http://www.kctv5.com/story/22043757/salina-woman-tells-of-encounter-with-jungle-cat

Happy Monday!
Greg

Unfortunately, I have no idea what this means, but it seems good. I will say I’ve noticed no immediate affect on my tax bracket or my relationship status. (Still single.) But maybe it will get me a little more respect from my dog.

* Every time I ask my dog what time it is, she says “Now.” One of us is definitely smarter.

Anyway, I’m writing this to say thanks to all of you who have ever endorsed me for anything, anywhere, any time. Even if it’s just a note or comment to me personally. It means a lot more than you know. Keeps me going and off the streets. As Mark Twain said, “I can live for two months on a good compliment.”

If you’d like a peek at my LinkedIn page, it’s here:

http://www.linkedin.com/pub/profile/1/032/7a1

And thanks again. This wouldn’t be nearly as fun without you.

All Good Wishes and Happy Valentine’s Day!

Greg

For an American from Kansas, dining with a dozen fast-talking Jamaicans is like listening to a Bob Marley record sped up to Alvin and the Chipmunks. The talk goes by quick, and the accents are thick. You have to pay attention with both ears, all of your brain, and preferably a slang dictionary.

There are funny words and phrases you haven’t heard before: “plug it out” (unplug it), “drop legs” (dance), “all fruits ripe” (it’s all okay), “bodderation” (bother), “Jamdown” (Jamaica), “salt” (unlucky), and tons more.

But that’s not the point of this story.

At one of these big dinners, I found myself gorging on jerk chicken next to a Jamaican named Brian. As if to prove the old saying that you can’t judge a reggae musician by his cover, Brian’s a rasta-looking guy with long dreadlocks and colorful clothes. To my surprise, he told me he majored in physics at the University of Rochester in the ’70s. (I said that sounded like a good place to train for the Jamaican bobsled team. He thought that was funny.) After Rochester, he did graduate work in physics and engineering in Yugoslavia. Obviously an extremely bright guy.

During summer breaks in Yugoslavia he’d pop over to London and play in a reggae band with his brother. They were good enough to get signed to Arista Records, and that launched a two-decade career performing concerts  all over the world.

He told me a funny story about the band moving to southern California. To avoid the L.A. prices, they wanted to live somewhere cheaper outside the city. But they had no idea where to look, so they got out a map. They spotted a place called Bakersfield that looked close enough to be convenient, but far enough away to be affordable.

Having no clue whatsoever that Bakersfield is more country music than Hee Haw, they were in for some big-time culture shock. As were the locals. Neither the band nor the citizenry knew quite what to make of each other. Fortunately it all worked out, and all potential international crises were averted. (I told him it sounded like the reggae version of Green Acres. He thought that was funny.)

* Merle Haggard is from Bakersfield. I wonder if he’d dig a reggae version of “Okie From Muskogee?”

Eventually Brian retired from the road, and moved back to Jamaica. He writes songs and produces new artists. I asked him who he was currently working with. He said he was producing a CD for the Belgian ambassador to Jamaica.

“What?” I said. “The Belgian ambassador to Jamaica is really a musician?”

“Yes,” he said. “Plays guitar and writes good songs. Kind of like a Belgian Leonard Cohen.”

A Belgian Leonard Cohen? “So this Belgian diplomat is a professional musician?”

“Well no, not exactly. His primary career is writing novels. He’s published 25 books.”

(You never know what weird stuff is gonna bubble up at these dinners.)

I asked how this ambassador could do all these things at the same time, and Brian replied that the man is the most focused guy he’s ever met. Whatever he’s doing, he’s totally into it, to the exclusion of everything else. He gets up at 5 AM and plays guitar for a few hours, goes to work at the embassy around 8 AM, and writes in the evenings when he has time. Whew.

All of which brings us to the point of this story.

A recent study in England found that multitasking lowers your I.Q. more than smoking marijuana. Or if you prefer Jamaican, ganja.

