… the drill sergeant on my shoulder was screaming, “Radstone! Get over yourself, you committed to this project, you have a responsibility to see it through, quit your whining! Man up mister and go find a new friend.”

 

I was wasted tired. The week of travel and long days were slowing me to almost stalling. It was 11pm and fighting to keep my eyes open after the previous five days ago of moving on full throttle. That added to the previous 22 days of getting up at 5:45am and hitting the pillow no earlier than 1am, I was experiencing a moment of emotional numbness. Yet, even with that admission, the drill sergeant on my shoulder was screaming, “Radstone! Get over yourself, you committed to this project, you have a responsibility to see it through, quit your whining! Man up mister and go find a new friend.”

It was only 27 days into the project and I had hit my first deep pity-party. Depressed by feelings contrary to the message of what I was instructing the personnel of JPAC all that week, my attitude needed a hard slap in the face—I took a deep breath and leaned into my own council by aligning my attitude to the soapbox I’d been sharing in the courses I was presenting: “No matter who, what, or where you are photographing, the subject, good, bad, dull, or exciting, it is your responsibility to view it as opportunity for creative growth and a vehicle to share meaningful message.”

The options were directly in front of me. With one hour until my deadline I could either grab some much needed sleep, or I could stay on my journey… I grabbed my gear.

Groggy and a little moody I stood outside the elevator as (not at all in the mood to reach out), I gave in to allowing whatever was going to happen in regard to meeting someone. Then it happened. An internal trigger was somehow released as it became wholly evident that, to the depths of my core, I was growing not only as an artist, but more resoundingly, as a human. For in the past, and as exhausted as I was, I would have most likely withdrawn from the world around me with statements the likes of: What a tough day; I’m too tired to think; I don’t want to talk to anybody, etc.Or even on a good day, to hide behind a half hearted nod or smile.

I was not even a full month into the one-year challenge I had self-imposed and my inner-self was morphing. Becoming released and refreshed into a perspective that redirected my attitude on life. A life adjust, that to be fully transparent, has cost some financial security, but alternately, it has gained me more peace and purpose than I can ever repay.

Pandora’s Box had opened. In it, a big “Hello” to the world, and through it an unquenchable thirst to understand the people who walk upon its surface. A hunger that ultimately would, and continues to, grow via all who read, share, and contribute to what has grown to be the present Sidewalk Ghosts. The hundreds interviewed, the thousands engaged, and the unknown strangers who will hopefully soon be friends to our movement.

The doors slid open and in I stepped, the glassy eyed guy with the obtrusive camera backpack taking up the greater part of the elevator. Beside me a couple standing, all eyes down and away from each other we were, wrapped by the sound of canned music, we took no real notice of each other.

Floor 25…24…23… we descended, all the while my intuition telling me to speak to my co-habitants in our shared eight-foot by eight-foot enclosure. We passed floor 21 and I could take it no longer, the pull was too strong and with the rapid pace of our descent it was time to open my mouth.

The ride was over, and clearing my ears of the rapid change of altitude, I exited the elevator with two new friends. Please say hello to Lisa and her husband Vinnie.

By their names and distinct features, it would have been easy to profile them as Italian, and if so that would have been the correct assumption. But the assumption would have stopped there once speaking with them. Yes, Italian for certain, but hailing from Minnesota.

Not tourists, there reason for the Hawaii visit was to visit their daughter, a nurse living on the islands.

At first words we hit it off. Strange how at first we could not look into each other’s eyes as I entered the elevator. But after first introductions, we got along fabulously. Maybe it was my Jewish upbringing and their Italian roots. Two cultures that over the course of my life I have noticed share a similar outlook. Perhaps it’s that mama’s guilt syndrome. Here is how it works:“What do you mean you’re full, you’ve barely touched your plate, you can eat more.”To that, add an ample amount of “That’s my boy” smothering and you have a hint of the pressure that binds us.

Lisa, Vinie, and I sat for only a few minutes and small talked. It was quickly obvious that their love for each other was infectious—so very easy to see that they were truly a united couple. I asked, “What is the secret to a happy marriage”  Vinie replied, “Yes Dear.” Ah, one more connection.

The phone rang: Their daughter calling from the hotel driveway to pick them up. We shared handshakes and exchanged our contact information.

I returned to my room, grabbed a $5 bottle of water from the mini-fridge and began to write.

