around co-workers that I usually only see once or twice a week. I will likely drive somebody crazy with random wanderings around the office or coffee/Coke runs just to get up from my desk that is not already accustomed to this behavior. So, changes.

The season is finally changing. A mild winter is giving way to a pleasant spring, but likely a sweltering summer. I am getting older, in spite of efforts to the contrary. I am probably one of few sub-30 year-olds that own a blood pressure cuff because my doctor wanted to me to start monitoring it. I do not consider myself unhealthy, but at the same time I am hardly an athletic specimen. Financial goals get easier to chase down when you feel like you have them cornered. I do not have student loan debt as of this month, and neither will Samantha in a short time. I have a reliable (albeit with minor hail damage) car now that I am proud of, and it too will be paid off either late this year or early next. My hockey team took down the Red Wings tonight, tightening up the race for the division and what could determine seeding for the playoffs. It was a big game that saw lots of ups and downs, back and forth.

Change happens faster than I usually expect.

The year has taught me to try and be more patient (in spite of thinking I was already fairly accustomed to that). Part of that patience comes from disengaging a bit from trying to drive everything that I want to change and instead learn a bit more about why things are the way they are first. This is both true in the professional sense and in an interpersonal one. If every challenge you face is like a puzzle, it always pays off to study the damn thing before you try to rip it to pieces in order to “solve” it.

If you think back to some of those brain teaser puzzles — the tangled chain links, etc. — that easily come apart once you figure out the trick, you realize that they were specifically designed to make it harder on you the harder you were on them. Work problems are like this. Relationships with friends and family are, in some ways, like this. It can be insanely frustrating and feelings may get hurt, but persistent yet calm effort wins out. The only alternative is to just throw away the puzzle. The life lesson may be missed if that happens, so avoid doing that.

Danilo Stern-Sapad writes code for a living, but don’t call him a geek. He wears sunglasses and blasts 2Pac while programming. He enjoys playing Battle Shots—like the board game Battleship, but with liquor—at the office. He and his fellow coders at Los Angeles startup BetterWorks are lavished with attention by tech industry recruiters desperate for engineering talent. “We got invited to a party in Malibu where there were naked women in the hot tub,” says Stern-Sapad, 25. “We’re the cool programmers.”

Tech’s latest boom has generated a new, more testosterone-fueled breed of coder. Sure, the job still requires enormous brainpower, but today’s engineers are drawn from diverse backgrounds, and many eschew the laboratory intellectualism that prevailed when semiconductors ruled Silicon Valley. “I don’t need to wear a pocket protector to be a programmer,” says John Manoogian III, a software engineer and entrepreneur.

But the article goes deeper. It isn’t just a movement to paint the profession as “cooler” than a group of young men with no social skills working in a dark basement. It also has a heavy dose of ego, inferring that those not living this lifestyle are missing out on its spoils. One group in particular that is left out on this so-called “brogrammer” movement: women.

[...]

A poster recently displayed at a Stanford University career fair by Klout, a social media analytics company, tried to woo computer science graduates by asking: “Want to bro down and crush code? Klout is hiring.” Says Chipps: “No. I don’t want to bro down. I can’t imagine that a girl would see that and say ‘I totally want to do that, it sounds awesome.’?” Klout CEO Joe Fernandez says the sign was just a joke and “definitely not meant to be an exclusionary thing,” and that the company hired a female programmer at the fair. At the University of Pennsylvania, a computer science club had to back down from plans to wear T-shirts saying “Brogrammer” to a school festival when female members objected to it.

[Needle scratching sounds]

Ah, now I get it. This is an excuse for some folks to let their chauvinist flag fly and attempt to mimic a rock-star lifestyle. Let me be open on this one. I have worked, and perhaps continue to work, in an industry that tolerates the occasional joke about some supposed male superiority. From the “sudo make me a sandwich” quip to characterizing non-developers as strident nuisances. Perhaps it is part of the culture. It is so much to that point that at a former employer a female candidate (in an entirely different department) was once asked if she were aware of the reputation of a male-only work group being, at times, over-the-top offensive and faux-aggressive towards one another (“You write another bug like that and I’ll shove my keyboard [...] sideways”). It was a fair warning. She took the job anyway.

But is it right?