(I’m thinking they probably didn’t have a lot of trouble finding volunteers for this.)

Other studies have shown that multitasking increases stress hormones, becomes an addictive behavior, lowers our efficiency by 20 to 40 percent, and makes us less happy.

Multitasking, it turns out, is the new scourge of civilization. It strains the brain. Our Analog Brains are not efficient – or happy – doing simultaneous tasks in this Digital World. Despite all our efforts to the contrary.

So what’s the solution?

It’s actually simple. Although maybe not easy, given the temptations.

Stay absorbed in whatever you’re doing. Our brains are happier doing one thing at a time, involved and engaged to the point that time disappears. This is what Zen monks and other spiritually evolved people (plus some enlightened psychologists) have been telling us for a long time: Get in the Flow.

Simple, right? Just be in the Now.

Because you know what?

There’s always more Now later, mon.

(Analog Brain In A Digital World and More Now Later are two of the tracks on my recent comedy CD.)

© 2012 Greg Tamblyn, Musical Laugh-ologist and Occasionally Focused Person.

The fastest, most effective way to learn about servant leadership is to take a puppy for a walk.

I put a business card pouch around my dog’s neck, like a St Bernard with brandy. Now when I meet people on walks, I tell ‘em she’s my personal assistant.

Peeing on every bush and hydrant is like Twitter for dogs. Except it’s always the same message: “Hey, it’s me! I was here! I’m peeing!”

Dogs speak 37 kinds of body language. 29 of them say, “Got anything to eat?”

Reality is a place that requires humor.

A zen couch potato contemplates the nature of televised existence.

Would I be another person if a different sperm had won?

Never look down on short people.

When we put vegetables up, we use jars, but we call it canning. I find that jarring. And uncanny.

I don’t buy health insurance. I rely on the placebo effect.

What if Elvis didn’t die? What if he moved to Japan and became a Sumo wrestler?

I think we’re genetically programmed to play the lottery. If God can get something from nothing — a Big Bang and a Universe — why can’t we?

The big bang happened because somebody told a great joke when God had a mouthful of milk.

Recycling is not a new concept. According to some eastern religions, God has been doing it to souls for an eternity.

I can sum up my new wellness program in one word: Siesta.

Be compassionate in your criticism. Opinions without the pi are onions.

© 2012 Greg Tamblyn

Because of her intense pleasure in this pursuit, we’ve worked out an agreement. She can be off leash, but she has to pretty much stay within sight, and to come when I call. She can run freely through the neighbors’ yards, the park and woods, but when we’ve done our two or three miles and the Master says it’s time to go home, we go. This gives us both the illusion of control.

We did not come to this compromise quickly. She was a stray street dog when she came to live with me, so she was used to a certain amount of freedom. Make that: total independence. To her, I was mainly a source of easy food and occasional amusement.

Walks on a leash were a test of wills and strength, plus near strangulation for her. Especially if there was a small, furry rodent anywhere in the local area code or time zone. When she escaped, which happened often (thus her full name: Houdini), she would take hours to come back.

So she was a handful, not to mention a nightmare for dog-sitters. That is, until I discovered the greatest technological invention in the history of the planet: The Shock Collar. (Also known as the Remote Trainer.)

Now before you send PETA and various law-enforcement agencies to clap me in handcuffs, let me assure you the shock collar does no harm. It simply gives the dog a little buzz, like static electricity, and interrupts their pattern. The shock collar is around the doggie’s neck, and you control it with a remote. If the dog does anything you don’t like, such as digging up your neighbor’s azaleas, chewing your Gucci shoe collection, or driving your car without a license, you simply say, “No!” If that doesn’t work, you hit the button. Buzz administered, pattern interrupted, behavior changed. It’s like magic.

Two 15-minute sessions with this device and presto, new dog. I never even have to use it any more. She does what I tell her and that’s that.