Vinnie, Lisa, I have not followed up with you yet. But something tells me that we will speak again.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

The wives looked at me, “Yes, they will be happy to be photographed.”

 

Just outside Pearl Harbor there was a funky little dinner joint, Schooners. It was not fancy, the food was OK, and sadly it ended up being bought out and reopened as “604.” I checked them out online and yes, the new management has totally given a face lift to the place and the menu, but under its updated and much brighter ambiance lies the memory of a special evening that will always be with me.

It was October 5, 2011, my third day into the training I was providing to the officers and enlisted of JPAC. With me was the man who was responsible for booking me, my good friend and civilian member of the JPAC team, Thiep. His story was a story in itself. An extremely humble human of great depth, only 29 at the time, he had seen parts of the world and experienced things in just about every continent where American Military has served, died, been imprisoned, and in many cases even lost. Topics that filled our dinner conversation only to be interrupted by bursts of laughter exploding from the two tables to the side of us; at one a group of senior men happily playing dominos, at the other their wives doing the same. Their joy was infectious and, vicariously absorbing their table-to-table bantering, I was intoxicated by their fun-loving spirit. I had to meet them.

Standing up from my meal, I walked over, introduced myself and my project and asked if I could take their photo and ask a few questions. Their guns instantly turned to me at will, firing a barrage of humorous jabs too quick and heavy for me to log, let alone respond to. Doing my best to keep up, I decided to take my question to their senior officers—yes, their wives, who from their vantage point at table two had been watching the whole exchange. It was obvious that there was a reason they choose to divide their games, and from where I was standing I had inadvertently placed myself as a bridge, bringing the whole group together for a moment of focus. The wives looked at me, “Yes, they will be happy to be photographed,” as both tables burst into extremely friendly laughter.

Without breaking stride in their game, “Pull up a chair!” One reached out to Thiep and I as we were suddenly invited to be part of the family. Sitting should-to-shoulder with men of honor who, in different military branches, and in different conflicts, had served over one-hundred years combined. Five men and their wives that had put it all on the line (and they has served under some serious circumsatnces), to fight for the freedoms in which we are so richly blessed.

Caught up in the storm of positive, and a bit sarcastic, energy, I decided to not get overly technical in my questioning, preferring to simply hang-out and grab a couple quick snap-shots of them in action. However, and without my prompt, they all looked at me to share a few direct, at-the-camera, expressions. What can I say? I guess I was just that charming. Yet in all the momentum of our play, I was acutely aware there was no way I was going to walk away from the table without at least asking for answers to a couple of questions.

Where do you see yourself in ten years? I asked.

With roaring laughter, they all point up to the sky.

I should have seen that one coming.

Then came the wisdom question.

What would like to share with my readers?

Got to love these men!

Several Answers:
1) Enjoy life (starting to become a very common through-line to that week in Hawaii).
2) The secret to a long life: Keep Breathing.
3) Get out and serve!
4) Jump off your Ass and onto an Elephant. (They all winked at me).

Conversation pleasantly over, I saluted and dismissed myself for a drive back to the hotel.

Trivia:
One of the group was a member of SAG (Screen Actors Guild), has appeared in multiple commercials, etc., and was requested from around the globe to play one of our most cherished holiday figures. Can you guess who the character is? Here a hint: On Dasher! On Dancer! On Prancer and Vixen! On Comet, and Cupid, and Donner and BLITZKRIEG!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

With fear in her eyes, she told me to “F*%! Off!”

 

It’s not that I am an Olympian, or anything close to it, but cyclist I am. A sport I found one Christmas when the gift of a mountain bike to my wife hooked us both into the pedaling maniacs we are. I’m even a little bit of a coach, instructing seven spinning classes a week. You may have run into a person like me before: a chubby stomached, big legged, snack-eating, connoisseur of any human powered two-wheeled transport. Yep. Give me an uncomfortable seat, padded spandex shorts (sorry for the visual), then make me sit on it for hours and life is blissful.

It was a Friday night and I had just finished teaching class at the Porter Ranch YMCA in California; an expanding suburban neighborhood where not often is anything of a violent nature featured in the news. The kind of community where, on the edges of the pace and density of Los Angeles, can be found a much wider cityscape and slower lifestyle. A place where one would think casual dialogue was reasonable in just about every circumstance.

