The Art of Demotivation - In Practice

Everyone has done it.  Parents to children.  Coworkers to colleagues.  Friends to eachother.
Everyone has occasionally called someone by the wrong name or briefly failed to recall the name of the person they are looking at.  I'll admit to being terrible with names of people I've newly met.
But it felt more nefarious when a manager at work called me by another name recently.

This will be the second consecutive post which relates to work - and I don't write about work.

I'm in a position which is both enviable and worthy of sympathy.  My management at work doesn't really care about my role.  They've made that abundantly clear by ignoring an increasing percentage of stuff related to what I'm working on in the nearly two years since I moved into my current job.  There are still some check-the-box HR exercises and I still talk with them, but my job is largely a bottomless void.  Bottomless void also implies that something rolls downhill - and it does.
This is enviable since it means they largely leave me alone.  This is worthy of sympathy since it means I'm quite sure I'm superfluous.  Or perhaps more realistically, I'm doing work which needs to get done - and the best possible outcome from a management perspective is nobody hears about it.  I may be a hairs breath away from being ignored right out of a paycheck.

I sometimes wonder if I may be slipping into the nothingness described in Harlan Ellison's short story "Are You Listening?"  It describes a man so mundane and average that he loses his existance - until he meets another man of the same fate.  Maybe there are other people at work who nobody has seen for years, but continue to dutifully show up every day.

David Bolchover writes about this in his book The Living Dead:  Switched Off, Zoned Out.  Mr. Bolchover was employed for years, where he freely admits he was doing almost nothing.  He relates that he was largely forgotten about.  There is another distinct possibility in that his management may have thought it was easier to give Mr. Bolchover unlimited freedom and a paycheck, rather than deal with his situation.  One thing I've learned over the years is that management really are human, and with the same limited energy to deal with difficult situations as everyone else.  If something isn't an immediate problem, ignoring it until it either becomes one or goes away may be a viable strategy - even if a feeble one.  A third possibility is that Mr. Bolchover could be a painful person to work with.  I've never met him and know nothing about him.  But I've seen difficult people be sidelined with roles that basically separate them from the normal population.  The corporate equivalent to solitary confinement.
Regardless, his point is a real one.  How much of the work going on is critically important?  It is too easy for the tasks to expand to fill the time, rather than the time being well used at the work that needs to be done.
I have stuff to do.  I'm competent at most of it, good at some of it.  But the overall management sentiment seems to be one of ambivelance.

I don't read many work/management books, but in addition to Bolchover's The Living Dead and Fisman and Sullivan's The Org (a highly recommended book which helps explains why large organizations devolve into the same painful, gelatinous mass), I read E.L. Kersten's The Art of Demotivation with great interest.
I'm really not sure how to classify The Art of Demotivation.  The book explains how to get more out of employees by demotivating them to a level somewhere just above the ground snail.  I'd like to believe Kersten's The Art of Demotivation is a completely satirical look at the pop culture of management books, celebrity business people, and self-help about how to "do more with less" as a manager.  But I can't.  I have seen far too many of Mr. Kersten's techniques practiced at work and far too often.  Sadly, I suspect many of the proletariat in a global corporation could say this.  So while it may not be a serious how-to book for up-and-coming managers, it may be a third person how-I-got-here for too many managers.

One of the strategies Mr. Kersten suggests in a couple of different places in the book is to "forget" the names of subordinates - and to do this frequently.  Employing this strategy, he even demonstrates this gem in the Acknowlegements:
"I also need to give credit to my research assistants Robert (or Roger?) from Massachusetts and the redhead with the eyebrow piercing.  They tracked down numerous references, checked the accuracy of quotations, and were a constant source of inspiration.  Naturally, any errors and omissions in the final manuscript are their fault."

So given the current ambivalent demotivation at work, when my manager called me the wrong name, in writing, I raised an eyebrow.  He has known me for well over five years.  We've worked close enough in the past that we've nearly come to fisticuffs (slight exageration).  Making it worse, he called me by the name of a colleague who is leaving the organization.  And his subsequent follow through was nearly delayed enough to be irrelevant with silence since.

But I won't complain.  In a training earlier this year, the speaker, who is both interesting to listen to and the rare individual who is actually motivating, said that he wanted, "...the most important project that is not on management's radar."  I'm definitely not there, but I can still revel in being left alone.