In further interest of clarity, I have also been “that guy.” I’ve implied that a co-worker’s mother was was less than reputable — repeatedly. I’ve told raunchy jokes. I’ve had a beer while working on a project at the end of the day. But I do not think that this culture should be one of exclusion to a single gender. Just like it should not exclude folks who do not find humor in a “your mom” joke nor those who do not prefer to drink alcohol. It shouldn’t exclude them either. But it does. What about the guy who wants to come in, do a good job, help his coworkers and go home at the end of the day?

Maintaining the party-all-the-time atmosphere requires a lot of time and energy. And that’s time and energy that is not necessarily helping get the job at hand done. That deficit in efficiency has wide-reaching affects across an entire organization, not just the development group.

If this culture starts to over emphasize “cultural fit” over actual skill, it is bound to meet a tragic end when somebody up the foodchain finally says enough is enough and starts to clean house. That goes for recruiting female candidates as well — don’t be fooled into thinking there is male superiority among software engineers, just a larger share of the demographic. Skill is skill, no matter which person it arrives in.

So what about the Silicon Valley startups mentioned in the article. Is it hopeless to think these guys in popped-collars/v-necks and sunglasses, chugging Redbull and saying “that’s what she said” every ten minutes will ever be the more mild-mannered, welcoming group? I hope so, but it starts with individuals and a changed way of thinking. As long as there is this facade of the “Glamourous Life of the Brogrammer,” the industry will continue to attract that kind of demographic. I am reminded of my time in a college fraternity. When someone in our group wondered aloud how we could attract “better” guys (better grades, better gentlemen, better behaved), the answer was rather pointed: Stop advertising yourselves as the home of the original “frat” boy. You will only be as good as the company you keep.

Funny how that has parallels in business.

Editor’s note: Standard disclaimer on this one — The opinions and accounts expressed in this post are solely those of the author and are not meant to represent any other person, company or organization.

Tagged in this photo a few days ago by a former classmate.

Hey, kid. Yeah, you in the blue jacket and the white sneakers. Come’er for a second. … What’s up with the goofy smile? What are your plans in twenty years, kid? What the hell happened back then to get us to now? Who are all those people? What’s their story?

Welcome to 1990, age 7. Most of the kids on the bleachers behind are about a year older; it is what happens when one is born in late August. You are looking at about half of the typical sized class year for Greenfield Schools, the only school in a town with a population 2,105 according to the census taken that year. Twenty years later it had grown by just 77 people.

You are also not looking at future US Senators or Nobel laureates … at least not yet. These are the children born during the recession of the 1980s in an area that has not seen its last heyday since the 1950s. It was during this time that the little guy there in the blue blazer would go with his grandfather to the feed store on Front Street. Quite a scene, really. On this particular day it was as if the sun was breaking through the clouds from the high windows into the dimly lit building. Adults would talk whatever business talk they did, and I would wander around, making shadow puppets on the dusty floor.

The store aptly smelled like a barn and the knots in those wooden floors had fallen through into a pitch black area underneath. As my grandfather would talk to the clerk, I would bend down and drop loose seed down into those holes just to see what happened. I would ponder the abyss that was under the old building until I heard my name called and the sound of him heaving a bag of horse feed over his shoulder as he walked back to the truck. Years later it would be razed because, as you might have guessed, it was falling apart. Other than a nearby HVAC repair shop, it is still a vacant lot. Just like concrete circles where the grain silos once stood across the street, next to the railroad tracks.

All monuments to something.

For a rural school system, the elementary school was about all you ask for: clean classrooms, a big gymnasium and a good-sized playground. The kids in this photo clearly represent the byproduct of a couple of days notice that school pictures were being taken that day. I sincerely doubt that big-cheeked kid in the blue blazer wore that jacket very often. Second grade is a big time. Your memory becomes a bit sharper, and friendships start to have a little more context than, “Yeah, you’re that girl that has the shoes with the orange stripes on them. I remember you!” Try conveying your deep-rooted friendships based on what shoes that person wore to your parents at the end of a school day.

My house was just around the corner from the school, so I did not have a bus route. Most of these kids did. There were quite a few that lived out on postal routes that were either known only by a number or a half dozen family names that tried desperately to win recognition for what the road was to be called. E911 requirements upset a lot of people when the names were codified, and there was to be no dispute or other markings.

So, what about this kid?

Never mind him. You can tell in the picture he hasn’t a care in the world. The teacher, on the other hand, had her hands full. Twenty four kids in a classroom from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. (an hour during lunch and perhaps a respite every other day for a music class or something) is certainly a challenge. I checked the other day and saw that she had retired in 2004 after 41 years as an educator.

