A friend of mine hates his job. Nothing so special about that. The people he works for are, in his words, “oppressive.” Like that 4th grade teacher who hovered over your shoulder while you tried to complete an exam, his management is stifling. Their presence hangs over the workplace like a dark storm cloud – actually, more like a lingering fog that won’t burn off. It sounds like a tough existence. I see it rob him of initiative. I don’t much think drudgery is a good work motivator, but I could be wrong.

Depression – not the clinical kind, but the emotional kind – is common in his life. Makes him really fun to be around. A real laugh riot. Flip a coin on his mood and more often than not it lands on “funk.” That’s how he describes his depression about his life and situation.

He’s thankful to have a paycheck though. The recession has oddly enough made matters worse for him at work because now he feels more trapped than ever. Which is really weird because he’s never looked at leaving his job. I guess just knowing there might be the possibility of leaving the morons he blames for his work situation gave him hope. Hope that he might one day be able to move beyond their craziness. Now, with people losing jobs and our president moving us faster and faster toward a socialist society he feels more trapped than ever.

We’ve spent lots of time talking about action, taking control of your own life and refusing to be victimized. Nothing seems to work. Exasperated I recently told him his life was just one big suck-session. It sucked because he was perfectly okay with letting it be that way. He was, I argued, a victim of his own design. At some level he saw it and understood it, but ultimately he concluded what so many conclude, “What else can I do?”

I only had two words for him, “Suck less.”

Sidney Poitier is now 81. Hard to believe. He has great grandchildren, which is what prompted him to write a book in the form of letters. The book is entitled, “Life Beyond Measure, Letters to My Great-Granddaughter.” The book is Poitier’s way of passing on his wisdom to the upcoming generation because he realizes, “The time between us is short.”

Aging does that to people. Forces us to think of the time we have remaining. It makes us think of the youngsters in our family who will grow well into adulthood without us.

I suspect younger people don’t understand – nor should they – the need older people may have to pass on the wisdom they’ve acquired. Reflection is a by-product of aging. The time between us and those who are substantially younger is very short.

Time isn’t so precious when you’re young. The older you grow the more valuable it becomes. And I suspect there is an age, perhaps brought about by health conditions, at which time stands still – and you’re just ready to call it a life.

Death isn’t the only barometer of the time between us. Accomplishments and many other things can also gauge the time between us. Chief among such may be wisdom.

Randy Pausch, famous performer of “The Last Lecture,” died today. He was 47. We all knew, including him, that death was inevitable – and coming sooner than later. The time between him and his children becoming adults was simply too great for him. Go here for Randy’s diary.

Sadness enters the room for millions of people who viewed his last lecture on YouTube, read his subsequent book and saw him on Oprah. He seemed like such a good guy.

Death respects no one. Good or bad. We all die. Death closes the gap of the time between all of us. Hold a good thought for his family and so many other families who suffer the losses created by death.

Equally, if not more important, consider the time between you and those you love…between you and what you hope to accomplish. Get on with it. Time is short. The time between us is extremely short, meaning the time we have together isn’t long. Soon our loved ones will be out of reach.

The time between who we are and who we hope to be is short, too. Who we hope to become might escape us. Unrealized potential often results when time runs out. Few of us fully realize our dreams, ambitions or potential.

Grab it while you can. Do it while you can. Say it while you can.

Social networking is no longer attending a dinner party. It’s gone viral, if not poisonous. Facebook is the big bruiser of social networking. But there are plenty of others. With great frequency I get some email invitation to a new one – usually sent to me by somebody I’d rather not be connected to. I just delete the emails – because I need to join another Facebook-wannabe like I need $4 a gallon gas.

Yogi Berra, a wordsmith beyond comparison, once voiced his opinion of Rugerio’s, a popular St. Louis restaurant where he had once worked as headwaiter. “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.”

That’s about how it goes with social networking. It’s very crowded, but it seems awfully lonely to me. For example, I know a person who is a member of every social networking and blogging type group on the planet. Xanga. Facebook. Tagged. MySpace. And so many more. Many of us wonder how this person has time to even create a profile on so many sites, much less to post. Regularly. Yes, more than once the phrase, “get a life” has been uttered when this person’s name comes up. I suspect a high level of loneliness.