I remember it clearly. Stopped at a red traffic light, corner of Rinaldi Street and Corbin Avenue. An intersection that after five years cycling with my friends at the Y, I could almost navigate blindfolded. Nothing around me was unknown. I had frequented most of the businesses, had a good grasp of the vibe of the area, and even though lived in another burb, felt like part of the community. Even to the point of recognizing many of the pedestrians who passed the intersection on a similar schedule to mine. Basically, a local.

She appeared about fifty yards to the right of where I waited for the light to change, a left turn away from my route home. Over her shoulder a bike, around her neck a flat inner tube hung like a necklace, and in her hand a full rim and tire. Her face was grimaced as in pain, and once having to carry my broken down bike for three miles out of mountain bike disaster, I knew how she must have been feeling: tired, frustrated, in pain, and just wanting to be home.

Then the genius and gentleman set in; an idea of service and compassion sure to have made me hero in helping a co-rider who looked in need of assistance. Yeah, there were social and good-sense barriers, but in the blink of thought I formulated a safe and respectable approach.

The light turned green and as I slowly entered the intersection, one eye watching oncoming traffic, the other being the good Samaritan in monitoring my in-need co-rider struggling her bike across the street, I readied to extend my service.

She hit the other side of the street, the same side where two hundred feet in front of her I had pulled into a church parking lot under the illumination of a bright streetlight. After all, I wanted her to be able to clearly see me—the conservative cyclist and family man that I am in full view. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to give her the wrong impression as I rolled down the window in desire to help her out. Fifty feet away she was, and it was time for my knighthood to reach out as I muttered the first words in explaining my desire to assist.

“This might sound a little freaky,” blurts out.

“What! Where in all heaven did those words come from,” flashed in the back in my head as I felt my face beginning to turn red, but before I could her response flew in my face.

“F*% OFF! Get the hell away from me!!”

At first I felt hurt. Why attack me? My intent was to only help, yet it took me only a second to realize I had just frightened the life out of an lady isolated on a nighttime street. Putting myself in her shoes I listened to myself, “This might sound a little freaky,” was so far away from what I was trying to say. Re-living the experience I should have said, “I know you don’t know me, but would you mind if I do what I can to repair your bike?” The freaky thing in my mind being, What stranger takes the time to stop and repair someone’s bike?

All this flew through my head as, with a feeling of shame wrapping around me, I withdrew into the cab of my truck. I had unintentionally terrorized a woman and my head was dropping for doing it. Her piercing words a shield, she quickly ran past the front of my vehicle. Bike still on shoulder, apparent fatigue on her face as never for a moment she took her eyes off me. Literally staring me down as if I was some kind of pervert or abductor.

I shank back into my seat, shifted into first gear, lifted the clutch, and with a wide right turn entered into the flow of traffic. I felt dirty to say the least, and I’m sure her heart rate was up. My eyes catching her in my rear view mirror as she looked over her shoulder to confirmed I was leaving the scene. Two people emotionally injured from what was meant to be a most innocent intervention.

My intent was a worthy reason, and to even be considered as a threat or immoral was a real blow to me. Especially because it was a self-inflicted pain brought on by my thoughtless choice of words, terrible timing, and a really bad introduction. A lesson learned, that to this day, has affected my interactions in the world, as well as brought to my attention the results that can literally arise from our chosen words.

“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” A child’s chant recited on many a playground. Call someone a fart and it will probably roll off pretty easily. A jest shared between adolescent friends. A ridiculous title that in most ways is OK on the gauge of silly buddy building. But in regard to deeply pinpointed character assassinations or biased invocations to whoa person is, those are in a completely different league. They are not sticks and stones. They are weapons that hit like metal pipes, bruising and breaking the esteem of their target with tragic effect.

To that add timing, and situation, and you have a lethal cocktail requiring zero physical contact or action—a very sobering reflection when considering our individual part in the equation of face-to-face human communication and relationship.

In fairness to myself, I will never have a full perspective from the person I scared immensely. Nor will she ever know the motives for my reaching out to her. A sadly misrepresented offer to aid on my part, and a deservingly defensive posture returned. Two individuals in an out-of-synch sidewalk play that had no resolvable outcome, other than each most likely leaving the situation with a bit more emotional baggage to carry. Yet in the story, there is an example to glean from: The true impact we have on each other in even the briefest exchange.

My heart was broken a little that night, and I’m hoping I did not traumatize an innocent stranger too deeply with my poorly chosen introductory words. An impromptu moment that the best I can do post the occurrence is find peace to forgive myself, and as I do, to keep in my prayers a wish that my unknown neighbor of Porter Ranch is OK, too.