But who are these people? The names are familiar, but that is about it. What I can tell you about the handful of folks I recognize in this picture is that most have started families. As a matter of fact, a good portion of the children of this generation are now in the second and third grades. Some will be sitting in a classroom tomorrow morning, maybe even thinking about that upcoming picture day in the spring. Many are living in this small town or a neighboring community. The school has changed a lot, and oh wow has the world changed since this picture was taken. Some have moved off to other states. For the most part, the kids are all right.

But here we are. To be honest, I do not really know much about the short guy in the blue blazer. I can tell you what toys he liked, who he was inexplicably fond of, how he had his fun when left to his own devices; That he would go just about anywhere his grandfather wanted to take him. It is not really a worthwhile endeavor to reconnect with your childhood, but I still want to be as happy as he looks in the photo. I also think I want go out and buy a blazer, too.

Maybe not that color.

Nashville shouldn’t tolerate tacky decorations on Musica

Nashville is blessed with many public art displays generously funded by private donors that help define our city as one of the centers of culture in the South.

But lately, at one particular venue, a trend has emerged that is as frustrating as it is classless. Political groups, performing artists, professional sports teams and the like have taken to using the Musica sculpture as a billboard for their causes.

While I admit to being amused at seeing hockey jerseys appear during the Predators’ playoff run last year, more recent infractions appeal to a much narrower audience. A spray-painted bedsheet or a chain of plastic cups draped on these statues? We should expect better.

Neither the mayor’s office nor the Public Works Department have responded fast enough to remove these eyesores. But more important than that, the city is not doing enough to discourage people from engaging in what amounts to vandalism of public property.

It is time for the city to enforce standing ordinances regarding sign placement, work quickly to remove the offending paraphernalia, and hold individuals and groups accountable for littering in Nashville.

Stephen Yeargin
Nashville 37206

I started to walk, but not in a hurry. Already later than I meant to be, so no need to rush. Crossing the street, another gust shook the stop sign and swayed the trees to block out the street lamp momentarily. It then returned to calm, echoing down the corridor as it made its way.

The crowd ahead grew larger, with shadows appearing out of alleys and from between cars. I wandered along, catching parts of conversations as I passed. A dog rushed to the fence, not making a sound once she got there. The glow from the house illuminated the sidewalk, and the lumbering silhouettes pivoted to reveal among faces. I crossed over to the path to the entryway.

The same conversation was on repeat and shuffle. I again stepped out to feel the strong wind press against me as if though it was shoving in hopes of provocation.

A bell rang out six times; a solemn voice in the din of laughter and conversation. It was muffled only by the wind. I turned again to look at the illuminated faces that became invisible simply by them looking away from the light.

As I returned to my car, the wind subsided leaving an eery silence. I turned on the radio, looked over the skyline and began a return trek home.

Case in point: politics.

My desire to ridicule a handful of folks for supporting also-rans or counterintuitive issue positions is rather strong. Likewise, those backing some of the frontrunners are prime targets to be mocked for enthusiastically endorsing someone without having the first clue where they stand on issues that a smarter person would research more carefully. This cycle will find Team Apathy and Team My Candidate Can’t Win with rather full rosters by the time it is all over and reality sets in.

I was publicly chided a year or so ago for “being political” only to see the supposed virtues of their candidate now being trumpeted for a misguided world to hear. Ignoring the hypocrisy is easier than tuning out the idiocy. I am not the one in need of a muzzle it seems.

I say all of this to share that what I’ll often repeat in private will rarely make it into the public forum. Silence on an issue does not mean that one lacks an opinion, only that he or she does not want to expend the time and energy explaining it in an exercise of wasted breath.

I want to be a better person. But I’ll be damned if the good Lord keeps putting these witless wonders within easy striking distance.

Short weekend trips are probably my favorite kind of vacation. For one, we are often paralyzed by the thought of getting away from home for weeks at a time, both in the expense and the sheer amount of stress it would take to get us to a mental milestone to “let go” from our responsibilities. I wonder what it would be like to live in certain European countries that with an abundance of statutory paid annual leave — in my albeit short professional career I have never come anywhere close to taking all of the time my employers afford me.

Around the first of this year, we snuck off to Chattanooga for a day trip. Before then, Atlanta. This past weekend we finally used our Southwest credit and went to Chicago. It is our second trip to the city, and this one was much the like the first. We landed at Midway, boarded to Orange Line and headed towards the hotel. This one included a subway ride, which we had not done on the prior trip and was my first such experience. We checked in early, dropped off our bags and went out to plot our next adventure.

