Category Archives: Personal

2 August 2012

Not So Tough Now, Are We?

By Rick Ladd
Cuban Palm Trees An Early Spring Morning Outside Havana

Mornings in the fields outside of Havana were something special. I had been arising before the Sun since I became a teenager, largely because any day there was a school holiday I would have to work with my father. My Bar Mitzvah coincided with him leaving his job at Faber’s Ham Shop in the Grand Central Market to strike out on his own as a peddler of luncheon meat. Every check I received for my thirteenth birthday was immediately signed over to him so he could purchase the truck he needed in his new venture. Until I graduated High School and moved on, I was his “swamper” whenever I wasn’t required to be in school.

At first I hated getting up that early, but I eventually learned to love and appreciate being awake before sunrise. I still enjoy the sights and the smell of the early morning, though I don’t see – or stop to see – it as frequently as I did earlier in my life. But outside Havana, in the campo, seeing the sun rise in mid spring surrounded by tall, swaying palm trees was a sight to behold.

The year was 1973 and I was a member of el sexto contingente de la Brigada Venceremos (the 6th contingent of the Venceremos Brigade). Me and 99 of my best friends from the U.S. and Canada, traveling to Cuba to deliver books and medical supplies, working construction (with one-half day cutting sugar cane – whew!), and attending numerous cultural, historical, and political presentations.

Most every morning we were there, the day would begin quite some time before sunrise, when we would awaken to a breakfast of cafe con leche and pan. After eating, as we filed out of the mess tent, there would be three bowls on a table. One bowl contained candy (sugar!) and the other two cigarettes. The only names I can recall for the cigarettes were suaves and fuertes (mild and strong). The suaves were stronger than any cigarette I ever smoked in the states and, needless to say, I didn’t even bother with the fuertes. The tobacco was kind of coarsely chopped and in almost every pack there was at least one cigarette that would “flower” when the heat reached a piece of tobacco that was tightly compacted. It was mildly entertaining – mostly annoying.

This one morning came at the tail end of a couple of days in which one of my fellow brigadistas had been riding me hard. I couldn’t figure out what was bothering him, and didn’t have a clue how to deal with it. Although the group of people I was with ranged from members of the Democratic Party to card-carrying Communists, we were all there to show our support for the Cuban people, to protest the economic blockade of Cuba, and to learn what we could of their economy and politics. A large part of what we did was to provide labor, mostly for construction of some small homes and an elementary school.

So there I was, standing out in the middle of the countryside on the outskirts of Havana, getting ready for the workday to begin. I was enjoying the fresh air, made palpable by a slight breeze, and taking in the effects of the rising sun on the slightly swaying palm trees. It was refreshing and I was very content.

I heard a noise that didn’t sound familiar and looked in its direction to see what it was. To my chagrin, it was my so-called camarada, charging at me with his arms flailing. Now this guy was a Pinto, an ex-con and – as I said – he had been messing with me for days. He outweighed me by about twenty pounds, which didn’t make him all that big since I only weighed about 170 at the time.

Part of the reason I was in Cuba with the Brigade had to do with my political activity for the past few years, most of which was within the anti-Vietnam War movement, though some was in the general Peace & Justice movement as well. I had been studying Hapkido with a group of people who became the premier providers of security for most demonstrations, concerts, and other politico-cultural events in the Los Angeles area.

I had done everything from bomb searches to building security to armed bodyguard work. I had been the lead for organizing all of the security for Jane Fonda’s Southern California swing during the run-up to the 1972 Presidential election, including a couple of stints as her personal bodyguard. I was not quite 26 years old and in my prime. I guess he took my silence in dealing with him over the previous few days as intimidation. He was wrong.

As he got close I stepped toward him and placed a side thrust kick into the middle of his chest . . . hard. It drove him back and he fell to the ground, muttering after he hit “What’d you do that for?” There was no answer for so silly a question so I remained quietly in a ready stance. I had seen his friend standing nearby and knew he was a black belt in some form of the martial arts. I had no idea what was going to happen next.

Fortunately, that was the end of it. He got up, dusted himself off, and I never heard about it again. He did stop talking to me, which brought no objection on my part. I had learned long before that just because someone professes to have the same political goals you do, it’s quite conceivable their methodology won’t mesh well with what you think is proper. It’s also possible they won’t respect you based on their perception of you. This was surely reinforcement of those lessons. It’s been nearly forty years and I remember it well.

Aside from the time I had to take out a rooster who was threatening me and, more importantly, the two-year-old boy on my shoulders I was walking with around a farm in Morro Bay, this episode is the only time I have ever used what I learned in the martial arts in seriousness against a living being. The greatest lesson I have ever learned from my studies is that once you actually have to touch someone you’ve lost. I would have preferred it had never reached the point it did. In this case I felt I had no choice. Perhaps he learned something out of it. I doubt I’ll ever know and I’ve not lost any sleep over it.

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24 July 2012

Two Olives, Please. Medium Rare.

