THE ETHICIST: Exit Strategy

The second conundrum has a good comment about waiting rooms.

COLUMN: Make Every Decision in 60 Seconds

By Tobin Barnes
When trying to make a decision, you should ask yourself, “Is this really me?”

Anyway, that’s what blogger Steve Pavlina says in his article, “How to Make Smart Decisions in Less Than 60 Seconds.” (I assume as opposed to making dumb decisions after agonizing over them over a couple weeks.) The article appeared on his blog, “Personal Development for Smart People.” (Google it if you’re smart, morons go elsewhere.)

How I got to this material, I have no idea. You know how one thing leads to another on the internet? You’re mindlessly surfing along, going from link to link, and sometimes you run into intriguingly useful things and then sometimes you find yourself chewing mental bubble gum.

Well, Pavlina’s question, “Is this really me?” was one of those intriguing things I ran into, but I’m still not sure whether it’s useful.

No doubt the guy’s sincere: “Sometimes we face tough decisions that involve one or more unknowns. We can’t know in advance what the consequences of each alternative will be. This is especially true of big decisions like quitting a job, entering or exiting a relationship, or moving to a new city.”

Yeah, decisions like, should I keep reading.

“When faced with such a decision, what do you do?” Pavlina continues. “If you can’t figure out the consequences, can you do any better than guessing?”

How about flipping a coin? That’s right, put your life on a randomizer, bounce around like you’re in a pinball machine. Or buy one of those eight balls.

Or just freeze as Pavlina says a lot of people do, and “by default stay put.”

Instead, he says, “Let me give you a very simple method of making these kinds of decisions. In most cases it takes no more than 60 seconds to evaluate any particular path. For each alternative you’re considering, ask yourself, “Is this really me?” What you’re asking is whether each path is a fair expression of who you truly are. To what degree does each option reflect the real you?”

Of course, that leaves you with the deeper question of, “Who is the real me?”

And whoa! To borrow an apt phrase from Winston Churchill, that may be “a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” But let’s put such acrobatic mind-bending aside, and assume that you’ve already got “Who is the real me?” figured out--yeah, right--and continue with Pavlina’s decision-making tip because this just might work for you. Change your life, if not mine.

Pavlina says: “When we look at choices as being more than just paths — as being creative statements of self-expression — certain decisions become much easier to make. You may say to yourself, “This path isn’t going to be easy, but I know this is the right way to go because it’s who I am.” Or you may conclude, “No matter how I try to represent this to myself, I know that deep down this isn’t who I am. This just isn’t me.”

And, you know, I’m kinda buying this. Like most tips I’ve run across, don’t know if I’ll ever use it, but I’m buying it.

He says you can use the technique on a whole range of questions, large and small, from “Is this job really me?” to “Is this shirt/dress/tie really me?” to “Is this friend really me?” (The last one leading to a troubling investigation into schizophrenia with perhaps the aid of a psychiatrist.)

So let’s put this theory to a real-world test, using a recognizably familiar subject: the ultimate decider, President George Bush, someone we’ve all come to know and, at the very least, wonder about.

How do all of the decisions he’s made in the last six and a half years measure up using Steve Pavlina’s decision-making question?

In other words, could President Bush ask “Is this really me?” about all those tough decisions he’s made and still get a positive answer?

Well, without a doubt!

Across the spectrum, from liberal to conservative, for better or for worse, we could all agree with President Bush if he concluded, “Yes...that’s right, those decisions are really me.”

Steve Pavlina? Buddy, you’re on to something there.

This Just In

JON STEWART: Another Trip to Sorrytown

JON STEWART: The Rice Triple Negative Scores a 10

THE ETHICIST: Knocked Down

Gees, he's good. (As always, click the title)

Late Night Monologues Laugh Lines

COLUMN: Couldn't Do Now What I Did Then

By Tobin Barnes
Alas, I have become woefully soft in these my declining years, though only 55.

Declining years?

Yes, afraid so. Got to face the facts. I’ve become a softy in my old age, if not a soft touch. Not that I was ever a tough guy. Never really wanted to be, but I never wanted to be a wimp, either. Nevertheless, a wimp I might have become. For certain, I no longer have anywhere near the resiliency I had as a youngster.

Couple weeks ago, I was playing in a golf tournament back in eastern SoDak. It was the typical Great Plains summer afternoon the chamber of commerce doesn’t want to talk about. Ninety-four in the shade with a raging 30-35 mile-per-hour wind and a humidity level only corn could love.