Our words do matter, and if there is any one big take away from a most painful Friday night on the corner of Rinaldi and Corbin it’s that, other than the not-so-smart decision to stop on a dark night to reach out with a creepy introduction, is just how strongly our words impact others. So then, to each of us a challenge is set forth in how and where we use our words, and in that, the intent, where’s, what’s, and how’s of what we offer is ours to master.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

For a moment I thought, seeing I was on the same beach as the day before that I was somehow being associated with the “naked analyst”.

 

It was my turn to be profiled, as sun dropping out of the sky like a rock falling, found me beach combing for an interview. A twinge of concern was slowly wrapping around me as I thought it would be a shame to miss a Hawaiian sunset portrait. With that wish, and having just returned from the workshop was teaching, I was still dressed in nice clothes. Feet were killing me from the dress shoes, but a pause to change would have meant missing the descending light. So in the attire of my business day, I walked along a beach side path, finding it a mystery as to why everyone I approached said without hesitation, “no thanks.”A response evoked merely at the sight of me, even before I had a chance to offer any words at all.

For a moment I thought, seeing I was on the same beach as the day before that I was somehow being associated with the “naked analyst”. Perhaps there were enough people so offended by him, that because I sat with him for over an hour, I was getting the rejection treatment. A sad reflection, but one that did pass through my head, and as I considered the notion as a possibility, my blood boiled as I thought, “heck to them! He was an interesting guy with a personal mission; and it was my photo-journalistic responsibility to photograph him.”

But none-the-less everyone I approached wanted nothing to do with me. I redirected my course toward the sanctuary of my hotel room–a safe place to lick my wounds of rejection. Strolling past the twenty-five dollar hamburger and beyond the twenty-two dollar egg roll as I accepted my plight: The beach patrons hated me was my resolve as I guarded myself with a self-chant, “I’m a grown man, I can live with that.”

I was close to my room, my esteem regained, as it hit me via a quick look at myself in one of the hotels decorative mirrors. It took about a second to figure it out as a bolt of visionary lightning flashed in my mind. The green beach shirt I was so proudly wearing was almost identical to the ones worn by many of the resorts employees. “Crud!” I was being seen as a hospitality photographer. What a turn in serendipity it was. No wonder the world was running from me. It saw me coming, camera in arm, looking like a thirty to fifty dollar room charge. My cover was blown and I was being profiled myself.

The fix was simple. I reversed my hat, made myself look a bit more sloppy, and returned to the scene of my first rejection to give it another try. Funny how the slightest change in appearance could project a completely different intent.

I made eye contact with a very cute family of three siblings taking snap shots of each other. I offered to take a photo of all of them with their camera as we struck up a conversation in what was less that broken English. We found common ground as they remembered seeing “naked analyst” the day before. Feeling relieved we could connect in at least that experience, I invited them to be interviewed. Two of the three agreed.

In Hawaii for the first time celebrating their father’s sixtieth birthday, say “hello” to Ju Young and her brother Fong Duk, my Korean friends of October 4, 2011, the twenty-fifth day of over five hundred more to come.

I’m telling you (and you most likely see it in their portrait), these two were having the time of their life. With very little English in their vocabulary, we struggled to communicate. But their energy and wit was in full bloom as they spoke of Hawaiian fun days. The meet-up left a resonate connection, an understanding of a human link that transcended dialect as I was left smitten by their colorful spirits.

Ju Young, Fong Duk. It was a blast photographing you. I will always appreciate you for not running from me. Mahalo!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

You know that game where you whisper in someone’s ear, they pass it on to another, and after it goes to more and more people, the original whisper has changed. Often morphed into a fabrication nowhere close to the beginning thought. I think they call it the Telephone game. Fun at parties, but how often do we do a similar thing in real life? A question, that on October 3, 2011, the second day of my Hawaii interviews, was brought to my attention in a most humorous and somewhat disturbing way.

