By John McDonnell
I remember a time when I wasn’t so sleep deprived. All through my childhood I averaged at least eight hours of sleep a night. In college I stayed up later, of course, but I tried to make up for that sleep deficit by snoozing most of the day away on Saturday and Sunday.
In my single years during my 20s I got enough sleep. Oh, there were times when I pushed the envelope, staying out at a bar till three in the morning on Thursday nights with my friends and then getting up at seven and putting in a 12 hour shift at the bank where I worked. Most weeknights, though, I got a good eight hours in.
All that changed when my first child was born. My sleep pattern was permanently destroyed. Who could sleep when you have a baby in the house? Even if your wife is getting up to feed it, you can’t help being disturbed by that insistent little cry every few hours. And when they get sick? The first time your child has a fever at night? Say goodbye to forty winks then. You’re up all night worrying, if nothing else. You pace around the house, checking the baby every few minutes, watching for the least sign of distress. It’s not a recipe for relaxation, that’s for sure.
It doesn’t end when they grow out of infancy, either. Children get nightmares, they get sick at night, they have anxieties -- all of which means they end up in Mom and Dad’s bed. It might seem sweet to have a young child snuggle up against you in bed, but the reality is they act like little Nazis, pushing and kicking you in their sleep, till you’re curled up in a ball on the edge of the mattress, your mind full of unsettling dreams about falling off a cliff.
If you have multiple children, like I have, you’re in for years of this, till an uninterrupted eight hours of sleep becomes a distant memory.
Oh sure, children don’t stay in this stage forever, but what happens is they become teenagers, a breed of nocturnal creature who needs to be monitored lest they spend too much time at night on Facebook and not enough on homework. On the weekends they go out at night, which means parents are not allowed to fall asleep until all the teenagers are back and safely in their beds.
Add to this the fact that some of us develop sleep apnea in middle age (ahem), which means that we spend our nights snoring and waking up 50 times an hour at the subconscious level because we can’t catch our breath, and the sweet sleep of youth is gone forever.
There’s a solution for this, and it’s called napping.
I have a relative who has taken an afternoon nap almost every day for the past 40 years. She is a calm, happy person who is relatively free of health problems, and doesn’t walk around bleary-eyed and yawning all day like I do.
There have been many scientific studies in recent years that say napping is good for you. People who nap are happier, more creative, more productive, and less prone to all sorts of health problems. Some companies have actually created rooms where employees can go to nap, with beds, soft music, and dimmed lights. The “Power Nap” is a concept that is catching on in certain industries.
I think it will take a long time before napping becomes popular in the U.S., though. We’re too driven, too caffeinated, to throttle back every day for a half hour nap. Can you imagine the New York Stock Exchange, the ultimate symbol of capitalism, ringing a bell at 3:00 and all the traders curling up with their blankets and pillows to take a nap? No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.
Then again, there have been examples of people who take regular naps, even in high stress jobs. I still remember seeing a picture of Edwin Moses, the Olympic gold medal winner in the hurdles, stretched out on the infield at a track meet, napping before his event. And I read an interview with Kevin Costner years ago where he said he took naps in between takes when he was filming some of his early movies.
Well, I just may have to try it. I’ve given up on getting a full night’s sleep for awhile. Things probably won’t change until a few years from now, when my last child graduates from the teenage years. It looks like I may have to start catnapping at my desk, or when possible, stretched out on a couch in my office.
It may improve my creativity, may make me more productive, I don’t know. It may add years to my life.
Until I have grandchildren, and they come to my house for sleepovers.
THE END
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
I Could Hear Fine If You'd All Stop Mumbling
By John McDonnell
My Dad was one of those people who loved to sing. He’d sing in the shower, in the car, around the house. He liked to sing popular songs, and he had a good voice, but he never got the lyrics right.
That was because he couldn’t hear them. He was losing his hearing.
This bothered me when I was a teenager, the way he’d mangle the lyrics to my favorite songs. Teenagers don’t have a lot of patience with their parents anyway, and to have a parent who’s hard of hearing is especially trying for their overly sensitive souls.