By Rick Ladd
Smoky Martini

The Marvelously Complex and Delish Smoky Martini

Alchohol

One of my all-time favorite television series is M.A.S.H. I loved the movie as well and I think I read the book, but the TV series went on for 11 seasons (1972 – 1983) and continued in syndication . . . well, actually, I just checked my DirecTV listings and it’s still around. Now, while I think the show was incredibly important for the anti-war message it conveyed, I’m actually bringing this up because of something completely different.

I could not watch a M.A.S.H. episode, especially in the later years, without craving a Martini. Well, maybe not every time the show was on, but every time Hawkeye and Trapper (or Hunnicut) would repair to their tent for a libation. I was seldom able to actually pour myself one during the show, but the urge was always there. It was a kneejerk reaction I had little control over, especially after I discovered the Smoky Martini. I’ve been a Scotch drinker for decades, but there’s something about the immediacy of a Martini I really like. For a while (and it’s been quite a while since I’ve had one) I was prone to order one made with Absolut (I prefer Vodka) and a splash of The Glenlivet . . . with two olives. Three of those and I had dinner knocked!

Other Carbohydrates

Of course I’m much older now and have a rather young family to boot, so those kinds of shenanigans are no longer available to me. However, something similar (and entirely non-alcoholic) happened yesterday. Even better, I was able to scratch the itch fairly quickly. I don’t recall how I came about it, but I’m pretty sure it was from a link in Facebook. Probably from Mashable or Lifehacker. It was to a story listing 12 hamburgers you can enjoy in Los Angeles. Now, I don’t currently live in L.A., though I was born downtown and lived in its suburbs for most of my life. I do live nearby. Just not close enough to have a casual meal anywhere but the North San Fernando Valley, which is just over the hill from Simi Valley. However, this is the U.S. and burgers are ubiquitous, with many unheralded places that make a pretty mean burger, as well as some well-known ones that didn’t make it to the list. There’s a couple of both in town here, and I’ll get to that in a moment.

Interestingly, the story points out that National Geographic had just named the hamburger at The Apple Pan (in West L.A.) as the best burger in America. As a native, I have eaten at the Apple Pan . . . though I’ve had a Smoky Martini more recently than one of the Hickory Burgers they’re best known for. Meaning it’s been a long, long time. Of course, you can’t have a burger there without topping it off with a slice of Apple Pie. Still, it’s been a long time. Regardless, despite it being a very subjective thing, I’m inclined to think NG’s selection was a bit biased by history and nostalgia.

Bob's Big Boy Statue

Oh, Little Big Boy. How I Have Loved Thee!!

Final piece of this story. My wife has Shotokan Karate classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, leaving me and our daughters to our own devices for dinner. Normally, I’ll make something for the three of us, but last night it was In-N-Out Burger time. I just had to scratch that itch (Animal Style!). I shouldn’t even be eating the damn things because of type II Diabetes. Plus, I added fries and a chocolate shake. Horrors! The hamburger was excellent, but the fries were rather pedestrian. They did not taste fresh to me. Maybe I’m somewhat jaded, but we got a mandolin slicer recently and I made some french fries here and, even though I didn’t get it quite right, they were way tastier than what I had yesterday. Also, the shake wasn’t bad; nice and thick. Frankly, I prefer malteds.

I can’t end this without paying homage to the hamburger I would give my personal lifetime achievement award to . . . The Bob’s Big Boy. I’m pretty sure the Big Mac was designed to emulate it, which I don’t think it’s ever come close to doing. I recall getting a Big Boy burger, fries, and a Silver Goblet Chocolate Shake many times in my life. It’s one of those taste combinations I can still evoke in my mind and it’s heavenly! Sheesh. I’m getting hungry again. Time for a salad . . . or a Martini.

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23 July 2012

That’s Just Stupid, You Moronic Idiot!

By Rick Ladd

Mediation Blues

Getting Along
Can’t We All Just Get Along?

I have often said I spent over two decades – the entire length of my career at Rocketdyne – trying to get Engineering to talk to Information Technology; two different groups of geeks, each of which thought they were superior to the other.

I didn’t work on it full time, and it wasn’t my job to get them talking, but had I been successful it would have made my job a lot easier. I worked at being a voice of reconciliation between them. It’s in my nature. I was not successful; at least not overall.

Now, the difficulty in getting these two organizations (we called them  “Processes”, as opposed to “Functions” or “Departments”) to talk to each other, was deeply ingrained in the culture of that enterprise. Part of the problem stemmed from the way we, as an enterprise, were organized. When I first arrived there in 1987, we were heavily command-and-control and pathologically hierarchical. There were kingdoms; fiefdoms, if you will and very few people thought further ahead than their own careers and organizations.

I’m happy to say things improved pretty dramatically over the years. One reason was the tireless efforts of a group of people, led by Dr. Bill Bellows, to apply the concepts and tools of thought leaders like W. Edwards Deming, Russell Ackoff, Edward de Bono, and many others to the way we did business. The term Dr. Bellows used for many years was Enterprise Thinking.

What made this way of thinking stand out, in my opinion, was its recognition of the systemic nature of an organization, an enterprise. It was clearly understood that all things – all processes or departments – were interconnected. Nothing in an enterprise exists by itself, outside the system(s) with which it interacts.