 

The Set Up
After over forty-eight hours of hardly any sleep, deprived of it from travel, meetings and teaching, I actually found a couple of hours to relax poolside. Even dozed off a little, but most of the time I just let my eyes and mind wander taking in the movement and sounds that were around me. I’ve just got that kind of mind, and with my challenge to meet and interview a stranger a day, to fully check out in letting myself have a moment of vacation bliss was beyond my personality. The bill was being paid for me, and because of that, I had placed a high expectation of self-effort upon myself. Wanted to be on game as much as possible. I know, a compulsive side of me, that in the spirit of full transparency, I must share. Yet in the admission, I must also say that I did have a few nice chats. Conversations, that in all, I began to notice a common through-line. A theme that was slowly becoming very judgmental and condemning as it’s momentum and reach grew. A topic that was not only expanded through the channels of poolside murmuring, but as I found out when speaking with a girl at Starbucks, reached deep into the resort’s culture. Speculation that covered a gamut of assumption, jest and scorn: “Could he be from France? I think he talks to himself, watch out he is a molester! Dangerous! A porn star?” The list of labels was endless, none of which ever made any reference to the name of the man all the interest was pointing at–a regular visitor to the hotels beach who was being singled out as if by a posy reading a lynch mob to persecute. There was only one question that seemed to be synonymous to all harsh looks, embarrassed faces and hidden giggles: Who was the g-stringed man?

I was compelled, had to know the true story, and after hearing the snowballing effect of a real world telephone game, there was no way I was going to buy into the play. Plus, being no subscriber to gossip or speculation, the only answer for me was to go directly to the source; and that’s exactly what I did.

Please give your warmest regards to Ray, the man of mystery. Turned out he was a very charming and confident nudist–at least as nude as he could be at a public beach. I caught up with him as he humorously posed for a photo-op with another not-so-assuming Hawaii visitor. I could tell the moment I met Ray he did not take life too seriously as he allowed said visitor to have a photo taken with her hand on his, let’s just say, lower rear region.

With a huge smile, and I’m sure a lifetime memory, she was eating it up as she stepped aside for the next photo-opportunists, a woman as her chuckling husband took a snapshot. In both cases, and with the grace of an ambassador, he kindly thanked them. In witnessing this, I thought, surly he would allow me to take his photo, so I stepped up. Invited him to my project.

It didn’t take any convincing to get this less than speedo covered celebrity to buy-in. I’m serious about the “celeb” status, turned out, as I had earlier observed, he was the talk of Hawaiian Village. But he held no contempt for the pointed fingers as with humility, backed by a sincere and heartfelt laugh, he offered all the time I needed for a photo and interview. After all, a little extra exposure, no pun intended, might have been helpful in calming the fires of those who were frightened of him. To add to that, for Ray it was all fun, in such he was down for a little extra publicity.

For now, lets talk about backstory, later his backside.
Would you believe it if I told you, Ray was from New Jersey, had a Master’s Degree in electrical engineering and had recently retired from a high position within Northrup Grumman; exited a successful career as a Computer Systems Analyst? An assumption that never entered the poolside speculations that were so very harshly labeling him; and in fairness to all playing the game of guessing who he was, I could understand why. After all engineers don’t run around naked, or mostly naked, in public, do they?

Butt (I know this is a misspelling, I think Ray would have wanted me to spell it this way) never-the-less, this lightly dressed guy was no fool, truly quite the opposite. He was an articulate, educated man, living life to the maximum degree. There was no chip on his shoulder regarding his outlook on life; and even if he had one, where would he hide it? (Sorry, another joke; but again in tribute to Ray.)

He shared his love of Hawaii, stating, “I will never leave this place. It’s an endless party.” A claim I’ve now heard by many of the beach regulars. I gave him the credit to own the statement, as he trusted me with a few life details. Stuff that would press most people to the braking point, and in respect to Rays privacy (I know, conflicts with his exhibitionist and loose lifestyle) things I promised to keep concealed in respect to him. Details that, in my heart, gave him credential to graduate to the status of having right his partying preferences. The man definitely had earned his flying wings.

There was no malice in his intent, the purpose of his actions were to simply entertain. From where I saw it, Ray was no threat to anyone and was definitely doing no harm.

To support this statement, even though I did hear of a few hotel patrons complaining of his presence, I beheld a greater outreach from those with a more playful and appreciative set of comments about Ray. Like I said earlier, many people posed with him for memories to take home and share. That day I raised my hat to Ray. To his courage in putting smiles on peoples faces.

I was intrigued as I learned Ray was wearing his modest beach attire. Telling me he was much more comfortable at the local nude beaches. “It’s only been a few weeks since I’ve been coming to this beach for reasons of self-promotion,” he stated.

I had to ask. “Promote what?”

I smiled huge as he answered, “Nude Fitness Model.”