Which is why I should have more sympathy for my own teenage children, because now the situation is reversed. I’m the one who can’t hear.
I don’t mangle song lyrics because I don’t sing in the shower. In every other way, however, I’m like my Dad. I’m constantly telling my children to “Speak up!”, I’ve decided that most actors these days are intentionally mumbling their way through their movie dialogue, and it’s amazing how bad the acoustics are in my church because I can’t hear more than a fraction of what the priest is saying every Sunday.
In my rational moments I can admit that it’s not the fault of poor acoustics or mumbling actors, but I’m the one to blame for the world getting quieter. After all, hearing loss runs in my family. My father had it, and so did his mother, who was almost totally deaf and had been that way since she was in her 40s.
I should not be surprised that I am losing my hearing.
I’m not surprised, but I am furious.
I joked about it when my hearing started going ten years ago. “It’s selective deafness,” I’d say. “I just can’t hear my wife nagging me about doing chores.” Or, “I can’t hear it when the baby cries at night, unfortunately (wink, wink), so my wife has to get up with her.”
The situation has gotten worse, though. My kids will crank up the decibels when they want me to hear them, or stand in front of me and act out what they want to say, like I’m stone deaf and can only read lips or facial expressions.
Hearing loss is no fun. I notice the same exasperated tone from my kids that I used with my father when he couldn’t hear what I said. They tell me every day that I need a hearing aid. My wife pleads and cajoles with me.
I keep refusing.
It’s a matter of vanity, I guess. I don’t want that little brown button in my ear, but more than that, I don’t want to acknowledge that I’m getting older and I have flaws.
I read once that Bob Hope refused to wear a hearing aid, and it ruined his career after he got older. His pinpoint comic timing deteriorated when he couldn’t hear other people’s lines or the audience response. I also read, however, that Thomas Edison was stone deaf by middle age and said it was a great blessing because he could concentrate on his work, and shut out all the noise of people yakking at him.
I try to tell my kids the Edison story, but they more likely think of me as Bob Hope -- flubbing my lines every day because I can’t pick up what my costars are saying.
I know I should break down and get the hearing aid. There are advances in technology every day and the newer models are so tiny you can barely see them. And Bill Clinton famously got two hearing aids at the tender age of 51, which helped to make it more acceptable among Baby Boomers.
It’s so 21st century to have something sticking in your ear, right? I’ll just look like one of those people who is so important they walk around all day talking on the phone attached to their ear.
I know all those things, but in my heart I still can’t get used to the fact that I’m now my Dad, getting all the lyrics wrong, saying “Pardon?” even when the speaker is right in front of me, and having my kids scream at me in frustration when I don’t understand something they said to me.
Then again, I guess I should remember that my Dad refused to get a hearing aid for many years also, and that if I really want to be just like him I could go on for another ten years like this, until my loved ones are ready to clobber me because I can’t hear a thing they say.
Maybe I’d better Google “hearing aids”. I think I’m ready.
THE END
My Dad was one of those people who loved to sing. He’d sing in the shower, in the car, around the house. He liked to sing popular songs, and he had a good voice, but he never got the lyrics right.
That was because he couldn’t hear them. He was losing his hearing.
This bothered me when I was a teenager, the way he’d mangle the lyrics to my favorite songs. Teenagers don’t have a lot of patience with their parents anyway, and to have a parent who’s hard of hearing is especially trying for their overly sensitive souls.
Which is why I should have more sympathy for my own teenage children, because now the situation is reversed. I’m the one who can’t hear.
I don’t mangle song lyrics because I don’t sing in the shower. In every other way, however, I’m like my Dad. I’m constantly telling my children to “Speak up!”, I’ve decided that most actors these days are intentionally mumbling their way through their movie dialogue, and it’s amazing how bad the acoustics are in my church because I can’t hear more than a fraction of what the priest is saying every Sunday.