There was something different about this trip. It was not only that it marked another chapter in the lives of this young couple in search of adventure on a rare excursion outside of Middle Tennessee. It was cold.

No, you do not understand. Really cold.

We had left Tennessee as the temperature was plummeting from the mid 50s to upper 30s. Our first venture out into the streets with our bags in tow was welcomed with 16 whole degrees sitting on the thermometer. Those degrees were laughing at us so hard that I swore a few of them fell off their perch and made it even colder as the wind picked up. I decided then and there that our trips outside would be few, and getting on a bus or train or tumbling into a storefront would always the goal. Mother nature and I weren’t on speaking terms, mostly because I could not breathe long enough to curse at her.

Our first stop was to the Museum of Contemporary Art. Those of you who know me as the colorblind southern guy are likely not shocked that I walked around the building muttering “I don’t get it” to myself and Samantha a lot. Still, it was much our like our previous trip to the Art Institute in 2009. I patiently walked around the exhibits, wondering about whatever the guy was on when dreamed this piece up. The difference is that many of them at MCA struck me as the kind of thing someone threw together right before their grant money ran out. Then again, an art critic I am not.

Into the cold again, we looked up at the bus sign and at our phones to figure out how to get to our next location. When I first saw the bus pull up, the number matched the one we needed, so we boarded. The driver looked at us and asked where we were trying to get to. I have to assume he did not ask everyone this question, but we looked mistake prone in this area arena of navigation. I told him, and he said that he had other stops before that route began and pointed to where the stop would be. I only partially understood him, only enough to know that I should get off the bus and walk over … somewhere. I did so, and heard him honk the horn. I went back to the door, and he gestured for us to get on, instructing us not run our pass cards yet. Samantha had not heard the instruction, so he re-explained it. For the next few stops, I think he had to repeat himself at least twice each time to us. Hopeless travelers.

We finally got to the Museum of Science and Industry thanks to our abundantly patient bus driver. I stood in awe of the enormity of the exhibits. It was fun to walk around and see the live demonstrations of various physical science concepts and the amazement on the faces of the school children that were taking it all in. We did see a sizable contingent of Amish folks there, making me wonder a bit about how all that they saw fit in to their day to day. Walking out a bit more educated than when we arrived, after a morning of culture, we headed back towards the hotel.

We did a bit of shopping (that is apparently a major draw of Chicago — who knew) where Samantha picked out her Valentine’s Day gift (a watch). A wander in and out of the Apple Store was to be our final excursion out before dinner. We went to Giordano’s for deep dish pizza because it was something we had omitted from our previous trip. I had thought it was rather crowded at 5:30 p.m. until I saw the crush of people that arrived around six. Apparently we were not alone in this notion of wanting pizza.

One last swing by the hotel and a walk for dessert capped off our trip. We slept in the next morning and took our time getting back to the airport via the trains and through security. We wandered around Midway for a while, with me playfully scowling at all the Chicago Blackhawks souvenir stores (at least it wasn’t Detroit).

While waiting for our flight, a couple sat down across from us. The woman was leaning fully into the man’s chest, sobbing. I did not try to figure out what was going on there, but they quietly boarded the departing flight for Boston. I tried to come up with all kinds of reasons why, but I stopped short. Whatever the worry, I hope they found a bit of peace at the other end of that flight.

We were then surrounded by some gymnastics team from Franklin who had just completed a meet in the city and were also on their way back to Nashville. You could tell that it had not gone well for them by the cattiness of the mothers towards the coaches and judges. The young girls seemed oblivious to all that, having had fun in spite of it all. My patience wore out quickly around them, so we went for a walk around the terminal.

Another group of bachelorettes were boarding ahead of us. The vapid conversations were difficult to tune out, but I caught enough of a look to see that it was going to be a long flight if we were sitting anywhere near them. Samantha agreed to find a seat that somehow avoided the fussing moms, the chatty bimbos and a woman who was boarding with her small dog. That somehow happened.

Our flight was delayed for 30 minutes, and we could not figure out why. The flight attendants had talked to the bimbos briefly, and retreated to the front of the plane. The gate operator also came aboard and talked to them, but then left. At this point, as far back as we were sitting, it became clear that something was not going well up in the front of the plane. At the half-hour delay mark, three Chicago Police officers boarded, and instructed the group off the plane. Much arguing and swearing later (“She’s getting married!” “Ma’am, this is the airline’s property and you are not welcome on it.”), and a brief round of applause, we were in the air.