Crowded lonliness isn’t restricted to the online variety though. The Internet does contribute to it though. I see people unable to peel themselves away from email or an Internet browser. The compelling attraction of the web seems to be much higher than real life human interaction for some people. Forums, email, social networking sites, blogs and all this connectivity has left many people lonely.

If these things really helped whatever it is humans crave and need – real connections – then it seems only a few would be necessary, or succeed. But like alcohol, drugs and pornography – more is better! The lust to have more seems strong. It never cures loneliness, but still people flock to imbibe. I see many of them who are lonely. I know those who sit back watching them connect to a monitor instead of them are lonely.

So here we are in a big crowded virtual room, lonelier than ever and connected more to strangers than those who love us.

Jerry Lewis was once funny. Stupid, but funny. I’ve seen many of the Lewis and Martin classics. I confess that I’ve never seen this movie, “It’s Only Money.” Here’s a recap of the movie:

Lester March (Jerry) is a 25 year old orphan who operates a radio and television repair shop. Although he prides himself in his work, his heart is really in pursuit of becoming a private eye like his buddy and role model, Pete Flint (Jesse White). In the course of becoming a detective and television repair man, Lester is discovered to be the heir to a fortune. Suddenly Lester is the hunted, as the family fortune is up for grabs. Sight gags galore in the attempts on Lester’s life, and the happy ending as Lester and his bride drive off into the sunset.

Here’s a scene that I found posted on YouTube.

Okay. So it’s probably not terribly funny. Few people find money funny. Even fewer find losing money funny. Especially their own.

I’ve lost my share of money. Sometimes I’ve misplaced it. That’s bad. Worse is losing it by being stupid. It makes you feel like you’ve been kicked in the crotch. That’s how Jerry looks in this photo. I’ve experienced this pose before. Not often, but enough to be ashamed of my foolishness.

It’s only money. You’ll earn more. Hopefully. Even so some lessons in life are expensive. I admit that I’ve trusted people before – only to realize I’ve been duped. I’m not talking about a professional con. I’m talking about a legitimate person with a legitimate enterprise where an investment goes south. It happens.

This economy is not being kind to many of us. People are lamenting the results of their 401K. Stock portfolios look like those cliff divers in Acapulco. Real estate prices are falling. Gas prices are soaring. Economic life sucks. But it’s only money.

Some of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned have been expensive. Maybe that’s why they were valuable. They cost me so much! Or maybe that’s why I remember them. I don’t know.

I do know that I’m a cynic. And growing more so by the day. As a young man I remember a teacher telling me I was too young be to so cynical. She was an idiot. I never did trust her.

Today I realize I’ve not been nearly cynical enough. Years of losing various sums to people I trusted have taught me that my teacher was all wet. I wasn’t quite cynical enough. Then, or now.

Trust should never be given. It should be earned. Then tested 3 times (minimum). Then and only then should it be considered. Not given. Just considered. And tested 3 more times – over the course of at least 5 years total. Then, the scope of trust should be no higher than $100. That’s right. Six tests. Five years. One hundred dollars. It’s fair. It’s safe. Remember that equation:

6 tests + 5 years = $100 max.

After all, it’s only money. I’m learning valuable lessons. Earn your money. Invest it as wisely as possible. Never invest it with a friend, or an acquaintance. Never. If you lose your $100 investment after the 5 year testing period – realize that for $100 you got a 5 year education in how not to be foolish. Invest more – and you’ll learn the same lesson. It’ll just cost you more money. As for the loss of time – you’re really not losing anything. It’s not like your working on a slave ship for 5 years. You’re just waiting it out. What you’ll have to battle is the thought that you’re missing out by not investing. It’s a bad thought process that will cost you nothing, but time and money.

You’ll make more money by the things you refuse than the things you accept. Always. Book it. I’m right. I’ve got the tread marks on my back to prove I’m right.

Here’s just a sampling of idiotic things that have cost me money and provided little or no return. This list is not comprehensive. I lack the web space to fully capture my stupidity. However, this list represents a vast sum of money, that if invested in something that would garner a safe, conservative 6-8% annual return – would have earned me about $30,000,000 today.

