The Dreaded Bucket List

Many of us have become adept at selling an image of ourselves – our brand, if you will – especially since the advent of social media.  We want to show the world that our lives are exciting, our kids are brilliant and that we’re well on our way to checking all the boxes on our bucket lists.  When I jumped out of an airplane in 1988, I took pictures, but I had nowhere to post them.  Today, if I were to jump out of an airplane, every person I’ve been in touch with in the last decade would know about my feat within seconds, and they might even get the false impression that I’m daring and interesting.

(This reminds me of my favorite line from the 1987 movie, Broadcast News.  When William Hurt’s character asks, “What do you do when your real life exceeds your dreams?”  Albert Brooks answers, “Keep it to yourself.”)

The problem is that we’re constantly exposed to other people’s accomplishments, and I find myself reading other people’s posts and thinking I don’t measure up.  What’s particularly bothersome to me are the dreaded Bucket Lists whose entries make me question whether the happy life I’m leading is all a fraud.  I resent the implication that I haven’t lived until I’ve (fill in the blank: scuba dived, bungee jumped, swam with whales, dolphins, sharks or any other large aquatic creature, gone on safari, traveled to anyplace that takes longer than a ten hour flight to get to, rock climbed, run a marathon or any other kind of “thon”, attended the Kentucky Derby, deep-sea fished, fished anywhere for anything, eaten liver or tongue…). 

Sure, my life is tame compared to some, but so what?  Well, social media keeps telling me what, and I start to get defensive.  I’ll even catch myself comparing my life to the lives of fictional characters while watching TV (“I don’t see Andy Taylor training for a marathon, and he seems pretty happy.”)

Yeah, it’s come to that. 

So, in the spirit of the old t-shirt that displays an unemotional face with the caption, “Have a day,” I'd like to share my bucket list that mostly involves not dying:

1)      Live at least another three and a half decades.

2)      Stay happily married until death do us part.

3)      Maintain a good relationship with my kids for the rest of my life.

4)      Regularly challenge myself in small ways.

There.  Throw in taking dance lessons someday and traveling to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and I think that just about covers it.   And lest you think my goals aren’t aiming high enough, I leave with a question: how many people live to be eighty-two, happily married, and still have good relationships with their kids?

How Good Do We Have to Be?

Several years ago a friend of mine said to me: “I don’t believe in heaven, but if there is one, I think I’m going.”  I loved how self-assured he was despite his obvious flaws, and wish I could go through life with as much confidence, not because I’m worried about an after-life, but because I want to believe that I’m doing “enough” for my fellow man (and environment) while still being able to enjoy my indulgences. 

For me, I’m constantly wrestling with the question: how good do I have to be?  I don’t mean “how good” of the self-help variety, a la Stuart Smalley’s daily affirmations on SNL as depicted by Al Franken.   I really mean, “Okay, so how good do I have to be so that I can spend time doing things I really want to do, and do them with a clear conscience?”  If this question seems rather seedy, I’ll conceded that point, but ask that you hear me out (and bear with me as I lean on religious teachings).

The very fact that I’m asking this question probably deflates some of the good I do.  In Judaism, there are eight levels of charitable giving according to Maimonides, and the worst is giving grudgingly.  So now, on the days when I dread going to a nearby homeless shelter because I’d rather stay at home and watch football, not only do I walk away feeling like I haven’t done enough, I feel like what I’ve done isn’t even worthy.  Say it with me: oy!

Monetarily, Judaism offers straightforward guidelines, as there’s both a minimum (10 percent of one’s net income) and a maximum:

One who wishes to donate (generously) should not give more than a fifth of his income, lest he himself come to be in need of charity. (-Babylonian Talmud, Ketubot 50a)

Of course, there’s really nothing easy about donating 10 percent of one’s income, so the maximum is probably irrelevant for most people, but one could just as easily apply this “upper limit” logic to volunteering and perhaps give credence to the idea that there’s a point at which someone’s done enough to help others.

Without delving into specifics, I volunteer and donate here and there, and sometimes I feel pathetically proud: “Well, wasn’t that nice of me?”  It feels good to mentally check the box “volunteer one’s time” so that I can enjoy the rest of my day (week? month?) without the nagging feeling that I’m not contributing enough to the care of others.  But of course, the reality is that I could always do more.  Much more.

So how much is enough?

Well, if the story of the Good Samaritan from the New Testament is any indication, probably a lot more than what I’m currently doing.  (I get a double dose of religion many weekends by attending synagogue on Friday and then hearing a Sunday morning sermon at the Presbyterian Church where I play piano.  This allows me to feel doubly inadequate.)  In this story, a lawyer asks Jesus what he needs to do to receive eternal life, and when Jesus asks the man what the law says, he answers in part, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  Jesus tells him, “You are right.  Do this and you will live.”  But then the lawyer asks, “Who is my neighbor?”