When you can clearly see this, suddenly you recognize how counter-productive it can be to blame people for things that go wrong, as well as expect individuals to make things work properly, which brings me back to the Engineering and IT departments I so futilely attempted to arbitrate for, as well as the title of this post.

Civility in Argument

Although I am guilty of it myself at times . . . I’m working on it . . . I don’t believe it is productive to blame others and, especially, to completely alienate them by using labels like “Idiot” or “Moron”. This is true whether you’re working together at an enterprise and – ostensibly – you share the same basic vision and goals, or you are on completely opposite sides of the political spectrum when it comes to how you think the country and the economy should be run.

I started writing this to make a point about the level of incivility I find at times on the Internet, especially in the comments of non-moderated news sites. Even the moderated ones contain some really argumentative and, at times, nasty comments. As I worked on what I was trying to say, the tragedy in Aurora played out and, true to form, the arguments between those who believe the second amendment is sacrosanct and those who wish to see access to guns more regulated are heating up.

My original intention was to point out how I have been able to get along with many very conservative people in my life, especially when we live and work together and see each other face-to-face on a fairly regular basis. I have long said that locally, in terms of how our cities and neighborhoods are run, we all want essentially the same things, e.g. safe neighborhoods, good schools, jobs, access to health care, etc.

I seldom have anyone disagree with this and it doesn’t surprise me. The problems seem to arise when we start talking about more abstract affairs; the economy, foreign relations, use of the military. Yet, I find with the people I know best we’re able to disagree without labeling each other as morons or idiots. We disagree but, somehow, we manage to continue getting things done together and not getting into actual fights over who’s right or how best to accomplish something.

I suppose this is one of our biggest problems in this country. Many of us have the tendency to ascribe the worst of motives to those they disagree with. I’m inclined to think that’s not a very good way to work together and achieve anything other than a continuous standoff. It seems that’s precisely how our government is now being run and it does not portend well for us as a nation. I’d like to see it stop.

A Taste of the Future

I have seldom written about politics or civic affairs here, but they weigh heavily on me. I have two young girls my wife and I adopted from China. I worry about the future they face here, where everything seems to be falling apart. I want to leave them a better world than I found as I was growing up and it sure as hell looks like that’s going to be a tall order.

I’ll leave this particular post with one thought and I will no doubt have more to say in the future . . . especially now that I’ve sort of broken the ice (not very well). Ironically, given I live in Simi Valley – still notorious for its role in the acquittal of the Los Angeles Police Officers who beat Rodney King, the thought that comes most readily to mind is, “Can’t we all just get along?” I know it’s a bit more complicated than that, but it is something to wonder about. It happens quite frequently in real-life, on the ground . . . as they say.

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16 July 2012

Why I Love Facebook’s Timeline

By Rick Ladd

A Pic From My FB Timeline

How My Friends Can Share With Me

Change is Good

Every time Facebook changes something on their (not sure whether to call it a platform, app, or service) offering, people seem to get all freaked out and complain because they have to learn something new or change the way they were doing things. I understand and appreciate change can be a bit disconcerting, but I’m one of those people who not only accepts change; I actually seek it out. So when Facebook adds or rearranges things I immediately start looking for how I can take advantage of it.

Just so I’m clear, I am not referring to the issues of privacy and information security that arise now and again. That’s an entirely different story and, while I am clearly not as protective as many, I am always concerned about the security of my truly private information and that of my family. Changes in functionality are an entirely different animal and that’s what I’m concerned with here.

Embracing Timeline

When Facebook first introduced Timeline and made it available as a developer version, I was all over it. I was anxious to try it out, primarily because I was building a business that was based in large part on my understand of and familiarity with Facebook. I was anxious to see what they were doing, even though at the time it was not available to fan pages, which is the part of FB my business is involved with. I went through the necessary steps and got myself going. Much like my introduction to Twitter well over four years ago, I really wasn’t sure how I was going to use or benefit from it, but I was sure I wanted to figure it out.

Now that it’s a part of fan pages and I’ve grown increasingly familiar with it, I’ve finally figured out how to use it for myself. Not my fan page, but my personal Timeline. I came into this world about the time personal photography was starting to take off. As a firstborn son, my parents took lots of pictures of me. They also took lots of pictures of family and, over the years, many of them have come into my possession. It wasn’t until Facebook made it possible for posts to be scheduled, i.e. given a Timeline date in the future and held in a queue until that time, when they would then appear, that I made the connection to the past.

Yes, It’s About Me

Up until very recently I have shared some old pictures, but I have dated them on my Timeline on the date I posted them. I have since come to realize I can create somewhat of an autobiography by posting items (pictures, scanned documents, etc.) and dating them appropriately. I can even add in locations and people I was with, provided they are current Facebook friends. This is no small thing for me, as I have two fairly young (11 and 8) children to whom I want to leave a record of my life. Using Timeline to do so seems so much easier than writing a book. It also is far more graphic and, because many of my friends (including those who were present when some of the pictures were taken) can post comments to them, they become even richer and more engaging. Furthermore, as evidenced by the picture above, my friends can share pictures they have, which become part of my Timeline as well.