I have no idea where we are heading next, but it is always a good trip.

There is a familiar scent in Nashville on cold and rainy days in February around downtown Nashville. It is not particularly pleasant, the smell of hundreds of thousands of starlings leaving behind what birds often leave behind festering through the air. I strolled up to the Fifth Avenue entrance of the arena. Or at leas,t I would have had there not been a couple of thousand runners already lined up for that morning’s 5K. I had been asked if I were running in it a few days prior and had gone to the trouble of signing up. However, this morning I was not in a particularly running mood. Sleep has not come easily, and even the walk from the stadium parking lot over the bridge to the arena had my shins throbbing. There would be no running this morning.

It is unseasonably warm, even with the damp weather of the past few days. I am sure at some point Mother Nature will make us pay for this “heat wave” with a string of subfreezing days. No matter, we earned them. I saw off one of my coworkers at the start of the race. I clumsily walked around the interior of the arena trying to find my race packet (nobody seemed to know what to do with late arrivals). I gave up and walked back outside. By this point, the wind was picking up and I decided it was best to go on home.

On the way back, I casually took pictures of various minutia of the walk back across the river. I began to meander mentally on some of the things that had transpired over the last few weeks. A verbal gaffe by a candidate for president was a frequent topic of discussion. As I began to mull that, a shopping cart appeared at the top of the pedestrian bridge with two shadows behind it. As I drew closer, a middle aged man and woman were pushing this cart and carrying on an inaudible conversation. They were smiling and laughing, but it was obvious to me that the cart in front them, “borrowed” from a nearby grocery store, contained their worldly possessions. Even though they did not have a lot, they did have each other’s companionship. There is a good chance if you are reading this, you have a friend or spouse that you too can count on. They were crossing the bridge to get to where they needed to be, even if they were not quite sure where they were headed. I thought I saw a guitar in the front of the cart, so perhaps it was to busk on Second Avenue. I admired their spirit, for in this they were rich with love and laughter. I continued walking on past them and saw a bag plastic bag sitting on the bench. It had obviously been prepared by one of homeless outreach groups. All that remained in it were two sticks of deodorant and some tags that had been attached to clothes. I left it there, not sure if the owners would intend to come back for it.

The afternoon was spent retrieving and assembling furniture from IKEA. Our home decor has been upgraded several times over in the last year, replacing what had been barren walls and little storage space with several shelfs, pictures, rugs, tables and the like. As I say quite often, we are immensely blessed to not only have survived the worst of this recession, but to come out so much further ahead. But that is not the truth for everybody. I often catch myself whining about things a younger me or anyone in a less fortunate circumstance would rightfully despise me for. (I suppose you could add whining about whining to that list.)

Every evening in America, many families will skip dinner because there is nothing in the pantry to eat. They will do the same at breakfast and try to buy something inexpensive tomorrow for an early lunch. Some will gather around a newspaper or stack of forms trying to muster the ambition to fill out another application despite the rejection letters piling up. A penny saved there, a bill deferred here; they try to keep a roof over their head, food in their stomachs and love in their hearts. But damn, it will tough. Unemployment dropped again in January, but no economist will tell you that we are back on the path to prosperity in America. That time will still be what seems like a lifetime away. There are still millions of Americans that are either without work, or working in jobs that do not bridge the gap to help them pay even the most basic of needs. Some folks will tell you that there is a “safety net” for these people while simultaneously pushing more and more people into that net and complaining that we spent too much on too “nice” of a net.

If there is one thing that the last twelve years and two wars have taught us, it is that no man or woman, regardless of their background is immune to these challenges. To boil it down into class or race is simply to use bad data. Cancer can wreck the finances of any middle class American household. The job you have is far from the kind of stability we saw in the mid-to-late nineties. While I have the benefit of a two-income household, I sometimes stare at the ceiling above my bed at night wondering what would happen if friends or family lost jobs or if a member of their support network simply could not come through for them. Would I be able to help? For how long? I do not worry about things I cannot control, but I am also quick to lend a hand to a friend.

Tonight I went to a very festive house party to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday. It was a gathering filled with warmth and friendship (even when team allegiances caused a humorous rift). I briefly thought back to that couple when the Chrysler ad was aired. Somewhere tonight, I am hopeful that the couple on the bridge are still smiling in the face of overwhelming odds and can catch the break they are looking for. I hopeful that we will stop relying on our so-called “nets” to help help them when a system is stacked strongly against the impoverished.