It used to be that when she’d get loose and disappear for hours – or when she’d run the other way when I called – I’d think, If only I could move at the speed of light, she’d realize that escape is futile. Well, with a shock collar, I can now move at the speed of light. Escape IS futile.

So my neighbors are cool with her hunting escapades, because they know she’s not a threat to them or their shrubberies. Also because we have no shortage of garden-destroying rabbits and squirrels grinding everybody’s gardens into cole slaw. (Squirrels, however – according to my dog – cheat. They climb trees. Then they sit up there and taunt her with that stupid squirrel chatter, like the idiots they are.)

So rabbits are by far the preferred prey. And on the rare occasions when she actually catches one, good eating. For her, I mean. Although if the Mayans are right and the world goes to hell, I’m pretty sure she could feed us both.

But all this is merely background for what happened recently. Dini and I were out on patrol. It was twilight, a glorious summer evening, fragrant and mellow. We ambled through the park near the woods, and – as guys in the great outdoors have been doing for as long as there have been guys in the great outdoors – I felt the urge to relieve myself.

Having ascertained the absence of voyeurs in the vicinity, I straddled a patch of God’s green earth and unzipped. I was answering the call of nature, when Dini sniffed a healthy-sized hare about 30 feet away and flushed it out of the brush. Before I could blink or even react, they came careening toward me like Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote on rocket sleds. What flashed through my mind in that split second was an image of me somehow trying to dodge them both while still in mid-flow, and I was concerned about how that might turn out.

But before I could process any of this, the rabbit ran right between my legs at full steam, while I was in full stream. Fortunately for some parts of me that I value, the rodent stayed low to the ground, and Dini, being of slightly higher intelligence, went around.

A few seconds later the rabbit escaped through a hole in a fence, and the Sheriff trotted back to me, tail wagging, proud of herself for having run another outlaw out of town. If she meets that little varmint again, I’m quite sure she’ll recognize it from the distinctive fragrance on its back.

But I can’t help wondering: having acquired such a unique scent, what are the social consequences for this rabbit? Will it have a harder time finding a date this weekend?

Anyway, the main thing is I now feel like I’m probably one of the few guys in the long history of hunter-gatherers who has actually marked a rabbit racing at full throttle.

© 2012 Greg Tamblyn

Check out this short video and few paragraphs about and by Roland. This is a story I feel deserves to be heard by many people, and could do a world of good. If you feel moved enough to donate a few dollars to his book project, I know he’d be hugely grateful, as would I: http://www.geicoaching.com/ADiamondInTheRough.en.html

For a bit more of Roland’s story, you can also read his short bio: http://www.geicoaching.com/MEETROLAND.en.html

Click on the photo to view in full screen and read it better….I passed this place on my Texas tour, just outside of San Marcos.

I was behind this van for a few miles on I-70 last month, on the way to a gig in St. Louis. Managed to snap the photo quickly at 65 mph. (Not nearly as close as the photo makes it look…)

As crazy as I am about books, I can usually put them down when it’s time to dive into a meal or hit the hay. But this one I literally could not stop reading. Elizabeth Gilbert is a talented writer (she also wrote Eat Pray Love), and her subject – Eustace Conway – is one of the most compelling people I’ve ever encountered on the page or in person.

[The book images above or below will get you to Amazon if you want to grab it. It's worth it.]

Summarizing the book would be futile, so we’re not going there. But I managed to arrange to spend a few hours with Eustace in person last week, at his Turtle Island Preserve, and Eustace revealed something to me that made sense of so much about his story.

Here’s how it went…

After driving several miles from Boone (North Carolina), the entrance to Turtle Island Preserve loomed before me like a lost highway into the wilderness. All I could see was a gravel road twisting down into a valley swallowed by forest. As I cautiously urged the car forward, the gravel road seemed longer than the trip from Boone. I mean, you really have to WANT to get there, because it just keeps going down, and down, and down. For what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, it leveled off and I emerged into a clearing with several unusual wooden buildings, and an assortment of animals I can only see back in my Kansas City suburbs after inhaling too much paint thinner: horses, chickens, and goats, including a bunch of three-week old kids. (Kid goats, I mean. Very cute.)