A playing partner said, “Thank goodness it’s windy or the mosquitoes would be eating us alive.” No way we would have been out there if it weren’t a special event.

Yeah, it was pretty miserable, despite the excellent company. (My brother-in-law Chuck was along. Never a dull moment with him. This time a club head from his antique set came off when he was hitting a shot. Club head went farther than the ball.) Can’t say I didn’t have any fun. But after four hours on this devil’s barbecue, we were somewhat past well-done. We 50-somethings wanted to bawl like a bunch of calves. Couldn’t wait to get out of our dusty golf carts and back into civilized air conditioning.

Thing is, I wouldn’t have thought twice about such conditions when I was a kid. Heck, I’d grown up back there, spent much of my time on that same golf course, and let me tell you it wasn’t time spent riding in a cart. Back then I was carrying a bag for a buck twenty-five a nine--a buck fifty if the guy wasn’t a tightwad and felt like adding a twenty-five-cent tip.

That’s right, I was a caddy. One of a dying breed right before two-thirds of America started super-sizing their meals and riding carts...uh, kinda like I do now.

Typical summer day started with a several-mile bike ride out to the course. Not too bad if the wind were from the west, a little tougher if from the east. A rare day if there weren’t any wind at all. Of course, along the way I’d be sneezing my head off with the rabid hay fever I used to have, blowing my nose into a soon soggy handkerchief I always carried. But that was neither here nor there. Just life.

If another kid was riding his bike out about the same time, there’d be a hellacious race in that heat and humidity to see who could get to the pro shop first. That’s how caddy jobs were given out--first come, first served.

But that didn’t always work out even if you won the race. Oftentimes the first golfer who showed up didn’t want a caddy at all. Wanted a shagger instead. And here you’d gotten up early and won the race for nothing. Other kid’s laughing as you head down the hill with the shag bag.

We hated shagging compared to caddying. Shagging meant you stood out on the driving range and let a guy hit bullet-hard golf balls at you. Shaggers served a dual purpose. First, as a target, and second, as a retriever. And when the golfer hit all the balls, you ran the bag in, dumped the balls, and ran back out for another round.

Of course, you also paid attention. Hazy days were the worst. In my hours out there, I heard plenty of golf balls invisibly whizzing down from out of the ether--distinctive sound, by the way--but never saw them till they had thunked into the ground a few feet away. Nowadays they’d arrest anybody who put a kid through that, but back then it was standard practice.

And for this you got seventy-five cents an hour--six bits, as they used to say. After an hour or so of that, all you wanted to do was go up to the clubhouse for a Dr. Pepper, a Slim Jim, and some peanut-butter, cheddar-cheese crackers. Yup, an hour’s work gone. Had maybe a dime left.

Nothing like the three bucks you could make caddying 18 holes. Then a kid could build up some savings, maybe stow a wad.

Most hours, however, were spent sitting around outside in the wind and the heat waiting for these kinds of jobs. In the meantime, we’d go down to the putting green and putt for tees or out on the course to look for balls, but most of the time we just sat there, ready for the next job.

At the end of the day, I’d bicycle back home--often against the wind--eat supper, and head up to my stifling bedroom, still sneezing and blowing my nose, with only a window fan for comfort. Air conditioner? Not in my realm.

Put my current soft self into those conditions today, and I’d think I was in hell. Couldn’t take it now. I’d absolutely freak.

Brings to mind a couple oft-stated lessons:

First, you can’t go back in time. (Heck, wouldn’t want to.)

Second, everything’s relative. (I didn’t know anything different, and that was a blessing. Amen.)

Check Out Singshot If You're into Karaoke

I'm one of those people who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, or at least no one ever told me I could. Back in grade school, when the music teacher said that someone didn't sound very good, I always thought it was me. Maybe it wasn't, but I was sold.

However, if you think you've got possibilities or just want to dabble with the thought, go to Singshot.com for the karaoke time of your life in the privacy of your own home. (Maybe that's the best part. Use this to try out your karaoke pipes alone before you have a couple drinks and make a fool out of yourself in some bar. Might decide you ought to keep it at home, hidden.)

The thing's free as far as I can figure, and you can record your renderings and even post them if you've got the guts--seems a lot of people do.

FRUGAL TRAVELER: Keep Austin Weird

It's week eight in Matt Gross's trip across America--the other America. (Click the title)