- Hot rodding a car when I was a teenager (countless thousands)
- Stereo gear (a weakness I’ve long had)
- Books (way too many books)
- Music (what good is the stereo if you have no books)
- Software (countless pieces of software, including ridiculous numbers of updates – to software I bought, but barely use; gotta keep it updated, you know)
- Anything that goes in my garage (anything, including my car)
- Clothes (one suit, two dress shirts, three ties, one pair of dress shoes, two pair of jeans, 5 casual shirts and one pair of athletic shoes – it’s all I need; but I have more because I’m such a clothes horse)
- Toys (I have an awesome $100 laser pointer – I stand outside at night and blind airline pilots with it)

Some investments (it’s really an expense) are worthy of a stiff prison sentence. I should probably be in a prison for life for the stupid things I’ve purchased. And the stupid investments I’ve made.

I’m older now – and slightly wiser. So now my objective is to invest less time and money in foolishness. After all the mistakes I’ve made, I should be well on my way to incredible wisdom having learned too often the hard way. My advice is simple: keep your hands on your wallet and do not invest what you cannot afford to lose.

Better said, don’t invest it if losing it will make you want to commit a crime against the person you gave it to (that includes yourself). Think about it. It’s only money. Prison isn’t worth it. Prevent the crime before it happens.

Horton might hear a Who, but most of us have a Who. Who is your Who? What is your Who?

Purpose and religion define many people. Serving God. Serving Humanity. Serving Science. Yes, we all serve somebody or something. Personally, God deserves first slot in our priorities. He’s a big Who worthy of serious consideration. But this isn’t a religious post so much as it’s a post about the people – the relationship here on earth – that define us, fulfill us and help us.

Death is the inevitable conclusion of mortal life. Eventually all of us will find our way to the grave. Worse yet, all of us will experience the loss of somebody else who will get their first.

I think of death often. Too often? I don’t know. I’m not sure how often is too often. And I have no way of knowing how often others think of death. Their own, or somebody else? I admit to thinking of the death of others as much, or more, than I do my own. I suspect I dread the loss more than I dread the trip.

When death removes somebody from our life we feel loss. But what is lost? Last night I began to think of a lifelong friend. One I’ve not seen in awhile. One I don’t often talk to. But I know he’s here, alive. I know where he lives. I have his phone number. I have his email address. I know I can pick up a phone and call him. Or get in the car and drive to see him. There is something comforting about that.

Our collective experience ties us. Life binds us. Death would separate us.

A woman is the focal point of my life. Children are, too. Now, a grandchild – only 8 months old. I don’t want to lose any of them. They’re all precious. But at the heart of it – is a woman, my wife. She is the center of my universe. The life I’ve built was architected around her. With her. I’m unable to comprehend my life without her. She does indeed define me in so many ways.

She doesn’t work with me. She has little idea of what goes on in my professional life. That is, she’s not clued in to the details of my daily professional routines. But she’s always with me. My mind thinks of her often. Hourly? More frequently. Sort of like an ever-present thought lying not so silently beneath the surface of whatever I’m doing. Or wherever I am.

Being tethered so tightly with another human being puts us at risk. Risk of loss. But the risk of not being so committed – so tethered – is much, much greater. The risk of never having your life so tied to another is a more horrible thought.

Death will separate us. Selfishly, I hope she’s forced to cope with the loss because I suspect her strength is greater. Or perhaps like “The Notebook” we can quietly lie down and go together naturally, peacefully. But that’s only a book (or movie).

People matter. So today I’m going to take time to let her know how much I care. How much she matters. How crucial she is to my existence. And I’ll let all the others who matter know, too. I don’t think they’ll be offended to play second to my wife.

I may even call my buddy who I’ve not talked to in awhile.

Fountain of Sorrow by Jackson Browne

Grief can enter our lives like an unexpected, imposing guest. How long grief stays often depends on our reaction to it. But sometimes grief can come in waves. By the time we’ve come to grips with the first wave and we think we’re handling things pretty well. BAM! The second tsunami hits and we’re rocked backwards.

One of grief’s biggest deceptions is that it convinces us we’re alone. Nobody else knows or understands what troubles we face. Hence, the old song, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen…” We’re wrong, but grief forces most of us into a dark corner of loneliness and self-pity.

Sorrow may precede grief, but I rather think sorrow follows. Grief hits us hard, often without warning. Sorrow may be more of a reflective sadness of what might have been. Grief is pure emotions rubbed raw by the disasters that curse all our lives. Sorrow is the more thoughtful consideration of our loss. In my life, sorrow is what follows grief.