In my rational moments I can admit that it’s not the fault of poor acoustics or mumbling actors, but I’m the one to blame for the world getting quieter. After all, hearing loss runs in my family. My father had it, and so did his mother, who was almost totally deaf and had been that way since she was in her 40s.
I should not be surprised that I am losing my hearing.
I’m not surprised, but I am furious.
I joked about it when my hearing started going ten years ago. “It’s selective deafness,” I’d say. “I just can’t hear my wife nagging me about doing chores.” Or, “I can’t hear it when the baby cries at night, unfortunately (wink, wink), so my wife has to get up with her.”
The situation has gotten worse, though. My kids will crank up the decibels when they want me to hear them, or stand in front of me and act out what they want to say, like I’m stone deaf and can only read lips or facial expressions.
Hearing loss is no fun. I notice the same exasperated tone from my kids that I used with my father when he couldn’t hear what I said. They tell me every day that I need a hearing aid. My wife pleads and cajoles with me.
I keep refusing.
It’s a matter of vanity, I guess. I don’t want that little brown button in my ear, but more than that, I don’t want to acknowledge that I’m getting older and I have flaws.
I read once that Bob Hope refused to wear a hearing aid, and it ruined his career after he got older. His pinpoint comic timing deteriorated when he couldn’t hear other people’s lines or the audience response. I also read, however, that Thomas Edison was stone deaf by middle age and said it was a great blessing because he could concentrate on his work, and shut out all the noise of people yakking at him.
I try to tell my kids the Edison story, but they more likely think of me as Bob Hope -- flubbing my lines every day because I can’t pick up what my costars are saying.
I know I should break down and get the hearing aid. There are advances in technology every day and the newer models are so tiny you can barely see them. And Bill Clinton famously got two hearing aids at the tender age of 51, which helped to make it more acceptable among Baby Boomers.
It’s so 21st century to have something sticking in your ear, right? I’ll just look like one of those people who is so important they walk around all day talking on the phone attached to their ear.
I know all those things, but in my heart I still can’t get used to the fact that I’m now my Dad, getting all the lyrics wrong, saying “Pardon?” even when the speaker is right in front of me, and having my kids scream at me in frustration when I don’t understand something they said to me.
Then again, I guess I should remember that my Dad refused to get a hearing aid for many years also, and that if I really want to be just like him I could go on for another ten years like this, until my loved ones are ready to clobber me because I can’t hear a thing they say.
Maybe I’d better Google “hearing aids”. I think I’m ready.
THE END
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
How To Squeeze Every Minute
By John McDonnell
The Internet has revolutionized our lives, but it’s also the biggest time waster in the last 10,000 years.
How do I know this? Because I sit down to write and then I get caught up in Twitter, Facebook, StumbleUpon, Wikipedia -- and before I know it, hours have vanished from my life. When I was in Catholic school, these kind of insidious temptations were known as the agents of Satan, and I think the nuns who taught me that were on to something.
I mean, did Ernest Hemingway have to deal with this? Did John Updike? Updike wrote more than 50 books in 50 years, plus reams of magazine articles, essays, and poems -- do you think he could have accomplished all that if he was checking email every five minutes?
Of course not!
Then why don’t I pull the plug on this black hole that sucks the time out of my days? Why don’t I just get rid of my Internet connection so I can produce more work?
Because I can’t.
The addiction is too strong. I can’t go half a day without my Internet fix. I had to take my computer into the Apple store last week and wait a whole 24 hours for them to fix it, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was sweating, unfocused, blithering. I couldn’t concentrate.
When I got the computer back I ran to my desk, set it up, plugged it in, and voila! I was back online, plugged in to the pulsing heart of the Internet.
I guess there are worse addictions.
It’s just that the older I get, the more I realize the most important quality a person needs to be successful is good time management skills.
It’s not talent. It’s not luck. It’s not even hard work, although that’s important.
It’s the ability to figure out what’s important to you each day, write down your goals, and then focus on the steps you need to accomplish those goals.