Thoughts on the Total Solar Eclipse

I can never predict what moment will persevere in my memory.  On my way to Alaska nearly ten years ago I rode my motorcycle across the Teslin Bridge into the town of Teslin, Yukon Territory.  I vividly remember the long grated surface of the bridge, the gravel on the road after it, the gas station in the town of Teslin and the conversation with the man pulling a large trailer.  Why this sticks with me all these years later, and I can't clearly recall more recent and more momentous events is a mystery.
I think these small moments live on due to the perception of the entirety of the occurrence.  In addition to the physicality of the Teslin Bridge and the gravel, I also recall feeling almost in awe of the surroundings - how remote Teslin felt compared to anywhere else, how far I had come, how far I still had to go.

Closing in on two weeks after experiencing the total solar eclipse of 2017, the entire brief period of totality seems almost a blur.  But what I can still clearly see is that first instant after taking off my solar glasses and seeing the blocked out sun, seeing the solar corona.  On any normal day, I could use the thumb on my outstretched hand to dim the brightness of the sun or block the view of the moon, but during the eclipse, it seemed impossible to do this.  And yet, I was struck by how small the actual eclipse looked in the darkened sky.  All the pictures I had seen leading up to the eclipse were close-ups showing the amazement of the corona.  My own pictures also show little else.  What is missing is how small it looks.  I still question how something so small can simultaneously be so grand.

After staring at the eclipse for a few moments, I looked over at my camera which was already pointed at the sun since I was taking pictures through the partial eclipse.  I quickly grabbed a few photos and saw nothing in the images.  For all my preparations, I had forgotten to remove my solar filter.
Removing the solar filter, I successfully bracketed a few images.  I looked back at the eclipse, not wanting to spend too much time looking at it through an LCD camera screen.  I looked around at the foreign horizon.  Using practiced motion, I grabbed a few more images without looking at the camera - I could do this by touch since I knew exactly where the buttons were by that point.
It seemed irrational at the time, but I remember thinking that it was odd that something so visually divergent could happen without any noise.  The sun was so stunningly different, but the abrupt change happened without any noise at all.  It might have made more sense if it had come with a roar or a howl.
I glanced around again for a few moments, looking at the odd light and its effect on the objects immediately around me.  Turning back to the eclipsed sun, it was over.  The brightest, whitest sunlight I have ever seen instantly hurt my eyes.  They call it the diamond ring, but it should really be called eclipse pain.  In the shortest few minutes of my life, the eclipse was over.

The build-up to the eclipse was a big part of the event for me.  When I went to bed the night before, I had come to peace with the fact that cloud conditions would likely prevent any viewing of it.  I had rationalized that this was OK.  But it wasn't.  At least a year of planning had gone into this.  I'm sure there would have been group catharsis, but I wanted nothing other than to see the total solar eclipse.  I had to stretch out of my comfort zone a bit to make watching the eclipse under a perfectly cloudless sky surrounded by almost nothing a reality.  And maybe that helps to create memories that persevere - allowing them to occur outside of the easy.

I desperately want to again ride my motorcycle to Alaska, but part of me is also terrified to do so.  I don't want those brief vivid memories to be polluted by new ones that are less.  I can recall stopping in Kremling, Colorado for the night on my first time in the Rockies.  That also remains a very vivid memory.  I went through Kremling a few years later and saw it only as another in a series of picturesque Western towns.  I couldn't really see anything special about it on that second time through.  I can't begin to describe how depressing that is.
When I ride the Alaska Highway again some day, I'm uncomfortable with the idea of crossing the Teslin Bridge again.  The bridge might be the same, but the gravel will not be, and there is unlikely to be a conversation with a man pulling a large trailer.  It is exceedingly unlikely that he has any idea of how that conversation played a role in my memory of Teslin and of the Alaska Highway.  I sometimes wonder if I've ever been a part of other's snippets of memories.  Almost certainly.  We continue to pass unseen through small moments in other's lives.

In April of 2024, another total solar eclipse will cross the United states.  A lot can happen in seven years, but barring anything catastrophically momentous, I anticipate doing what I can to see it as well.  April is a less opportune time for an eclipse; nothing can be done about the weather.  I guess I can start to rationalize now that not seeing it won't be the end of the world - and it won't.
I am not likely to become an eclipse chaser, spending considerable time and money to view them whenever and wherever they occur.  But I understand now a little more why people pursue total solar eclipses with such vigor.