Interestingly, this picture was posted last November and I only just tried to change the date to the year and approximate month in which it was taken. I wasn’t able to do it, but I requested my friend who posted it to make the change and he did. Actually, he told me he didn’t know how to do it (people my age seldom do), but he had someone take care of it. I also realized there was a friend in the pic who has since become a Facebook friend as well and I was able to tag him. He chimed in within less than a day.

I could never recreate my past in this way by myself. First of all, I don’t know any other tool that provides the combination of functionality that Facebook does. Surely there’s nothing that would allow me to slowly record a retrospective with input from many people who were there at the time or who experienced similar episodes and milestones. I believe I have a lot more to learn about doing this, but I’m enjoying discovering new ways in which to create the virtual experience I want to leave for my kids. Maybe it won’t work the way I am envisioning. Maybe my kids won’t care when it comes down to it. I don’t much care at this point. It’s a great learning experience and – so far – it’s a lot of fun because I almost always get feedback from others when I do post something. After all, it may be dated long ago on my Timeline, but it’s something new and it shows up in my friends’ news feed when I post it.

Anybody out there have stories about their use of timeline, or have you discovered a bit of functionality you really like that you think others might want to know about . . . or that I might want to know about? Please be so kind as to share. Thanks.

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13 June 2012

Dreadful and Delightful

By Rick Ladd

My Daughter's Class

See if you can spot Alyssa

And so it begins. Another Summer vacation filled with excitement and challenge. I know my kids want to spend the entire seventy days watching television and swimming. They’ll want to do it at home and at their friends’ homes . . . and back at our home with their friends. They will resist anything that smells of homework or, heaven forbid, learning.

My job is to stand in their way and keep them from having a good time. We can be sure that’s how they see it. I see it as a challenge to figure out creative ways to get them to think without it appearing as though that’s what I’m doing. I have some ideas. My education has been mostly unconventional and I am a life-long learner. Hopefully, I can instill in them some of the excitement I get out of the chase for knowledge.

I picked up my youngest from school today. I got there a little early so I could find a parking space and walk in to greet her. The kids were all assembled on the lawn outside their multi-purpose room, sitting fairly patiently with their classmates and their teachers. I had the opportunity to thank my daughter’s teacher for all she’s done this year and, let me tell you, she was challenged on our behalf. She earned whatever they pay her, which I’m pretty sure isn’t enough.

About three minutes before Noon, the Principal said a couple of words and put on the single version of James Brown singing “I feel good!”. When it was over she said a few more words. Then she did something I wish I had been prepared for, because I would have loved to share what would have been a powerful, exciting 15 seconds of video. She looked at her watch and started a countdown from 10 seconds. The kids got into it – big time – and the area was filled with the full-throated chanting of around 350 – 400 kids. When they reached zero they erupted into cheering.

I haven’t experienced a casual and cavalier Summer, where I really wasn’t required to do anything but have fun, for a long time; somewhere around 50 years. I don’t really remember the feeling any longer. However, for about 10 seconds today, while those kids were marking a big step in their lives, I think I was able to capture the sheer joy of it all. It was awesome!

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31 May 2012

Memories and Grief

By Rick Ladd
Sp4 Steven Larry Ostroff My friend Steve Ostroff (on the left) just before his untimely death

“Life doesn’t cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.” — G.B. Shaw

I have written previously that I am not a journalist and this post is clear evidence of that. My original intent was to publish this on either the Sunday before, or on the Monday of, Memorial Day. However, the subject was a bit emotional for me and I found it difficult to finish until now. I, therefore, offer it as a remembrance. It need not be tied to any particular holiday.

It’s Confusing

Memorial Day – much like Veteran’s Day, Pearl Harbor Day, and many other holidays or special days that commemorate the military or significant days in our nation’s history – almost invariably brings me a storm of mixed emotions. I have enormous respect for those who serve our nation. At the same time, I believe they are most often sacrificed not in defense of our freedom, but in the defense of others – who never serve – and in defense of their fortunes and their “right” to make money incessantly.

This Autumn it will have been 45 years since I had the dubious distinction of being a pallbearer at the funeral of one of my best friends, Steven Larry Ostroff, who was killed in the battle of Ong Thanh on October 17, 1967. He was the first of five classmates of mine who would perish in that unjust, stupid conflict and I was highly conflicted about it.

“I want to be an Airborne Ranger. I want to go to Vietnam. I want to live a life of danger. I want to kill the Viet Cong.”

Steve was by no means an innocent, angelic hero. I remember my brother recounting running into him shortly after he finished either Boot Camp or Advanced Infantry Training. What stuck out for him was Steve’s enthusiasm for battle and his desire to kill. I was a bit put off by hearing that at the time, but not entirely surprised. It was, after all, the mindset the Army wanted in their Infantrymen. It was what they trained them for.