I did redesign my website with the new Twitter Bootstrap framework, though. I did not give this incarnation a clever name. It is just Theme 2012. The main benefit I see in the framework is how it facilitates a “responsive” user experience. Just resize the window to see what I mean, or open it on your mobile phone.

As midnight just snuck by, I think I will snap the late(r) night streak. My eyes are sore.

Chicken regulation should apply to all districts equally

The Metro Council voted Tuesday night to allow residents to keep up to six chickens as pets on their property. While I am pleased that this vote is behind them and they can focus on more pressing matters, I am disturbed by an amendment that exempted eight council districts from the new ordinance.

I am apprehensive at a precedent of allowing council members to pick and choose which rules apply in their district. Perhaps this is a harmless mechanism to keep the peace with their constituent base, but oddly drawn borders between districts should not be the boundaries of what laws apply and which do not.

A city with 35 council districts — only a few city blocks wide in some areas — does not need neighborhood-level laws.

Stephen Yeargin (East Nashville, 37206)

But there I am. The din of conversation slowly fades to a muted whir. Whatever I am gazing at disappears completely. The brain takes over and removes me from whatever moment that, up until that point, I had been at least pretending to enjoy. It could be in a crowd of thousands, but for for those few seconds it is just me and my often asinine thoughts. It is an odd thing. “Focus” is one of those nice words that gets lumped in with “patience,” “creativity” and the like. All are attributes that are necessary to succeed at our day to day, but each comes at varying levels of achievement and are equally as fleeting.

My two year-old cousin was the life of the party on Friday. Not even able to articulate why he was overcome with the anticipation of Christmas Day, he flashed a thousand-watt smile and darted around our apartment at the very mention of it. I cannot imagine a holiday season without seeing the unbridled joy on a toddler’s face.

Like a friend from out in the cold, we welcome the holidays into our hearts sooner or later, even if we are not quick to answer the door. At times, it takes a bit of effort to come up with reasons to celebrate. But that is where the holidays really shine. The season returns us to a different time that is as much nostalgia as it is a necessary part of of marking the time. Memories fade and are often repainted with a gentler brush during the holidays, but we still yearn for it: that feeling of wonderment makes the world go ’round in late December.

This year has been a a taxing one, and one I do not believe lived up to what had been hoped for. But in spite of that, I remain hopeful. I am hopeful for a year of success that is measured in more than just dollars and the material goods that surround us; Hopeful for a peace that means more than just the end of fighting; Hopeful for a love that is shown not only in the words we say to one another, but in the way we live our lives.

It is no secret that 2011 was not kind to many Americans. Next week will mark another calendar year for many where employment was hard to come by and hope was in short supply. Mothers and fathers across our nation are giving less this Christmas in material goods, but more of their heart and commitment. May the weight of the world be lifted from the shoulders of those who are struggling.

This Christmas, I give thanks for family and friends and how undeservedly blessed my wife and I are. From our home to yours, may you and yours have the happiest of holidays.

The cosmic engine feels like we’re coasting towards the finish line. Still moving, but with a lot more quiet time for reflection. This last year sits as an eleven month checkmark on the timeline. Perhaps I discount too much the great things that have happened when I say that. To be sure, I’m ahead on the scoreboard in this game of life — good job, little debt, terrific friends and a loving wife. But I’m not satisfied.

I want deeper connections with friends. I need to better at being one if I have any hope of doing that. I need to do more charitable acts, and not just sending a check. I have peace to make with a deity before divine whoop-ass comes raining down. My karma bank is probably overdrawn, too. I need to reconnect by unplugging a bit.

This is what the holidays set into motion within my troubled mind. The stillness of winter sneaks up on your very soul and says, “hello, old friend.” The warmth is carefully, tentatively received and it spurs a change in attitude and demeanor. A smile fills a room. Laughter is contagious. Some call it “the Christmas spirit.” I look upon it more as a fragile peace accord.

The start of 2012 comes soon. Another year In the life.

The leaves from the trees errantly planted in the middle of the sidewalks scurried across the street and then soared skyward as they were caught in this manmade crevasse. At 6 p.m., it was already dark. The haze from our urban area had already tinted the sky the color of phosphorus. Bells continued to ring out as I resumed my solitary wander towards the arena.