I'm not sure what will happen to my memories of the recent eclipse over time.  The strongest memory I have now, almost immediately after it is how short it seemed.  If it weren't for the time stamps on my images, I'm not sure I'd believe how long it actually lasted in the spot that I was standing.
And that first mental image of seeing the brilliant white solar eclipse against the deep, black sky is impossible to forget.  At least I hope it is.

Veterinarian Heal Thyself

It isn't the money.  It isn't the dog's age.  It isn't that I believe her age has been underestimated.  It isn't the time commitment.  It isn't the dog's overall health.  It isn't longevity versus quality of life.  It isn't the effects that the treatment might have on her.  It isn't her inability to tell me what she wants.  It isn't that she is an absolutely awesome dog.  It is everything.
After loosing my oldest dog a few months ago, my now-oldest has been diagnosed with cancer.  This is pretty devastating as I was anticipating her living as long as the last two did.  Even without cancer, that would be unlikely.

The veterinarian noticed a small growth during an annual check up.  The vet didn't seem too concerned, but suggested it be removed and tested just to be sure.  "Within the next few weeks."  Once I knew where it was, it bothered me and removal came sooner rather than later.
It was probably a good thing it was removed as the histology report stated it was a rather aggressive form of cancer.  I was shocked by this; I had anticipated it would be just another benign growth - all my dogs have had these to at least some extent.

My vet referred me to a veterinarian oncologist.  I made an appointment and took her to see the cancer doctor.  The oncologist laid out some of the options, and none of them sounded very good to me.  The best option would likely give her several additional months to live, with a high degree of variability.  It would not cure her, but it would not be impossible for her life to be extended by years.  Maybe.  But maybe it would do nothing.  Digging into this option told a very incomplete story.  There are few good controlled studies, and the studies that have been done have shown a lot of variability with some conflicting results.  While several months is a huge advancement to the medical profession in the face of a terminal diagnosis, it is small comfort in the big picture.  Quite frankly, this best option sounded like only a few steps removed from an uncontrolled medical experiment.  I guess that is why it is called a medical practice and not a medical certainty.  I wish I could say that cost was not a factor, but it was.
Questioning financial motivation of a pet's owner is easy.  Questioning the morality of spending tens of thousands of dollars on an aging pet when there are people without health care is easy too. Does anyone question the financial motives of the veterinarian and the clinic?  That nice new building is being paid for by someone though.  The vet is only there to help - right?
I was there with my dog to see the oncologist, but was feeling judged at some point through the conversation.

Surgery - what was already done and may be needed again is a treatment.  Our usual veterinarian was able to completely remove the tumor with some margins.  Success does not necessarily mean cure.
More judgement was seeping into the small examination room.

Radiation was not a good option on this type of cancer and would likely come with a significant reduction in the quality of life.
Chemotherapy, while well tolerated by most dogs has not historically been very effective on this type of cancer either.  "So would chemo be that much better than not treating at all?" after much discussion about that as an option.
"Not in my opinion," the Oncologist replied.
More judgement.

A veterinarian's job is to heal the patient.  A veterinarian's job is not to do nothing.  I've yet to meet a vet who I didn't believe was compassionate.  While personable and friendly, the oncologist was compassionate in the same perfunctory way that a vending machine is - there are all these options, all will be bad for me.
Maybe I'm judging the oncologist as well.

My dog was resting on the floor staring at the wall.  She didn't want cancer.  She didn't want aggressive or expensive treatments.  She wanted to be back in her familiar back yard.  She really just wanted to be at home on the sofa.

"We could start treatment today," the oncologist said.
But it was too much to think about right then.  There was too much information and not enough at the same time.  These decisions are never, ever easy; there is no help in making them.  I needed time to think.
The judgement was hanging thick in the silent room.

I looked away from the oncologist.  The freshly painted walls were done poorly; the judgement made it hard to see the small paint drips on the floor.

The only thing I could be sure of was that my dog was not judging either one of us.