You can be a blithering idiot and still be wildly successful if you have the simple ability to do that. To know what your priorities are on your To Do list every day, and then focus on getting those items accomplished. It’s just putting one foot in front of the other, that’s all.
It means putting blinders on, and blocking out all the bright shiny things trying to get your attention every day. It means shutting your ears to all the chatter around you. It means not exploring that cool Web site you just stumbled on, or reading “just one” email, or taking that phone call you know will waste the next half hour when you need to be working on your project.
When I know what I want to accomplish, write it down, and take steps to achieve it, that’s when I’ve always felt the most productive. You can sleep easy at night when you’ve crossed off all the important items on your To Do list every day.
The more the distractions of modern life have grown, the more people are looking for quick fixes to deal with them and be more productive. There are time management Web sites now, and tons of software programs promising to help us all use our time better. We can put To Do lists on our smart phones, send ourselves reminders, trade tips and advice with other people on productivity forums -- and yet people are complaining more than ever that there isn’t enough time in the day to get everything done.
It’s really not that hard. Just write down a few tasks on a sheet of paper every day, then get them done. Know what your goals are, and review them on a regular basis to make sure you’re still on track. Learn how to say no to anything or anyone who pulls you away from your tasks each day.
This is not rocket science. It’s something I’ve known since I was 12 years old. I’ve done it at various times in my life, although not nearly enough.
Well, I’m going to do it again. I’m going to buy a yellow legal pad and start writing my lists out every day. I’m going to focus, focus, focus on getting my tasks accomplished. I’m going to change, go on an Internet crash diet. This time I’m going to do it!
Which reminds me, I need to do a Google search to find some good Web sites with time management tips.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010. All rights reserved.
The Internet has revolutionized our lives, but it’s also the biggest time waster in the last 10,000 years.
How do I know this? Because I sit down to write and then I get caught up in Twitter, Facebook, StumbleUpon, Wikipedia -- and before I know it, hours have vanished from my life. When I was in Catholic school, these kind of insidious temptations were known as the agents of Satan, and I think the nuns who taught me that were on to something.
I mean, did Ernest Hemingway have to deal with this? Did John Updike? Updike wrote more than 50 books in 50 years, plus reams of magazine articles, essays, and poems -- do you think he could have accomplished all that if he was checking email every five minutes?
Of course not!
Then why don’t I pull the plug on this black hole that sucks the time out of my days? Why don’t I just get rid of my Internet connection so I can produce more work?
Because I can’t.
The addiction is too strong. I can’t go half a day without my Internet fix. I had to take my computer into the Apple store last week and wait a whole 24 hours for them to fix it, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was sweating, unfocused, blithering. I couldn’t concentrate.
When I got the computer back I ran to my desk, set it up, plugged it in, and voila! I was back online, plugged in to the pulsing heart of the Internet.
I guess there are worse addictions.
It’s just that the older I get, the more I realize the most important quality a person needs to be successful is good time management skills.
It’s not talent. It’s not luck. It’s not even hard work, although that’s important.
It’s the ability to figure out what’s important to you each day, write down your goals, and then focus on the steps you need to accomplish those goals.
You can be a blithering idiot and still be wildly successful if you have the simple ability to do that. To know what your priorities are on your To Do list every day, and then focus on getting those items accomplished. It’s just putting one foot in front of the other, that’s all.
It means putting blinders on, and blocking out all the bright shiny things trying to get your attention every day. It means shutting your ears to all the chatter around you. It means not exploring that cool Web site you just stumbled on, or reading “just one” email, or taking that phone call you know will waste the next half hour when you need to be working on your project.
When I know what I want to accomplish, write it down, and take steps to achieve it, that’s when I’ve always felt the most productive. You can sleep easy at night when you’ve crossed off all the important items on your To Do list every day.
The more the distractions of modern life have grown, the more people are looking for quick fixes to deal with them and be more productive. There are time management Web sites now, and tons of software programs promising to help us all use our time better. We can put To Do lists on our smart phones, send ourselves reminders, trade tips and advice with other people on productivity forums -- and yet people are complaining more than ever that there isn’t enough time in the day to get everything done.