I parked the car and was greeted by a smiling, helpful intern named Daniel. Interns are people who come to live and work with Eustace for a year or more, learning what he has to impart, and helping teach the collections of kids and adults who come there to discover how to live in harmony with nature.

These activities could include but are not limited to: growing stuff, tending animals, plowing, sharpening knives, building buildings with raw materials, making fires, cooking with wood stoves, managing forests, recycling everything including urine and manure, developing green power sources, and of course, pooping in environmentally correct outhouses.

I was a couple of hours early, so Daniel introduced me to some other friendly interns, including his girlfriend Kendall. The two of them, both Americans, had met in Amsterdam while getting masters degrees in various areas of brain science. After completing that, they went to the Max Planck Institute, where Daniel got a PhD in psycho-linguistics.

Psycho-linguistics, Daniel explained, is the study of the development of language in the brain, and his specialty was infancy and early childhood. This was exciting to me, because he was able to confirm my theory that the first sentence all little girls learn is, “Can we still be friends?”

(Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. Recent breakup.)

After all those years of studying brain scans and banging on computers, Daniel and Kendall needed a break, so they did a 180 and reverted to their natural selves. I was impressed.

They gave me an illuminating tour, answered all my questions about the place, and even found a baby wild turkey which they enthusiastically encouraged me to take home. Since this fuzzy little chick would have survived about three seconds in the company of my dog, I thought it best to decline. Although, it would have been fun to bring it aboard my flight home on Southwest.

Flight attendant: “What a cute baby chicken!”

Me: “Actually, it’s a baby wild turkey.”

Flight Attendant: “Even cuter! Would it like some peanuts?”

Me: “Only if they come with Wild Turkey.”

As the hour of my appointment with Eustace approached, his assistant Desere appeared with a warm smile. She and the interns began harnessing the horses for my two-hour horse-and-buggy ride with Eustace. I’ve spent some time around horses, but never observed anything like these buggy harnesses. They are the most complicated, bewildering, elaborate combinations of leather straps and metal I’ve ever seen. At least since the rigging my girlfriend used to keep in the closet for whoopee night.

(Kidding.)

But they managed to get the horses harnessed up with minimal difficulty, and it was enlightening to watch. All those straps and metal pieces actually had purposes, and somehow they knew where they were all supposed to go. Then, just as Eustace appeared and the horses were about to be hitched to one of his collection of twelve or fifteen antique buggys, it started pouring.

So he and I went inside one of the home-made, cleverly designed, open-walled, wooden buildings to chat and wait it out. The rain, however, never stopped, and I was forced to spend the next three hours talking with one of the most fascinating, unusual people I’ve ever met.

Eustace seems shy at first, but he has a big, disarming smile. When he laughs, his head tilts back and his whole body joins in. It makes you laugh too, and fortunately we laughed a lot.

We got onto the subject of horses and buggys, and he launched into a story about how he decided to – and did – set the record for the longest, fastest, horse-drawn buggy ride in history. Something like 2600 miles around the Great Plains in 56 days. It’s way too long a story to repeat here, but the main thing is everybody said it was impossible. They told him neither he nor the horses could manage it. But Eustace felt it could be done and that the horses would be fine. And he was right.

But this was an endurance feat of no small inconvenience. Fifty-six days of minimal sleep, minimal food (for the humans), repairs, brutal wind, biting cold, and double-digit hours every day in a stiff, backbreaking wooden buggy, staring at the rear ends of two large horses for numbing miles on end. On a trek like this, averaging 50 miles a day for almost two months, the horses have to be monitored every minute to make sure they’re doing okay. You don’t get to sleep in the saddle.

At about this point it occurred to me that normal humans don’t have these dreams. Anybody who even wants to do something this crazy is just wired differently, and I said so to Eustace. He laughed, and then got serious. He told me that I was exactly right. He said that recently he’d figured out that he has a mild form of autism called Asperger’s Syndrome.