"The cold compassion of bartenders, he came to see, was like that of priests:  universal rather than personal, with charity for all and malice toward almost none.  Firmly situated … between sacrament and communicant, they commanded rather than earned love, trust, dependence." - John Crowley

Time Marches Deliberately On

Astronomical summer doesn't start for another few days, but it seems like summer is already half over.

I'm far enough away from school that I should no longer dwell on these things, but the whole concept of "summer" remains something I think about often.  Ignoring the first few years of life which are replete with childhood amnesia, early life is discreetly compartmentalized.  Agreeably so.  I don't know that this is good or bad - more than likely it is neither, and just what becomes the norm.
Each of those first years is broken into first semester, second semester and summer.  This pattern is offset from the calendar year, almost certainly since a previous agrarian time has the growing season offset from the calendar year.  School was secondary to the income and food when much of the population had to take advantage of what can be done spring through fall.  The fiscal year practiced by many businesses is more nebulous and doesn't count as the same, or similar thing, since it only exists on a handful of accountants' spreadsheets and can be any to-from date that a company chooses.

And so for some 20ish years, life is broken into three loosely detached sections, with summer being the most important.  It was with a harsh reality that I realized that after graduating college, the time dimension became much longer.  No more starting a new school year in September.  No more mending with a second semester after Christmas break.  No more throwing away the previous school year's notes, to summer's heat and humidity.  Once hired after college, the next transition looked like it would be...

I'm doing some body work on one of my cars right now.  The last time I've done any body work was about 20 years ago (on the same vehicle).  I've lost some of the skill required to do body work in the last 20 years, which means each step has been done very deliberately and only after thinking about it; the thinking has taken more time than the doing for some steps.  The deliberate work may also be influenced by by being in my mid-40's.  I think I was 26 when I last painted this car.  I don't remember 26 as well as I remember college.  Likely 26 may have been far enough into work life to already have some introduction to the monotony that was to get older.  Instead of years being broken into first semester, second semester and summer, days are broken into work, eat, sleep (repeat).
I'm both enjoying the body work on the car and being intimidated by it.  Cars are a hobby and nearly everything is fixable in body work short of a welding fire that sends the car into a molten inferno.  But my body work skills even in my mid 20's were adequate at best.
I'm compelled to get the car done with enough time to put at least a few miles on it yet this year.  To do that, my deliberate pace must continue deliberately progressing forward.

My Dad died two years ago on Father's Day.  Two years isn't that long - only a few percent of my life - but it doesn't seem possible that it has already been two years.  Time on the small scale can often drag on, slowly and deliberately.  Stepping back away from the immediate, time on the large scale accelerates toward the infinite.
My summer started with reading The Last Lecture by Randy Rausch - both he and my Dad died of pancreatic cancer.  Have big dreams, Randy Rausch says.  Bronnie Ware tells us to fulfill at least some of our dreams.  And yet, experience is what you get when you don't get what you want says Randy Rausch.

I have, or had, plans on visiting a tourist farm later this summer.  It is only a few hours away, and I could probably do it in one long day; although two days is more likely.   These plans keep getting moved back.  I've got the car's body work to plug away on.  I have a fall hunt that I need to maintain my fitness and rifle skills for.  I can't travel around Memorial Day or around Independence Day - too many other people travel during these times.  I'm making plans for the August eclipse.  The lawn needs to be mowed every once in a while.
As a result, my short adventure plans appear to be perpetually in the future.  Time marches deliberately on.

Astronomical summer doesn't start for another few days, but it seems like summer is already half over.


"...because down in my gut, I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own, at least until I got tired of it.  There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary and sort of comfortably detached." -Hunter S Thompson.

Why All the Rage?

I sometimes wonder if we all become L Ron Bumquist as we get older.  Or maybe I'm just wondering if I'm becoming Dr. Bumquist.
A news teaser blurbed that a Kendall Jenner commercial for Pepsi was generating controversy.  Apparently, handing a cold refreshing beverage to a police officer in an advertisement is an act which necessitates social outrage with enough people for it to make the news.  Social media is the liquor store next door; it is the enabler of a rampant addiction to rage.  And when did nearly everything become worthy of anger?  Contempt maybe, ambivalence clearly, but anger?  Pepsi is just trying to sell more empty calories - junk food as my mom used to say.  Thank a Capitalist as without them we'd have nothing to fret about today.  Can anything happen that doesn't require someone to bitch, moan and create banal memes about.
Luckily this rage is very short lived.  Cecil the lion is still quite dead, but nobody really cares any more about Minnesota dentists or hunting big cats in Africa anymore.