I was already in a bit of a melancholy mood before that, but the atmosphere of downtown had a moment where it perfectly fit the way I was feeling. I suppose the bells were ads for the church towers that they emanated from… or they were simply saying “it’s six o’clock.”

The sun has not come out from behind the gray clouds in a few days now. It is cold and wet with the afternoon commute a slow crawl through downtown. People’s faces have already morphed from sunglasses and smiles into melancholy and annoyed glances. It is not even that cold yet, with the temperatures hovering in the 60s. But these folks have already prepped themselves for the winter months, with hands in their pockets, shoulders hunched forward and burying their heads as far down into their jackets as possible. Nobody wants to talk or be talked to. The typical southern warmth has evaporated into some other kind of behavior.

I sit at warm desks and couches for most of the day. Between trips for coffee and hot chocolate, I try my best to maintain a smile. There are doldrums for every season. Mine are usually in the summer, with hockey and the holidays curtailing most tendencies to slip into a funk. There is usually a 5K, festival or some other outdoor event in the fall and spring, while summers in the south are spent mostly indoors to avoid the swelter.

Things are a quite a bit different this fall. I am at a different job, different social scene, and even the home life has changed. I have far less work related stress, but there are still other kinds of pressure. I will simply say it is not a light load to bear. Every yearly reflection around this time is a bit better than the one before, but those qualifications shifted around a bit rather than universal improvement.

There are many things to be thankful for, though. Our hardships are really not at all that hard. We have managed to not piss off the majority of our friends to the point that our Christmas card list is still going to be a fairly good size (Hint: if you have moved in the last year or so, I probably do not have your new address). We bought a turkey for Thanksgiving mostly as an edible science experiment. The roof over our head does not leak, the heater works, and if either failed, we could just call the landlord. If I whine, karma should kick me in the gut on principle alone.

The Nashville Predators dropped their game tonight to the Montreal Canadiens in overtime. It means one point more in the standings, but the game had another significance. One thousand games played in what some have called [NHL Commissioner Gary] Bettman’s Southern Folly. Those folks added another item to their arsenal of doubts when Atlanta lost its second franchise to a city north of the border this summer. To borrow something usually only uttered south of the Mason-Dixon line, “Bettman’s Chickens” had finally come home to roost. Carolina, Dallas, Florida, Anaheim, Atlanta and Nashville all received NHL teams under his watch.

But how did this hockey club reach the millennium mark? It is in a smaller market, a smaller arena and has a very low payroll. Truth is, it required a bit of luck and several factors working in its favor.

***

Location, Location, Location

The Nashville Predators have the benefit of playing home games in the heart of the city instead of a suburb. In addition to that, the district surrounding Bridgestone Arena is a vibrant entertainment destination rather than miles of parking lots and closed office buildings. Fans coming to and leaving the game have more options for food and entertainment than most downtown arenas. The arena itself is a cornerstone for many concert tours, so keeping the performing dates full with a team is mutually beneficial to the business district and to the management company.

Homegrown

It is particularly telling that the four award finalist last season (David Poile – General Manager of the Year, Barry Trotz – Jack Adams Trophy, Shea Weber – Norris Trophy, Pekka Rinne – Vezina Trophy) were either with the team on opening night in 1998 or were drafted into the organization. The first draft pick, David Legwand, still plays for the team. Big payrolls and “rental” players are not the hallmark of this hockey club. Instead, the team is committed to developing talent from their AHL and ECHL affiliates. It is very rare that a 19 year old stays with the big club in his first season, preferring instead to send them down to get in more practice and better familiarity with the system.

Down Home Values

This one is harder to peg to a specific example. The organization’s work in the community goes beyond the typical “we have to do this for good publicity.” The causes are authentic, from Coach Barry Trotz’s work with “Best Buddies” to frequent player visits to the Monroe Carell Jr. Children’s Hospital at Vanderbilt University Medical Center and the standing ovations for honoring military servicemen and families, this team sees community as a partner and a privilege, not simply an obligation in their contract.

Affordable Entertainment

I will be the first to gripe about the cost of tickets. I have made a sport out of going to as many games as possible for a price lower than what the ticket representative wants me to pay. But a hockey game is an affordable entertainment option. A friend of mine went to Los Angeles to see a game and could not get into the arena for less than $99. The Predators are a quarter of that price even if you are paying full retail. The hockey experience is within most fan’s budgets.