I was just beginning to understand what the war in Vietnam was all about; an understanding that would soon blossom into full-blown resistance and activism in an effort to bring it to a halt. Steve, born 15 days before me, was barely twenty years old when he was killed. During the funeral his casket remained closed. As I remember it, we were under the impression his body was not recovered for a couple of days and his family did not want anyone viewing his remains.

I’m not sure at this point that was the reason, though. Based on the accounts of his death I’ve read recently, it seems more likely to me there wasn’t a whole lot of him left to identify and having what was left on display in an open casket would have been too horrific for his family and friends. The web sites I have found with his information state he was killed by “Multiple fragmentation wounds“.

I clearly remember the grief on his parents’ faces as we went through the acts of remembrance, consecration, and burial. I have always been moved most by the loss experienced by those who have been left behind and it’s especially painful to see parents having to endure the loss of a child. In this case, it was made even more difficult because – if memory serves – Steve was an only child.

Twice-Baked Rye Bread

He and his family lived right across the street from John H. Francis Polytechnic High School, where we both attended, and he and I used to hop the fence to eat lunch at his home. His mother, I believe her name was Sarah, always had hard salami in the house and, if I played my cards right, I could count on enjoying one of my favorite sandwiches, served on Jewish Rye . . . with real garlicky kosher pickles on the side.

We belonged to the same temple, Valley Beth Israel, and became Bar Mitzvah at around the same time. We went to the same Jr. High as well and, as crazy kids and adolescents, we had some good times together, the memories of which have receded well into the background after all these years. This is especially so because we never had the opportunity to reinforce our memories by reliving them and, probably, embellishing them.

When I was in Washington, D.C. years ago, I made a trip to the Wall to see Steve’s name and to reflect on his life and death. I did the same in Sacramento, where there is a memorial to the Californians who perished in Vietnam. Both of these trips were some time ago and both were quite emotional.

What Is Really Going On

I have remained dead-set against every engagement we have indulged in since, but I am hardly anti-military – and here is where the conflict, the cognitive dissonance, comes alive and dances crazily in my head. Steve was a friend of mine and the men and women who continue to serve include friends and family. I know and love many of them, yet I don’t believe they are keeping our country safe; at least not for the most part.

For the most part, I believe they are being used as pawns – as “cannon fodder” – in our ongoing efforts to make the world safe for lucrative investments in natural resources and trading opportunities including, and maybe especially including, the sale of arms and ammunition to just about anyone who has the money to pay for it.

I will continue to honor Steve’s memory, despite his apparent thirst for killing and despite my belief he was not fighting for our way of life or to keep us safe, just as I will continue to honor the men and women who serve today. However, I do so only because I also believe most of those who serve honestly believe they are fighting to defend their country. They believe this because they’ve been told it’s true and I’m not going to hold their naivete and ignorance against them.

Some would argue I should condemn them, based on the principles that ignorance is no excuse and the existence of the duty to refuse to obey unlawful commands. However, I think the situation is far more complex than that and I cannot turn my back on people who have been taken advantage of for so long they have no way of knowing how terribly they’ve been duped.

I feel for them – especially for those who have made the ultimate sacrifice – and I feel for their families. So much of the suffering that takes place due to war and conflict is completely unnecessary and truly counter-productive for all but a very few . . . and those are the ones who also profit the most handsomely from war. They’re the ones who should be shot.

24 August 2015

In preparation for my High School class’s 50th reunion in about six weeks, a classmate was putting together a Vietnam veteran’s collage. As part of the effort he is also creating a memorial to our fallen classmates. In doing research for this tribute, he came across this post and asked me, since I mentioned we had lost six classmates, who the sixth was. He was familiar with only five. I had long thought there were six members of our class who perished in that conflict, but I believe I was wrong. I have made the correction, above.

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16 May 2012

I Like to Mix and Match

By Rick Ladd

A couple of Muses

One of these has got to be my Muse!?!

Yeah. I know. I missed posting the other day. I spent a lot of time creating and writing the first post for a new blog I created for a client. Have you tried to create an engaging and useful blog site for a Dry Cleaners? I believe I can (and have begun to) do it, but it ain’t a walk in the park, if you get my drift. Besides that, my muse decided to take a little vacation. I’ve been talking to it a lot lately, trying to convince him/her to stick around for extended periods of time, but I don’t always seem to get through to her/him.

Anyway, I suggested I would write a bit about why I’ve made the – perhaps – dangerous choice to mix my personal blogging in with my professional blogging. Actually, though I haven’t as yet done so, I plan on mixing in political blogging and, come to think of it, I’ve pretty much tipped my hand when it comes to religion . . . though I may yet have some surprises in store.

I have elsewhere discussed my purpose for starting this particular blog and why I named it Systems Savvy. I’m not exactly circling around to what my original intention was, as my plan is a bit broader than what I originally set out to do. What I am doing, however, is not only recognizing the systemic nature of the physical world, or that of the economy, society, and the entities that form bonds that keep things going, but also of my own life; me as a system and me as a system embedded in larger, more complex systems.