I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed about this, but after hearing the news story on TV while getting ready for work, I really wan't sure who Kendall Jenner was.  I looked her up on Wikipedia and saw she is Bruce Jenner's daughter and something about the Kardashians - at which point I quickly lost interest.  Although I seem to vaguely recall that one of the Kardashians was married to Kanye West.  So Caitlyn Jenner and Kanye West could end up at the same family reunion.  Do people like that have family reunions?  I think not.
And if Kendall Jenner is Bruce Jenner's biological daughter, does that make him still her dad?  Or is she now her mom.  Maybe Family guy can sort this all out.
Again, I lose interest...

I have no interest in Pepsi as a surrogate for someone's social anxiety, the Kardashians, or pretending I'm interested in things that people who are half my age should probably not even be interested in.  How is it so easy to spot the old person uncomfortably attempting to act young?  The wedding a few years ago where they played The Macarena and the dance floor was filled with only young girls and middle-aged men.  It was terrifying.  Maybe that was another phenomenon altogether.  A former coworker recently resigned;  he's been convicted of some crimes and it apparently wasn't dancing The Macarena.  Even the limited information I heard on that one is too much.  Every time I think about it, it is quite disturbing.  Yet some kind of voyeuristic stupidity compelled me to look it up on the county court web site.

Maybe Dr. Bumquist can help afterall.

Midlife Malaise

The worst part about the midlife crisis is that it doesn't exist.  Or it doesn't exist as the whimsical fun experience that 80's television portrayed it as.
It is easy to laugh at the 40-something buying a red corvette and trying to hang out (or more) with the young floozy; playing Frisbee golf with a bunch of beer chugging frat boys.  Even more funny if he is fat, ugly and going bald.
I even joked about this for a long time, saying I was looking forward to my midlife crisis when I would buy a motorcycle and ride it across the country, or I would do faux dangerous things like go white water rafting and bear hunting.  It was easy and funny to paint myself as this caricature since I was doing these things long before the age of 40 and not as part of any sit-com existential crisis.

Before going any further, I think it is important to ask a few dangerous hypotheticals:
Would I go back to being a kid again?  No way.
Would I go back to high school again?  Nope, shoot me first.  And I mean that.
Would I go back to college again?  Hmmm, maybe - until I end up in a situation around college students and realize the answer is a definite no.
I recall working as a mechanic at a restoration shop during college, and the "old school" former employees would show up and often lament how the shop was just not the same anymore.  Of course not - at the time, I thought it was better.  But I get it now.

An informal poll of other similar-aged acquaintances suggests midlife can be a crisis of malaise.
There is that big question constantly lurking around lots of hidden corners:
I am generally content.  Still, is this all there is?
Things were not supposed to be this ambiguous.  My siblings and I used to play a board game called Careers.  I likely have some of the details incorrect, but the premise was that levels of happiness, money and fame were chosen at the beginning of the game.  Players then moved around the board "collecting" these things.  The winner was whoever reached their predetermined levels first.
I'm somehow struck that either I chose the wrong mix at the beginning of my life, or this isn't quite as straight forward as the board game made it out to be.  More metaphorically, I'm starting to believe that the game should have a constantly changing set of targets, and the players have no idea of what those targets are or what their score actually is.  The squares in the board game only give vague direction as to how much of anything they provide.  Money, Fame and Happiness can vanish without anyone realizing it.  I believe I'm stretching the metaphor to real too far now.

Jonathan Rauch writes about his own experiences in The Atlantic.  I've read similar articles and was prepared to skim this one.  Until I got to the second paragraph:
"Yet morning after morning (mornings were the worst), I would wake up feeling disappointed..." (emphasis added).  Mr. Rauch's experience is different in that the way any person experiences anything is unique, but there were familiar currents to what he was saying.  And while I don't see things as disappointing, I'm with a large faceless group who see things with an overwhelming sense of malaise.
Yes, mornings are the definitely the worst, though.  Perhaps a rarity in present day that I enjoy my morning commute.  But once I sit down in my cubicle and stare at the computer as it boots up, there is a sense of unease.  This routine is not comfortable.
Which is odd in that I like routine.  When the routine is shook up, it too often means life is shook up, something negative has taken over.  Monotony, comfort, lethargy, contentment all wrapped up in one.
Again, this is only unique in the same way any experience is unique.  While not an avid Reddit user, a search on Reddit for "monotony" and "adult" shows that the crisis of malaise, while not universal, is also far from isolated.