Sorrow can be more powerful in driving us to our knees than grief because after the tears can no longer flow, sorrow still lingers. Like grief, sorrow comes in waves. Not so much the tsunami like grief, but more like the lilting persistent waves that just seem to never stop.

I find it easier to help others cope with grief. Sorrow is a tough challenge for comfort-givers. Grief has outward expressions that overcome us. Some people grieve loudly. Others are more subdued. But grief is always expressed with an outburst of emotions – at least initally.

Sorrow needn’t be that way. A furrowed brow. The kind of look you see when a person has a ducking headache. It may be a demeanor. Nothing you can quite put your finger on, but you know it when you see it. Grief is normally not so subtle. Or so lasting.

In my life, the threat of sorrow is magnified because sorrow is like the company that enters your home and refuses to leave. No matter what tactic you take, they just don’t seem to get the hint that you’re ready for them to go home. You maintain your politeness and ride it out. Sometimes, it’s a lengthy ride.

But sorrow has another quality that can threaten us. It can tempt us to embrace it, relish it and seek some sick-minded comfort in holding onto it. We can decide that if our company won’t leave, we might as well enjoy their company until they decide they’ve had enough. We surrender control of our happiness to the circumstances of our rude guests. We figure embracing it is better than resenting it.

Of course, all these things are natural experiences for every person. All of us suffer. None of us have the uniqueness we think we do. Others have made the exact same journey. Some worse. Some not quite so bad.

Misery does not love company. Not always. Our pain isn’t lessened by others who have traversed this same landscape. You don’t make me feel better by recounting what happened to you. My grief and sorrow are not about you. They’re about me. That’s the selfishness of grief and sorrow. It’s always only about us!

Comfort comes in many forms. A pet. A spouse. A friend. Perhaps, oddly enough, a stranger. There is an enjoyment in sadness that I sometimes feel. I sometimes go off to myself and cry. Not often. But I confess there are moments when sadness just seems right. That’s life.

Hugs are universally accepted as comforting. I hug. Without shame. No, I’m not a touchy-feely type person, but a hand on a shoulder, an embrace or an arm around somebody is not uncomfortable for me. Oddly enough, these comforting gestures are UN-comfortable for quite a few people.

I’ve hugged my share of dogs – pets. They seem to have an amazing ability to know something is wrong. And to make us feel better. They love us unconditionally. They’re glad to see us. Always. They enjoy our presence. They crave our company. They love us without judgment. The wagging of a tail seems to be an auto-response to our entrance into the room. No person in my life is ever as glad to see me as my dogs. Pets have often helped me to move on.

Ah, the moving on – the most difficult part of sadness. Forcing the clouds to part and embracing sunshine once again are easier for some than others. Sometimes we’d like it to rain for days on end. So we can let sorrow envelope us longer. I’ve never succeeded in putting a time limit on sorrow. I know it may be wise to do so, but it’s always seemed ridiculous to me. How can I possibly put a time limit on my sorrow – and dictate a time when I will move on?

Moving on is like sorrow. It takes time. Time for our minds to wind down from all the traffic of thoughts. Time to deal with regret. Time for our minds to settle back into a routine – a healthy routine of everyday life. In time, hopefully sooner than later, we realize life is not over. Blessings still exist in our life. Other people are still leaning on us. We’re still leaning on others. Life does indeed go on. The key is to not resent it, but to accept that sorrow has now changed us. We pray for the better.

Pain forges a path toward useful living. Pain helps us understand compassion. Pain helps us deliver comfort. Pain makes us thankful. Pain keeps us humble. Pain can create reverence. A proper response to grief and sorrow can improve us like nothing else.

So today – as I’m made aware of the grief and sorrow of others – I’ll do my best to deliver comfort. It may be a hug, a prayer, a kind word or whatever comes to mind at the time. They’ll know their pain is on my mind, even though I’ll never tell them I understand what they’re going through. My face and my actions will show them that the source of my sorrow is their own sorrow. So, we’ll cry together and pray for brighter days ahead.

Rains can’t last forever. We’ll all find the strength to dig out and move on. Or, we’ll muster up the strength to endure what we can’t overcome. But we’ll remember the sorrow that binds us all together. And the pain that makes us grateful for the relationships we enjoy. Because in the end, sorrow is never stronger than love.