It’s really not that hard. Just write down a few tasks on a sheet of paper every day, then get them done. Know what your goals are, and review them on a regular basis to make sure you’re still on track. Learn how to say no to anything or anyone who pulls you away from your tasks each day.
This is not rocket science. It’s something I’ve known since I was 12 years old. I’ve done it at various times in my life, although not nearly enough.
Well, I’m going to do it again. I’m going to buy a yellow legal pad and start writing my lists out every day. I’m going to focus, focus, focus on getting my tasks accomplished. I’m going to change, go on an Internet crash diet. This time I’m going to do it!
Which reminds me, I need to do a Google search to find some good Web sites with time management tips.
THE END
Copyright John McDonnell, 2010. All rights reserved.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Autobiography Of Mark Twain -- 100 Years Overdue
By John McDonnell
November 15 is the publication date of a book that has been been in the can for 100 years. I’m referring to the first volume of the “Autobiography of Mark Twain”. There’s so much buzz about this book that it’s already high on the best-seller lists of both Amazon and Barnes & Noble. This has to qualify as the greatest marketing campaign in the history of book publishing.
Twain dictated the book to a stenographer in the six years before he died in 1910 and then promptly instructed his literary heirs to put it away for 100 years.
Why the long wait? Twain apparently wanted to speak the truth in his autobiography but he thought his uncensored opinions about people he’d known might offend some of them, and he didn’t want the book to be published while they were living -- or even during the lives of their children.
All I can say is, I can’t wait to read this book. If Mark Twain thought his views were too hot to publish till 100 years later, this should be one entertaining book. Because this is a man who wasn’t afraid of expressing his opinion and writing controversially. As one example, here is his opinion of Jane Austen:
Early in his career Mark Twain was a journalist in Virginia City Nevada, in the Wild West, in an era when newspapermen would as soon print tall tales as facts, and when duels were still being fought over the opinions expressed in newspaper articles.
This was a man who wasn’t afraid of controversy. His most famous book, “Huckleberry Finn”, was published 125 years ago, but it’s still capable of stirring up passions, and there are still people who want to ban it from schools and libraries because they think its language is too raw and offensive. He wasn’t afraid to speak out against racism and imperialism in the United States, at a time when those weren’t popular opinions.
Unfortunately, Mark Twain wouldn’t last a week as an author in today’s politically correct world. He’d have people threatening to sue him for libel, editors would refuse to publish him, his speaking engagements would dry up, and he’d have to go on “Oprah” and tearfully apologize if he wanted to have any semblance of a career.
He was not a bland writer. He had personality. He wrote with passion, vitriol, and joy. Towards the end of his life he got a little bitter, because of personal tragedies that started to pile up (the deaths of his wife and three of his four children). There was more bite to his humor than there had been in the past. The one thing about Twain, though: his writing was never neutral, or lukewarm. When you read a page of Mark Twain, you know you’re going to be entertained, maybe angered, but never bored.
And that’s why I can’t wait till his autobiography comes out. If someone who wrote like that his whole life decided his final summing up was too controversial to publish till 100 years after he died, well, it must be a pretty outrageous book.
I’ll take outrageous over lukewarm any day, even if it’s 100 years overdue.
November 15 is the publication date of a book that has been been in the can for 100 years. I’m referring to the first volume of the “Autobiography of Mark Twain”. There’s so much buzz about this book that it’s already high on the best-seller lists of both Amazon and Barnes & Noble. This has to qualify as the greatest marketing campaign in the history of book publishing.
Twain dictated the book to a stenographer in the six years before he died in 1910 and then promptly instructed his literary heirs to put it away for 100 years.
Why the long wait? Twain apparently wanted to speak the truth in his autobiography but he thought his uncensored opinions about people he’d known might offend some of them, and he didn’t want the book to be published while they were living -- or even during the lives of their children.