Ah ha!  Well, this gets more complicated.  I suggest you read Luke 10:25-37 for the whole story, but the short answer to the question is: everyone is your neighbor!

Oh goodness.  This is where the anxiety starts creeping in.  In this day and age of unlimited information about every ailment and calamity facing people all around the world, one could hardly blame a well-intentioned person from becoming so overwhelmed with charitable possibilities that he’s not even able to buy a coffee or a beer without sinking into a hole of self-hatred, like Steven Spielberg’s Oscar Schindler on steroids: “This coffee!  Instead of buying this coffee, I could have fed a family an entire meal!  Instead of watching this baseball game, I could have volunteered at a homeless shelter!”

So how good do we have to be?  Harold Kushner wrote a book with this exact question as its title, but he doesn’t really talk about what’s required of each of us when it comes to helping others.  He discusses familial relationships and acceptance for one’s failings.  That’s all well and good.  But the reality is that as I write this blog that maybe fifty people will read, I could be delivering food or mentoring a child.  I might already be doing those things, but shouldn’t I do more?  If yes, how much more?  Can I spend a day writing without thinking that I could have done something nobler with my time?  If yes, can I spend two days?  Three days?  Four?  Can and buy myself a $400 bass amp (as I did last week) without thinking that my money could have (should have?) gone to a nobler purpose?  How about a $1000 guitar?  A $2000 keyboard?  I already own two keyboards, you say?  So why would I need another?  Wow, have you got a lot to learn about musicians.

Look, for me, these are not easy questions, and there are no easy answers.  I suspect I’ll never be as content as my friend who believes he’s a shoo-in for the ultimate reward, and maybe that’s a good thing.  Maybe by questioning what I’m doing I make better choices here and there that lead to the betterment of others. 

I sometimes play piano at funerals for people who – by the accounts of their loved ones – have done remarkable things:  formed foundations, served on every society known to man, volunteered for every cause, and I leave these funerals feeling partly depressed and partly inspired: depressed because I haven’t done enough and inspired because I see what people are capable of.

So maybe that’s the answer.  How good do we have to be?  Better than we are, but less than perfect.

A Lesson from St. Vincent and The Fisher King

** SPOILER ALERT *** If you haven’t seen these two movies, consider reading this essay after you do.

Watching Bill Murray’s film St. Vincent last week, I was reminded of another movie: The Fisher King, starring Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams.  Both the 1991 and 2014 releases are similar, not just because they’re manipulative and contrived, but because they could potentially lead one to view the more downtrodden among us differently.  How?  Well, that depends on how you look at things.  For some, the movies might invoke a spirited response similar to that of Christopher Tookey, who wrote of the Fisher King:

"The sagacity of the saga is diminished by screenwriter Richard LaGravenese's naively sentimental approach to homelessness and insanity.  Madness in this film can be cured just by knowing that someone cares about you, and homelessness is not a social problem, but a picturesque way that individuals have of coping with personal tragedy.”

Whereas Tookey feared people could stop viewing homelessness as a real problem, I remember walking away from The Fisher King with a more positive thought:  that its tale of a personal tragedy might lead people to view homeless in a more humane way, concluding that perhaps it wasn’t drug use, crime, or other poor choices that led their downfall, but rather a terrible event over which they had no control.

Never mind that generalizing a film’s depiction of a fictional character as a universal truth is unfair to a medium that’s primary purpose is to entertain.  After all, just because Robin Williams’s character suffered a horrendous tragedy doesn’t mean all homeless people have.  But it might be a positive step when we’re confronted with, say, a panhandler, to help use the movie as an example, and consider that this person asking for money may once have been living a full and rich life only to have a tragedy propel them downward (of course, you could argue that it shouldn’t matter one way or the other.  A person in need is a person in need, no matter what led to their circumstances).

St. Vincent walks a similar line to that of The Fisher King.  Its egregiously manipulative screenplay has the main character – who’s been a complete ass for most of the film – conveniently throw out the remnants of his nobler past just as a neighborhood kid watches through a window, thus casting the curmudgeon in a new light.  Like The Fisher King, this film seems to shout out, “Don’t judge a person too harshly – you don’t know what he’s been through.”

And as contrived as this message may be, this is exactly the default setting we should be employing in our lives.  When someone cuts us off on the highway, treats us inconsiderately at the cash register or demeans us at the doctor’s office, it’s easy for us to conclude that the person we’re dealing with is simply a low-life asshole who thinks of nothing but himself.  And you know what?  The easy conclusion may actually be right on the mark. 