The article in The Atlantic quotes Mr Rauch as feeling "ungrateful."  I don't see it precisely this way.  I guess I am in a similar state where if my 20-something self would look at my now-self, there would probably be surprise, maybe even shock.  Who'd have thunk things would be where they are.  In many ways, things could be interpreted as better than could have been imagined.  Maybe I've sold out that 20-something though.
Not ungrateful, but incomplete.  Definitely incomplete.

And that is the scary part of the midlife crisis, why the caricature of the guy spending too much money buying a Porsche seems funny on the outside.  No matter what anyone does to rid themselves of the malaise of being 40-something, the only thing that won't change is themselves.  Renting track time in a Ferrari won't do it.  A new girlfriend won't do it.  Even new career won't do it.  The research seems to suggest, the best medicine is ... time.  Given the restorative power of travel, I'm not really sure I believe this.  Potentially, I just don't want to believe this.

I do think Generation X experiences this differently than the Baby Boomers, who screamed and threw tantrums about how they were not old.  Generation X seems to be more in a holding pattern - the slackers even slack off when having a midlife crisis.
I frequently hear or read that generational distinctions are all BS.  While this is partially true - slowly evolving changes create a spectrum.  The reality can be seen in US birth data.  The graph below shows both absolute and normalized births.  No question the Baby Boomer generation exists, and that this huge group of people affects how people act and interact.  The Millennial bump can also be seen; it is muted by the overall decrease the US birth rate.

In Generation X, we have a group of people who have listened ad nausea about how the Boomers were not ever going to get old.  We watched them age before our very eyes.  We saw it and are beginning to see it in ourselves.  50 is the new 40 is only one lie the boomers fed us for so long.  Forty is still 40.  And fifty will be 50.

And maybe that is good.
Mr. Rauch's article cites much research that after the midlife malaise, throughout it, things will improve.  It would be nice if this curve was a V instead of a U.  Life doesn't work that way; there will be no defined beginning and end - just a long malaiseful middle.  Like generational change, the upswing will occur on its own schedule.
Generation X hopes that the research is meaningful, is accurate; that it is soon.  I hope it is, anyway.

Still, there is a fear, a small voice nagging at me.  As I look back 20 years, and ahead 20 years, could the next phase, beyond the humdrum of day-in day-out, be just as unexpectedly soft as 40-something?
Even as I am writing this, I'm not sure I believe it.  Generation X is now well past the statistical half way point of our lives.  There is another generation poised to bite at the heels of the first group to grow up in the participation-trophy era.  That generation is just beginning to be defined.  Gen Z?  Or iGen (I hope not)?
With an objective eye, it is very hard to look at things negatively, and the midlife malaise ebbs and flows.  I guess that midlife malaise is really a First World problem.  But first world problems are not imagined - even with every developed country having pockets of third world when anyone takes the time to look.
This too shall pass.  In time ... this too shall pass.

The MGB and the Ferrari

Something disturbing happened a few days ago.

I had an appointment that I was early for, and the person I was meeting with was tied up with someone else, so I flopped down in a chair to wait.  Picking up an outdated, random car magazine on the small table next to me, I opened it to the Contents page.

Prominently on the contents page was a picture of the Ferrari 488, below it was a listing for a comparison of small cross-over utility vehicles.
I turned to the mud-bug article!

A group of us around, primarily-pre, driving age lusted after exotics of all kinds; this is a natural and required part of moving into the driving age for most guys.  There were three basic camps:  The Lamborghini Countach guys (show over go), The Porsche guys (really just one guy and his dad had a 928 - a car that Porsche engineers lauded as superior to the 911), and Ferrari guys.  We really didn't know jack about cars, and I was in the Ferrari camp.  There was also one Pantera guy, but, well, he was a Pantera guy...