All I can say is, I can’t wait to read this book. If Mark Twain thought his views were too hot to publish till 100 years later, this should be one entertaining book. Because this is a man who wasn’t afraid of expressing his opinion and writing controversially. As one example, here is his opinion of Jane Austen:
"Every time I read 'Pride and Prejudice,' I want to dig her up and hit her over the skull with her own shin-bone."
Early in his career Mark Twain was a journalist in Virginia City Nevada, in the Wild West, in an era when newspapermen would as soon print tall tales as facts, and when duels were still being fought over the opinions expressed in newspaper articles.
This was a man who wasn’t afraid of controversy. His most famous book, “Huckleberry Finn”, was published 125 years ago, but it’s still capable of stirring up passions, and there are still people who want to ban it from schools and libraries because they think its language is too raw and offensive. He wasn’t afraid to speak out against racism and imperialism in the United States, at a time when those weren’t popular opinions.
Unfortunately, Mark Twain wouldn’t last a week as an author in today’s politically correct world. He’d have people threatening to sue him for libel, editors would refuse to publish him, his speaking engagements would dry up, and he’d have to go on “Oprah” and tearfully apologize if he wanted to have any semblance of a career.
He was not a bland writer. He had personality. He wrote with passion, vitriol, and joy. Towards the end of his life he got a little bitter, because of personal tragedies that started to pile up (the deaths of his wife and three of his four children). There was more bite to his humor than there had been in the past. The one thing about Twain, though: his writing was never neutral, or lukewarm. When you read a page of Mark Twain, you know you’re going to be entertained, maybe angered, but never bored.
And that’s why I can’t wait till his autobiography comes out. If someone who wrote like that his whole life decided his final summing up was too controversial to publish till 100 years after he died, well, it must be a pretty outrageous book.
I’ll take outrageous over lukewarm any day, even if it’s 100 years overdue.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
I Am Not Keith Richards
By John McDonnell
So Keith Richards has written his autobiography, and he’s being interviewed everywhere. The infamous Rolling Stone guitarist with the face that looks like old shoe leather has told all in an autobiography that has lots of spicy stories about his wayward life.
Apparently there’s enough detail about his extensive drug use that Disney is rumored to be thinking of writing his character out of the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie. “Keef” doesn’t fit in with Disney’s squeaky clean image, even if he is portraying the scruffy, disreputable father of Johnny Depp’s only slightly less scruffy Captain Jack Sparrow character.
If Disney needs a replacement, they could call me. I’m the polar opposite of Keith Richards. I’m a family man, I don’t do drugs, I’ve never been arrested, I don’t interrupt when someone else is speaking, and I shave every day. I’m what’s known as a Nice Guy.
That’s what I’ve been called pretty much my whole life. As in, “Gee, you’re such a nice guy, John.” I never got into fights as a boy, preferring compromise over confrontation. I’ve always been polite, respectful, positive. A Nice Guy.
The trouble is, nice guys don’t make headlines. It’s not a popular thing these days. People don’t aspire to be a nice guy anymore. “Nice guys finish last,” isn’t that the saying? Women say they’re looking for a nice guy, but their actions betray their words because they sometimes end up with a guy that looks like he has a sketchy relationship with things like soap, water, and manners.
There are no nice guys in popular music. Can you imagine a nice guy rapper? Shouting rhymes about how he opens doors for women? Don’t count on that happening any time soon.
It’s not just rap music. Keith Richards and his bandmates have a long history of writing songs that celebrate bad behavior towards women. From “Under My Thumb” to “Stupid Girl” to albums of others, there are very few Stones songs that would qualify as nice guy songs.
Maybe I feel this way because I live in the Northeast corridor of the U.S. Nobody in this part of the world aspires to be a nice guy. In fact, I think it’s actually illegal in New York city. Police are trained to take down nice guys because they’re almost as dangerous as terrorists. A cab driver who let someone switch lanes in front of him out of politeness would probably cause a massive traffic accident.