He went on to say that realizing this has explained many things to him about himself and his life: Why he’s obsessive in his pursuits. How he can just focus like a laser on one thing, one goal, to the exclusion of all else. How he can ignore the cold and the pain and the hunger and just ride for weeks on a buggy, or months on horseback (his previous coast-to-coast record setting ride). How he can be so obsessed about his mission to teach people how to live in harmony with nature at his preserve, despite always being underfunded.

He explained how this made sense of so many parts of his childhood, and his relationship with his father. And how finally knowing that has helped ease the pain of those experiences. He told me how as a child he didn’t like being touched, and really didn’t care to interact with people. He always preferred to be alone, outdoors, in the forest. But he was smart enough that he figured out how to adapt socially, even though it was hard and not at all natural.

Even now, he says, his preference is always to be alone. On his horse, in the woods, exploring on foot, or some other solitary adventure. But his obsession is to teach people about nature, so he adjusts. He’s figured out how to be with people and make it appear natural. And he must be very good at it, because I would have had no idea. Talking to me for hours seemed to me like the easiest, most natural thing in the world for him. He even gave me a couple of hugs.

When you read Elizabeth Gilbert’s book about Eustace, about the heartbreaking encounters with his father, how hard it was for him growing up, and his difficulties with some relationships and employees, you get the sense that he is a driven person. And like many driven people, hard to be with, hard to work for.

But Asperger’s explains it all so much better.

Earlier, when I was with Kendall and Daniel, I had asked them how Eustace was to work for. Because from the book you definitely get the impression that it could be challenging. Kendall said they had only been there a short time, but that from talking to previous interns, they felt Eustace had changed quite a bit. Older interns said he is more patient and accepting now. Kendall felt that maybe Desere being there for 6 years had something to do with that.

I’m sure she does, but I’m also sure that knowing what’s unique about your brain and the way it’s wired could be rather helpful. The thing is, we all want to know who we are, to be accepted, and especially: to accept ourselves. Knowing he has Asperger’s has brought a huge measure of that acceptance and understanding to Eustace. It’s got to be a big relief.

I encourage you to read the book, and if you have the chance, to go visit for a buggy ride. Maybe even stay for a few days and take a course. And if you’re so called, be an intern for a year or so. Your life could change. A lot.

Eustace will be featured later this month in a new series called “Mountain Men,” on The History Channel. See if you can find it.

And one more thing: they can always use more funding. It’s a great cause.

Here’s the link to Turtle Island Preserve, and the link to the book is just below it: http://www.turtleislandpreserve.com/home

© 2012 Greg Tamblyn

Lyrics first, followed by the track to listen. There’s also a link to download it…

TOUCH LIKE A LOVER, TALK LIKE A FRIEND
(Greg Tamblyn)

Darlin’, it isn’t just this fire tonight that warms my lonely soul
It isn’t just the music that makes my jangled heart feel whole
It’s the kindness in your words and the comfort in your skin
‘Cause you touch like a lover and talk like a friend

Ain’t it funny how true love comes down to little things like this
The gentle passion in your fingertips and in your kiss
The easy conversation when the love-making ends
Yes you touch like a lover, and talk like a friend

Darlin’, with other lovers I was always acting out a part
Trying to be some fancy dancer out to win their hearts
But we don’t need some silly game to light this flame again
We just touch like a lover and talk like a friend

Ain’t it funny how true love comes down to little things like this
The gentle passion in your fingertips and in your kiss
The easy conversation when the love-making ends
We just touch like a lover, and talk like a friend

© 1988 Ramblin’ Tamblyn Music, BMI

If you’d like to download this song, you can do that here. (It’s track #8): http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/gregtamblyn4

Here’s the track to listen, which will open in a new window. To come back here afterward, just hit your back button. Cheers!

08 Touch Like A Lover, Talk Like A Friend