The Testarossa was an impressive vehicle, but I always thought the side vents were odd - almost comical, boy-racerish.  The F40, on the other had, was a gritty no-bones speed machine, with the 308 an every-mans Ferrari by comparison.  In retrospect, the Porsche guy was probably correct that the 959 was a better car than the F40 in comparison, since it was nearly as quick and had creature comforts as well - but the Porsche 959 just did not inspire the same visceral reaction as the F40, sans radio and all.

Reality eventually does catch up with all of us, and my first car was an MG Midget - a decision I am convinced started a critical chain of events leading to who and where I am now.
Still, while grossly out of the realm of reality, any Ferrari continued to elicit awe, envy, and desire.

And now, some twenty-odd years later, I turn to the article on practical, fuel-efficient utility vehicles over one of the first modern turbo Ferraris.  I keep wondering when I'm going to go over that old-age hump, and this is yet another sign that I may already have.
I still probably lust after the Ferrari 308/328 more than the modern ones.  Partially because they are more attainable, but also as some terrible nostalgia.  While modern exotics are more purposeful, I can't believe form has taken too high a place over function.  These cars are actually somewhat pointless to own unless they are also going to get some track time.  Porsche 911s are just wrong without a whale tail.  I think the Enzo is almost ugly.  And automotive design reached a zenith, at least a local maxima, with the Ferrari 328.  Amazing engineering, stunning looks, yet fuel injected and widely considered one of the most reliable Ferraris to this day.  I'm well aware that a V6 Honda Accord can probably give a Ferrari 328 a good run for its money and a new Mustang GT will make the 328 appear to be a wagon on the conestoga trail in comparison; people who make that comparison should shut up already and go back to watching Fast and Furious.

Ten to fifteen years ago, the Ferrari 328s were quite affordable (comparatively).  It was actually reasonable to be able to buy one for a few 10s of thousands of dollars, sometimes less, with some of the best examples below $100,000.  Today, $50,000 is probably the entry price for these cars that "real" Ferrari owners see as starter cars, with the best examples well into the six figures.

And yet, I turned to the article on cross-over utility vehicles.

In my defense, I'll probably be replacing my Taco within the next few years and a mud-bug is something I'm considering even though I'd probably miss the open bed.
Still, I'm at a point where I probably could afford a performance vehicle, maybe even an exotic without significantly affecting myself financially.  I saw one locally a few years ago that was a restored salvage-title vehicle and was subsequently quite reasonably priced.  But Doug DeMuro's excellent series on actually owning a Ferrari makes important considerations on both owning and selling one.
His comment on the Ferrari being a "Point A to Point A" car is a bigger factor.  I have two motorcycles in my garage so I'm not against having totally impractical and expensive vehicles, but while they may be impractical, they get used extensively.  My Goldwing has been in 49 states and never on a trailer.  My Triumph Trophy has been flogged through rain, heat snow, and impromptu trips to trivial destinations.  I just don't see that happening with a Ferrari 328 if I owned one.

After my first car, the MG Midget, my second car was a 1977 MGB.  Over the time I owned this car, I did all those things that late model MGBs needed.  I put dual carbs on it.  Reworked the front suspension.  I put in an electric overdrive gearbox.  It was a phenomenally reliable car and what I drove all through college.

I still own the 1977 MGB, but sadly, it will never be on the road again.  I retired it many years ago when the engine oil pressure was starting to drop into the worrisome range (no rod-knock yet, so I knew I could fix for not much money or time), but more critically, the rust on the car was approaching a level that appeared to compromise the structural integrity.
I do occasionally have thoughts of restoring it, but not actually restoring it at all - I would be better off buying another 1977 MGB and transferring all those parts to remake my car in newer form.  But I'm not sure I can do that either, since it would ultimately mean getting rid of a vehicle which at one time in my life was probably my best friend.

The car has no value, but I can't get rid of it.  And maybe this Ferrari episode reminds why it is a good thing to keep it.  That 1977 MGB reminds me of who I really was, or am, or both.  As long as it sits there, a car I won't drive, I can't possibly waste money on another car I won't drive.

I do sometimes search Ebay during dull moments at work, and I still can't look at a Ferrari 328 without thinking maybe...  But the rational me knows that if the weather is good enough to drive a Ferrari, I'll probably be on a motorcycle, and I can enjoy that without being worried about any pretense of it as an investment.
So maybe this is evidence that I have gone over that hump.
And maybe that is OK.
But my meeting was still delayed, and I did read the article on the Ferrari 488 a little later ... and it sounds incredible.