What I’m getting at is I am not defined by any one aspect of my life. I have diplomas to signify my completion of particular courses of study, but my education has been continuous and diverse. You can’t define me with a couple of initials at the end of my name. Neither can I be defined by any of the numerous positions I’ve held over the years at literally dozens of companies, some of which I either owned or was a partner in.

I have some pretty well-defined political and religious beliefs. Some might call me opinionated . . . but they’re clearly assholes :). Regardless, none of my “beliefs” or opinions are set in concrete. I like to think I am both intellectually curious and doctrinally malleable. I strive to be scientific in all that I do and in all my thinking about what makes the world go ’round.

Me and my alter ego

Me and my evil twin

I have a personal logo I designed, at the suggestion of Ross Dawson, that seeks to represent my philosophy to some extent. It consists of a pair of head-shots of me – one positive, the other negative – juxtaposed on top of the yin yang symbol. This represents my understanding* of the dialectic; the tension and resolution of opposite tendencies in the world and in human relationships.

All to say . . . I have presented myself as a compartmentalized, semi-one-dimensional person for most of my life. This is what was asked of me and what I gave in the belief it was necessary to survive and thrive. I still believe it worked fairly well for me and probably does for most people in today’s political and social climate. I have no intention of continuing along those lines. I’m still struggling for the right voices to use to present my stories, but I am bound and determined to present what I believe my life has been about and the direction I intend for it to take in the time I have remaining.

Two days ago marked the second anniversary of my retirement from Pratt & Whitney Rocketdyne. I’ve been reconciling myself with the reality that life wasn’t going to proceed along the path I had expected for an awful lot of years; learning to deal with the changing circumstances. I’ve been on this path for a while and expect to constantly refine – and redefine – it as time goes by. I have my moments of despair, primarily over wondering if I’m going to be able to replace the income I lost as a result of my retirement but, for the most part, I’m having a ball.

Stay tuned if you’re interested. I do want to be read. However, a large part of my impetus for doing this is my desire to leave a trail for my children to follow in understanding their father and why he did what he did. Having become a first-time, adoptive father at the age of 55 (and again at 59), I have no illusion that I’ll live long into my children’s adult lives. This is just in case I don’t get to have the conversations with them I’d like to.

* On 17 May 2012 I changed the word “knowledge” to “understanding” with respect to the concept of “the dialectic”. I did this as, in accordance with Professor Russell Ackoff‘s “spectrum of learning“, I wished to convey the thought not merely that I have knowledge of the existence of the dialectic, but I believe I have a reasonably well-developed understanding of how it works in the world as well. Whether I have the wisdom yet to apply that understanding well . . . remains to be seen.

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8 May 2012

Say What? When Did That Happen?

By Rick Ladd

The Long Slide

Don’t get me wrong. Most of the time it’s like this.

Aging is an interesting subject to write about. After all, it happens to all of us and, as a Baby Boomer, my cohort is a rather large one. My experiences aren’t exactly unique . . . at least not in the grand scheme of things. However, I do bring a few wrinkles to the table. Perhaps the thing that stands out for me the most is the fact I still have rather young children.

If you read my blog or follow me elsewhere you should know by now my wife and I adopted our oldest child shortly after I turned 55. Not finding that enough of a challenge, we went and did it again when I was 59. I should point out my wife is younger than I am; not by a huge number of years, but the difference isn’t insignificant. It means when my oldest graduates high school I will be in my early seventies. Not unheard of, but surely a bit unusual.

Lately, I’ve found myself wondering if our journey wasn’t a little selfish. It’s all related to aging and my fear I will soon leave my children without a father, which will be the third (and probably most traumatic) time it’s happened to them. The first was losing their biological parents; the second their foster parents. I realize most of their memories of those two losses are pre-verbal and visceral, but I don’t think that makes them any less real and I don’t want to leave them until they’re full-grown and capable of taking care of themselves. I owe that to them.

Right now there is a confluence of events that’s causing me to think about my mortality a little more than I normally do. My retirement is far more devastating to my self-esteem than I anticipated. I’ve written about the separation I’ve felt and it hasn’t become any easier in the interim. It’s a bit difficult to feel competent when you don’t have the opportunity to test your skills and, given my propensity to continuously question my capabilities, I find myself struggling to find relevance.

Then there are the physical things. Oy! When I was a young man the only thing I was really interested in was wisdom. I wished to one day be seen as a wise person. I knew that would take time and that I would not be the one to determine when I had reached whatever level that might be. You don’t, after all, hang out a shingle advertising “Wise One Here”! For that reason I looked forward to getting older. Not that I wanted to rush anything, but the aging process was a necessary precondition to attaining my goal.

When I hit about forty it suddenly dawned on me I had not considered the physical consequences of aging. I was not pleased with knowing how naive I had been. Clearly, wisdom was still a long way off. Each year now brings new challenges: Essential tremors, deteriorating vision, and a host of other areas in which I experience physical deterioration, the inexorable acceleration of my downhill slide. They all seem to be converging on the next big milestone – my 65th birthday, now a mere four weeks away.