Passionate Fanbase

I have made several of my closest friends through hockey. In some ways, my wife buying tickets for a game in 2003 several weeks out while we we had just started dating marked a new stage in our budding relationship. If it were not for a series of hockey games in 2009, I would not have spent as much time around Alison, a friendship that lead me down the path to my current job. Codey, Paul and crew in Cellblock 303 have improved my hockey understanding immensely. These and others have helped make me a dedicated hockey fan. I believe this kind of network of fans has helped grow the organization to something that can replace a generational advantage that other franchises have.

Through Hell and Back

In the summer of 2007 was particularly difficult for the franchise. The Predators original owner Craig Leipold announced that he intended to sell the team to cover a reported $70 million loss on the team. His most likely suitor, Canadian businessman Jim Balsillie was riddled with suspicion that he had every intention of moving the team to Hamilton, Ontario. His public statements said that he would move the team, but evidence to the contrary began to mount with an agreement reached to go ahead and sell “Hamilton Predators” season tickets online. A “Save Our Team” rally was organized, bracelets sold, and business leaders went on the march. The agreement was terminated with Balsillie, a local investment group came forward and the team’s immediate future was secured.

***

You do not get to 13 seasons in the National Hockey league through two recessions without a devoted fanbase, shrewd management and a little bit of luck. I cannot offer a prediction for how long they Predators will remain in Nashville. But the future is bright, and the clouds of uncertainty have already come and gone.

This team and this city has a date with Lord Stanley. And we as fans do not want to keep him waiting.

But I do not like this city.

It took a few days to really believe that statement. It is not as if I have ever heard great things about the wholesomeness of what I have observed over the last few days, but it has been particularly disappointing in action. I want to move past the cynicism of just being a prude, but I also tend to look at things a bit differently. This city just feels hollow, and in that I almost feel a bit of a kindred spirit. It has a billion ways to have somebody’s definition of fun — casinos, shows, attractions, etc. But it does not feel like fun. If it were not for the people I am with, there is simply no way I would possibly want to be here alone.

Nothing is as it appears. The bars and restaurants are dirtier than anything we have in Nashville, and the lights are kept just low enough so you cannot see the glaring flaws. It may come from hard use — this hotel alone has more people in it at any given time than most American cities. The interactions I have had with the people have similarly been an illusion. Beauty is so much more than skin deep, but the shells of human beings I see walking around here is rather discouraging.

At times, I care too much about the happiness and well-being of others. That’s not bragging, it is actually a legitimate character flaw. I get physically ill at the sight of someone that is by all measures living a broken dream. I sat quietly as two men were propositioned, and pondered for a moment what crossroads they were at, and what crossroads the two other individuals must have reached. We joke about our faith in humanity always being lost, but I think it may be difficult for me to track it down after witnessing that. My southern raising — scratch that, any kind of raising — puts that incident at a point of frustration where I needed to take a moment away from everything.

We are leaving tomorrow. In spite of all of it, I do want to come back next year for this event. But this city is just a consequence of that desire. It certainly is not the reason.

“Almost. Try again,” came the familiar voice.

My next shots were rattled off quickly and with a bit of glee. That did not hurt my shoulder as I had always feared. I blame a cousin somewhere for that misinformation. When it was all said and done, I wasted ten bullets to ding one Coke can of the three that were positioned down muddy field road. Fast forward to 4-H camp and the summer between fourth and fifth grade. I was actually much better at target practice by that point on the rifle range. I was not even that shaken when the girl next to me fired her rifle into the ground right in front of her because she had not followed directions about loading it after it was leveled. But that shotgun we used later in the week left a bruise on my shoulder and a ringing in my right ear. I wanted nothing to do with any of it after that for the remainder of the time I was there.

The innocence of youth is often overstated. What we call innocence is really reigned-in curiosity or mischief. Children do not know a world of heartache and disappointment. I take that back — they know it, but they compartmentalize it far more different than adults. I was not thinking about hunting or gun rights that summer. I was thinking about the loud pop the rifle made and how much I hoped I had hit the target. Having spent the last decade in much more urban setting than I had in my youth, I can see how my perceptions of things has changed over time.

Interests change. Friendships change. Locations change. My desire and enthusiasm to try new things does not. That often gets in the way of ever feeling content or being satisfied. I think back to that moment when I was rattling off the extra bullets that rarely hit anywhere near where they were supposed to. I did not try nor care to improve my aim; I simply wanted to take a few more shots.