What Happened?

"At 36, the world is our oyster.  By 44, we’re trapped inside the oyster, gasping for air." - Jacquelyn James

How did I get here?

I think my memory after the age of around 13 is reasonably good.  My preteen memory is a disaster, consisting of a scattered group of semi-organized snapshots and movie shorts.  I remember the sand box in the back yard, I remember finding flash bulbs at the base of the Mexican pyramids, I remember walking with the old lady who always walked her dogs by our house - first Tosse, then Erie (or maybe it was the other way around).  I even have one very early memory, from before I was two years old, of eating in our kitchen while my younger sister was being born.  I probably remember the more tragic events better, or at least more vividly.
After about the age of 13, my memory comes close to approaching a more linear narrative.  But I'm sure there are some very serious flaws.  I recognize that the same events visualized by different people, especially siblings, will be remembered differently.  Both memories will be both wrong and right.
So if memories can be imprecise, is it also possible to have them be completely fabricated?  Almost certainly.

I often wonder how memory works.  How in the organic chemical goo between my ears are memories stored.  Anytime I try to read what is known about this, I get technical answers that, even as a chemist, I don't understand and I think the authors don't either, or I get rehashed:  Short term memory is stored in the frontal lobe, long term memory in the hippocampus.  I guess I really do not like biochemistry now any better than I did in college.

Buy the Ticket and Take the Ride
Jerry: "What did you wanna be?" (when you grew up)
Elaine: "I don't remember , but it certainly wasn't this."

What happens to life goals as we get older?  Our youngest life goals are ludicrous, but the most aspirational.  Becoming a superhero or a princess isn't going to happen, but those are some of the loftiest goals that anyone will ever have.
Things change as we get a little older to something slightly more realistic - cowboy (whatever that is and probably still unrealistic), fireman, principal, race car driver.  If we could all just stick to those goals, there would be a lot less paper pushing bureaucrats and middle managers.  Still, there is a phenomenal amount of us who end up as faceless people doing jobs that, frankly, blend into obscurity.
All this makes this commercial from monster.com appear very funny, when in reality it is scary and absolutely tragic.

As years go by faster, the older I get, the goals change too.  Adolescent goals of "being the boss" or "become and astronaut" seem to evolve into "getting a job in the pharmaceutical industry" or "working in a technology job."  The reality is more likely "working in an office" - a nameless, faceless office where Friday afternoon is anticipated by noon on Monday.
Maybe the problem of demoralized expectations littering the floor lies in their origin in employment.  Little kids get asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  We don't ask them, "Who do you want to be when you grow up?"  That may be because it can be too painful of a question to ask internally.  A waiter at a chain restaurant can always aspire to start his own business.  A person who is financially successful, but is really an asshole, will probably always be an asshole.
And time does seem to pass that much quicker with each year - something I've only recently begun to understand.  At the age of eight, one year is 12% of life, and summer seems to stretch on endlessly.  At 44, one year is just over 2% of life so far; that year goes by much quicker than the eight-year-old's summer.  At 15 years of age, almost everything is new.  Every year older makes it harder to experience anything novel.

Life IS good.  But I'm not sure this is the ride I paid the price of the ticket for...

Thoughts for the Next Year
Tim Kreider wrote something recently in the way that only Tim Kreider can.  There is a small quote in this that resonates deeply:
"...the life I ended up with, much as I complain about it, was pretty much the one I chose."
This might be tough to stomach, but is probably true.  I'm here (we're all here) because of every decision that has been made, both the good and bad.  Some of this is out of personal control, but much of it isn't.  It is a pretty good place, but it is hard not to compare it to some mythical idealized state.  Sitzfleisch.

David Brooks talks about this but not loudly.  He whispers it.  Instead of worrying about whether a tin pot shines or is dented and faded, what is the interesting story, that ends up with a dented and faded tin pot?

As another year has gone by, my hope is that I define myself less and less by what my employment happens to be.
What is important should be what I've done, even things which might seem trivial.

So what will I be when I grow up?  I don't know.

But...
I am a person who loves travel, prefers the company of dogs, loves being outside and living in a rural area, enjoys riding bikes and long contemplative dog walks as well as learning through reading and writing...