I’m not sure it would affect me as much as it has were it not for the end of my COBRA health insurance six weeks prior to Medicare kicking in. Actually, I planned on it and I’m not really all that worried about bridging the gap. However, I don’t recall ever being uninsured in my life . . . so it’s a bit weird to realize I am totally uncovered right now. I’ve suggested to my friends I might spend the six week transition entirely in bed, but I’m sure that would just give me a heart attack.

I’m not entirely certain what I’m writing now is all that coherent, as I sometimes feel I’ve lost a few of my cognitive faculties. Normal driving can be cause for concern on occasion, as I don’t seem capable of anticipating three steps ahead like I used to do so effortlessly. I suspect, at times, it’s all relative and what I’m experiencing isn’t objectively as bad as I feel it is, but how do I know? Again – Oy!

So . . . I promised I would write a little about how I’m dealing with the aging process. This is it. I believe I’ll have more to say but, in the interest of getting something out there (a skill I am still struggling mightily with) I want to post this. Please don’t hold me to anything. Clearly, these are the ravings of an old man who, having awakened one morning to find his youth behind him, is seeking to understand what the fuck just happened.

Tomorrow I’m going to address why I chose to incorporate professional and personal posts into the same blog. TTFN 🙂

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2 May 2012

Challenge: The Double-Edged Sword

By Rick Ladd

Challenging Golf Hole

One Man’s Ceiling is Another Man’s Floor

I just saw one of those beautiful, inspirational posters; the kind that are supposed to put positive thoughts into your head so you can overcome all obstacles and be successful. This one was an overhead of a particularly spectacular and difficult golf hole and the caption was “Challenge: The harder the course, the more rewarding the triumph.”

While I agree that’s true, there’s also another side to that statement. Sometimes the challenge is too great and, if there are unreasonable expectations it can be devastating not to be up to it. For instance, having high expectations of your child in areas where her level of expertise does not warrant it is probably not the greatest way to bring out her best performance.

Actually, I have a specific example from my life that happened close to 40 years ago. It still bothers me to recall the level of frustration and disappointment I experienced when I was asked to do something I really wasn’t prepared for and, given the urgency of the matter, just didn’t have enough time to come up to speed on . . . especially without any guidance at all. Clearly, it didn’t destroy me, but I was a bit scarred by the experience.

A bit of background. I have never been to College or University; I have no Baccalaureate degree. However, eight years after graduation from High School I was able to gain admission to a California State Bar certified law school. I did this entirely on the strength of my LSAT scores and my submission of a letter I still think only served to prove I was capable of a high degree of sophisticated bullshit.

Nevertheless, I was admitted and, before you ask, yes – I graduated and received a Juris Doctorate in the Summer of 1976. This incident I’m going to relate took place – if memory serves – late in my second year or early in my third. All I really recall clearly is the sting of defeat I encountered. All else is fuzzy and nondescript.

My activity in the anti-Vietnam War movement had brought me into close contact with some of the leadership of the left; people like Tom Hayden, Dorothy Healy, Frank Wilkinson, and Jane Fonda. I had earned a place of trust due to my involvement not only in organizing and conducting demonstrations and various other types of gatherings centered around the struggle for peace and justice, but also because I had played a rather large role in providing security for many who lived with physical threats during that time. I did a lot of event security and I did some armed bodyguard work.

When I was looking for work to help me get through law school, I believe it was Dorothy who introduced me to Ben Margolis and John McTernan of the firm Margolis, McTernan, Scope, Sacks, and Epstein. They offered me an opportunity I just didn’t feel I could possibly pass up. They were representing one party in a lawsuit involving the screenplay for the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I can’t even remember who we were representing*, but I do recall the job I was given. They asked me to prepare a Motion for Summary Judgement.

I readily took up the challenge and dutifully got to work. The only problem, as I recall, was they expected I could do this without any guidance or assistance. I was on my own and . . . I wasn’t up to the task. I was not terribly fond of the law of Civil Procedure and, to tell the truth, I wasn’t a very good student. I had screwed around a lot while in school, getting by on my  native intelligence and aforementioned ability to sling it. I struggled mightily but just couldn’t figure out how to make the Motion acceptable to the partners. Unfortunately, I don’t recall too many of the details but I’m quite certain it wasn’t too long before I was relieved of the assignment.

I was crestfallen. I had let people I respected down. It was devastating; so much so that I still recall the pain. Fortunately, I was not a child and my self-esteem was reasonably intact and strong enough to guide me through the ensuing trauma. I haven’t lost too much sleep over it, though I have never quite gotten over the feeling of abject failure in the face of my shortcoming.

The point I’m getting at here by sharing one of the more embarrassing moments of my life, is that sometimes challenges are truly a bridge too far. There is such a thing as overreaching. I like those motivational posters. However, to use a golf example to go along with the metaphor, if I finally reach an insanely difficult par three green after hitting three shots in the water and taking three strokes to get out of a deep, steep green-side bunker (which means I’m putting for an 11, and that’s assuming I one-putt) I don’t believe the word “triumph” would fall easily from my lips when describing how I felt as the ball finally hit the bottom of the cup.