But aren’t we much better served by assuming that the person who’s cut us off on the highway is in a terrible hurry because he just found out his spouse has cancer, or the inconsiderate cashier just discovered she can’t pay this month’s rent, or the demeaning physician just had to tell a patient that he’s dying.  Unlikely scenarios, perhaps, but possible, just like it’s possible the homeless person you encountered lost his wife in an unspeakably horrific way, and it’s possible that the cranky neighbor who everyone dislikes is a war veteran who’s been taking care of his wife with dementia for years.

It doesn’t hurt to assume the best in people, and it could even do a lot of good.  As Atticus Finch said, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”  It’s a difficult ideal to live up to, but it’s certainly one to aspire to, and movies like St. Vincent and The Fisher King are helpful – if a bit melodramatic – reminders if that ideal.

The End of Cable? (sniff, sniff)

A few months ago I documented an infuriating experience I had with Comcast for what should have been a simple fix (i.e., replacing a broken router).  Despite the fact that a friend of mine who I hadn’t heard from in over half a year proactively reached out to me to mock my essay, I stand by it, and now Joel Stein of TIME Magazine does too, at least tacitly.

In this week’s TIME, Stein discusses his attempt to transfer his cable service to a new address, but apparently Time Warner shares Comcast’s penchant for ineptness and stupidity.  After several phone calls with no resolution, Stein decided to cut the cord and discontinue cable altogether.  My blog may not have much of an impact on the cable industry, but Time Warner can’t exactly be thrilled with Stein declaring,“…I really, really, really hate Time Warner Cable.”  He certainly isn’t alone.

When Blockbuster went belly-up a few years back, I said to a friend of mine, “Well, I guess that’s what happens when your business model is built on treating customers like three year-old felons.”  Cable companies could learn a thing or two from the likes of Blockbuster.  My family hasn’t had cable TV in over 14 years, and it’s becoming less of a sacrifice with each passing year of added streaming content through Amazon, Netlfix, and the like.  And now, poor customer service is jeopardizing our decision to use Comcast for Internet and phone service.  

It may only be a matter of time before cable compaies take the dive, and when it does, it couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch fo guys.  Except possibly the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives.

Saying No to College Competition

Confucius may have said it first, but I remember the following quote best from The Brady Bunch Movie in which Mike Brady tells his children, “And as a wise man once said, 'wherever you go....there you are.'” (see 0:33)

Parents of high schoolers may have a hard time embracing this little tidbit when it comes to preparing their kids for college, when so many forces tell us that where you attend college is the most important decision you and your child well ever make.  It's hard not to get stuck in idea of achieving at all costs.  Case in point: while volunteering last week at Feed My Starving Children, I sat next to two women of high school sophomores and heard them discuss their kids’ impending college searches, and phrases like “ACT practice test,” “hire a tutor” and “a good college resume-builder” peppered their conversation.  I got the feeling that while packing food for the starving was all well and good, adding an entry for next year’s college applications was even better. 

They’re not alone.  The race to college is a national phenomenon that for many begins in the toddler years and lets up only with an acceptance letter from Harvard. 

Last March, Brigid Schulte of The Washington Post authored an excellent article about “the parenting arms race.”  In it, she highlights the story of Wilma Bowers, whose daughter was sneered at by fellow classmates after applying to James Madison University – a fine school by all accounts, but in the community of McLean, Virginia, anything short of Ivy League or Stanford is considered “settling.” (if you have time, read the comments section of this article as well – enlightening stuff).

This idea isn’t confined to hyper-competitive parents and their children.  A very down-to-earth friend of mine told me her son waffled a bit about attending a university in Colorado because part of him felt like he hadn’t pushed himself to get into a more highly-ranked school, and one of my own daughters has made similar comments.

But it’s important to consider the wisdom of Confucius and Mike Brady.  After all, you take yourself with you wherever you go, and if you’re a person who’s going to succeed (however that’s defined), you will succeed regardless of the school you attend.  Sure, going to college is important for many people, but where you go to school?  Not so much, even if you do happen to consider earnings the best measure of success.  According to a study by Stacy Dale, it’s the level of school a student is accepted to, and not where the student ends up going, that best determines future financial success.  And today’s CEOs of major U.S. corporations come from a more diverse group of schools than in the past, when graduation from an Ivy League school was more of a prerequisite.

A recent phrase that's been used recently is "authentic success," but it's really just common sense: do something you love, treat others as you want to treated, and give back.  This is nothing new.  

When my kids were two years old, I wrote the song "Head Start."

You go and visit your neighbors with kids
And brag about what yours just did
And hope her milestones measure up
Life's one big competition

Even then, I could sense that it would be very easy to fall in the hyper-competitive trap.  Fifteen years later, I hope I've dodged that bullet more often than not.