I’ve heard rumors that there are still some nice guys left in the South, but they’re a dying breed, rapidly being replaced by redneck comedians and Florida State football players.
I could get mad about it, but nice guys are non-confrontational. The most we do is get a little passive aggressive, maybe make a few wisecracks about how ridiculous it looks for a 67 year old like Keith Richards to be wearing leather pants, bandanas, and jewelry in his hair.
It’s just the way things are. Bad boys get all the headlines, while nice guys stay in the background doing all the boring little things that keep civilization from spiraling back into the Stone Age. Nobody wants to read the autobiography of a nice guy. We want to read about the crazy bad boys, the ones whose lives are filled with drama every day.
That’s okay, though. I wish Keith the best. He’s created some great music along with that bad boy image. He’s even given up drugs, or so he claims in his autobiography, and he’s devoted to his family. I hope he has many more years ahead of him.
But if my daughters ever want to marry somebody like him, it’s no more Mr. Nice Guy for me.
So Keith Richards has written his autobiography, and he’s being interviewed everywhere. The infamous Rolling Stone guitarist with the face that looks like old shoe leather has told all in an autobiography that has lots of spicy stories about his wayward life.
Apparently there’s enough detail about his extensive drug use that Disney is rumored to be thinking of writing his character out of the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie. “Keef” doesn’t fit in with Disney’s squeaky clean image, even if he is portraying the scruffy, disreputable father of Johnny Depp’s only slightly less scruffy Captain Jack Sparrow character.
If Disney needs a replacement, they could call me. I’m the polar opposite of Keith Richards. I’m a family man, I don’t do drugs, I’ve never been arrested, I don’t interrupt when someone else is speaking, and I shave every day. I’m what’s known as a Nice Guy.
That’s what I’ve been called pretty much my whole life. As in, “Gee, you’re such a nice guy, John.” I never got into fights as a boy, preferring compromise over confrontation. I’ve always been polite, respectful, positive. A Nice Guy.
The trouble is, nice guys don’t make headlines. It’s not a popular thing these days. People don’t aspire to be a nice guy anymore. “Nice guys finish last,” isn’t that the saying? Women say they’re looking for a nice guy, but their actions betray their words because they sometimes end up with a guy that looks like he has a sketchy relationship with things like soap, water, and manners.
There are no nice guys in popular music. Can you imagine a nice guy rapper? Shouting rhymes about how he opens doors for women? Don’t count on that happening any time soon.
It’s not just rap music. Keith Richards and his bandmates have a long history of writing songs that celebrate bad behavior towards women. From “Under My Thumb” to “Stupid Girl” to albums of others, there are very few Stones songs that would qualify as nice guy songs.
Maybe I feel this way because I live in the Northeast corridor of the U.S. Nobody in this part of the world aspires to be a nice guy. In fact, I think it’s actually illegal in New York city. Police are trained to take down nice guys because they’re almost as dangerous as terrorists. A cab driver who let someone switch lanes in front of him out of politeness would probably cause a massive traffic accident.
I’ve heard rumors that there are still some nice guys left in the South, but they’re a dying breed, rapidly being replaced by redneck comedians and Florida State football players.
I could get mad about it, but nice guys are non-confrontational. The most we do is get a little passive aggressive, maybe make a few wisecracks about how ridiculous it looks for a 67 year old like Keith Richards to be wearing leather pants, bandanas, and jewelry in his hair.
It’s just the way things are. Bad boys get all the headlines, while nice guys stay in the background doing all the boring little things that keep civilization from spiraling back into the Stone Age. Nobody wants to read the autobiography of a nice guy. We want to read about the crazy bad boys, the ones whose lives are filled with drama every day.
That’s okay, though. I wish Keith the best. He’s created some great music along with that bad boy image. He’s even given up drugs, or so he claims in his autobiography, and he’s devoted to his family. I hope he has many more years ahead of him.
But if my daughters ever want to marry somebody like him, it’s no more Mr. Nice Guy for me.
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