Challenges need to be reasonably achievable within the context of their nature and who the person facing them is. Climbing Mt. Everest is not the kind of challenge you would normally present to, say, a 10-year-old and learning Javascript, HTML5, CSS, and C++ is not a challenge one would present to an octogenarian. The former would be challenging, though not exceedingly so, for a 30-year-old, experienced climber and the latter would be appropriate for a twenty-something budding developer. It’s all contextual.

* I did a little research and I think we were representing Ken Kesey, the author of the book One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. He was quite unhappy with the screenplay. We may, however, have been representing the writer. I can’t be sure and most of the players are now dead. Actually, it’s just not worth the time it would take to be certain and it ain’t that important to my post, but I hope it was Ken. I like thinking that, even though I let him down. He never knew 🙂

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13 April 2012

Sometimes It Feels Like Borrowed Time

By Rick Ladd

Today marks, if not a special day on my calendar, at the very least an interesting one in my mind. Today is the fifth anniversary of the day I became older than my father was when he died. Does that seem like a strange thing to be commemorating? I suppose it is. Maybe a little context will make it more intelligible, if not less silly.

For most of my life, up until his somewhat untimely, if not surprising, death I had been told “You’re exactly like your father!” Frequently as an admonition for some behavioral trait I had exhibited. All-too-frequently it was something my mother found neither amusing nor endearing. I also looked like and was built like my father, adding to my perception that I was somewhat predestined to follow in his footsteps. This was exacerbated by our culture, which is based on and continues to exhibit vestiges of primogeniture. Being the first-born son of a Conservative Jewish family, I know I was doted upon and received far more attention than I’m sure I deserved. It also added to the perception of inevitability I both relished and rebelled against.

When my father died in 1984 I had just turned 37. My metabolism, which is now obviously quite unlike my father’s, had yet to change and I was still pretty thin; still physically similar to my father when he died. He was less than two months shy of his 60th birthday and you can bet there were lots of conversations with my mother and my brother over what that turn of events might mean for my and my brother’s future health.

These conversations continued occasionally throughout the years and, as I grew older, it became more and more apparent I was not really “exactly” like my father. Not the least of these revelations was when I reached the age he was at his first heart attack (around 50) and not having one myself! I’m sure that moment was made more important by the memories I had of being the one to recognize the symptoms and driving him to the hospital late at night at over 80 miles an hour, running lots of red lights in the process.

The Last Supper by Arum

Friday the 13th Can Be Very Scary For Some Folks!

So, what anxiety I felt slowly dissipated over the years. However, I had done one thing that set a landmark and, having done so, it was  impossible for me to ignore or deny it. I had entered my father’s birthday into an electronic spreadsheet and subtracted it from the day of his death. By formatting the result as a number I had the exact number of days (give or take ~ 24 hrs) he was here and alive on this planet. I then added that number to my birthday and converted the result into a date. Ironically, the day on which I would match the total time my father had lived occurred on a Friday the 13th. Though not superstitious, I have to admit the date had a little extra “spice” attached to it.

As it turned out, that date – April 13, 2007 – coincided with the first night of the In2:InThinking Conference I was attending. Since the weekend’s classes, seminars, etc. were to take place in the Woodland Hills Hilton’s conference rooms, many of the out-of-town speakers and leaders, as well as all the people who were working on the conference and its many ancillary activities, would stay at the Hilton beginning on Friday night. In addition to being an attendee, I was a co-presenter that year for one of those ancillary activities, but that’s another story.

As part of the package the In2:InThinking Network had negotiated with the hotel, we occupied the Presidential Suite where there was traditionally a big party. The suite was open to all the participants and there was food and drink; a merry time to be had by anyone who wished to show up and be a part of it. Fortunately, partying has always been one of the things I do quite well, thank you very much, and I spent the evening until well past midnight. I was gratified, as were my friends, I didn’t drop dead at the stroke of midnight and, since that day passed, I haven’t thought much about it.

I spent the evening (after which I would be older than my father when he died) drinking and eating and enjoying myself immensely. It was, for me, a two-fold celebration. I was happy to get what was a bit of a monkey off my back and I was happy to have known my father as long as I did. I was happy he and I had squared away our mostly rocky relationship and were well on the road to being friends when he died. I was happy he was my father and I celebrated his life, knowing that he would have wanted me to have a good, long one. I intended then, and continue to expect, to do just that.

Today is five years to the day and, as a special treat – a lagniappe, if you will – it’s also Friday the 13th; just like it was on that day. Even though it became obvious long ago I wasn’t “exactly” like my father, the realities of genetics and the similarities in our personalities always kept the limit of my father’s time on Earth in the back of my mind. It was never an obsession, but it was a bit of a pastime for a while 🙂 I do, occasionally, feel like I’m living on borrowed time which, in many ways, makes every day just that much sweeter.

ADDENDUM: I have long known of the word triskaidekaphobia, which means “fear of the number 13”, but just discovered the existence of a word for “fear of Friday the 13th”, paraskevidekatriaphobia, which is far more specific.

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