Ray was a few years older than I, and looking past areas that I really did not want to stare at, I could not ignore that he was in fantastic physical condition. The guy had inspired me to doing sit-ups and bench press. I wished I had his abs, and to this day am not even close.

OK! I know! I Promised backside! And with Ray’s blessings, here ya go.

Ray’s closing statement,“If it’s nude? I’ll be there!”

Fun talk from a fun-loving man, but (and I’m spelling “but” correctly now) there was a much more profound lesson taught to me by Ray and the visitors of Hawaiian Village that day. I was schooled in seeing first hand the harmful effects of gossip. Sitting poolside hearing some very accusing opinions of a man who had children and a history of contribution to society. Yes, he was living a wild and non-conservative lifestyle. Partying at the edge of how many of us wish to live. Yet all by his choice and, beyond the controversy he brought to the beach that day, in a community of other people making use of their free right to define there lifestyle. But felon he was not; molester, the farthest from the truth; dangerous, in no way; Porn Star, debatable.

Sobered I was, promising myself that for the remainder of 365, now Sidewalk Ghosts, and into the remainder of my life, I would avoid profiling at all cost. For we all have joys and demons in our closets. Each one of us with unique memories, pains and triumphs; and Ray, and all at Hawaiian Village that day were simply part of the billions doing our best to managing whatever we each are carrying.

Ray, thanks for the memories!

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

Seeking marriage proposal from a hot rich man who knows how to sail.

 

It was day one of my Hawaii experience. A week of training a very cool division of the military, a group called JPAC; they’re primary focus, to find our MIA’s. My task was to work with their photography unit in sharing new techniques, ways of creatively seeing and methods of directing.

My promise was standing, no matter where I was, 365 would roll on wherever I was, and staying at the Hilton Hawaiian Village, I felt a little spoiled. It was a very nice hotel and resort. I know, poor me, what a terrible place to have had to go to work. I confess it was rather comfortable. But to put it all into perspective, my family was still on the mainland, it was Saturday night and all I was doing was meeting strangers and writing blog essays.

It was the end of day one of training, and I had finally got settled into the hotel around 4pm. Took a quick shower, grabbed my camera and took off to shoot 365.

Loitered the resort lobbies for about two hours. No one stood out. Talked to lot of people, yet never felt the burn to photograph them. All was life is great, we are on vacation stuff, and something about that topic just seemed so insincere to write about.

There I was, wandering the Hilton, a melting pot of people from around the globe. You would think the possibilities would be endless. I was stupefied. Everyone looked the same–tourists on vacation. Told myself that the next day I would investigate more deeply, thinking, surly I had missed something. But I pushed forward hoping to find a topic of substance. The last straw hit when I came across a teen, who without breaking a beat, jammed her finger in her nose and seamlessly cleansed it in her mouth; an act of slyness that drove me out of the hotel lobby and to the beach path for a little fresh air.

It was my first glimpse of the beautiful afternoon, 7p.m as I hiked the bike path, fielding a few phone calls as I worked to drop the vision of the nose meal I had just witnessed.

Right in front of me was KBS, a fun surfboard and stuff hut. My intuition began to tell me, “stop! We’re there.”

Happy I listened. I met three locals, raised on the islands, all very fun and gregarious. We laughed more than I could write. With quick wit, I found them smart and loving life to the fullest.

Say “aloha” to Alexis, Joshua and, Dalante (not pictured), who was more of a cheerleader to the shoot with an onslaught of harassment, and in tribute to their wacky sense of humor, their introductions, on-line dating style:

Alexis: Seeking marriage proposal from a hot rich man who knows how to sail.

“So what if Dalante thinks I have a giant head, that’s his problem, you marry me and you’ll be glad you did. I promise you’ll never have a boring moment: Surfing to cooking, bedroom to barroom, I’m your gal. But if you think I’m a pushover or a lush, your way off-base. I’ve always been told that my personality is awesome and I’m a ten. People love my spunkiness, enthusiasm, limber limbs and flexibility. So what if Dalante is bagging on my head. His loss. Oh yeah, almost forgot, I’m kind of a big deal. People know me.”

Joshua: “Do you want to come on my yacht.”

“Hey, I’m ready to settle down, I think? Been on the islands my whole life and know them like the back of my hand. If you like surfing and fun in the sun, part of me is your guy. Yeah, I’ve won the state championship three times, but you need to know the other side. Nothing can stop me, and Hawaii Pacific University is my second big wave: Environmental Engineering. I see three kids in the future and life is good. I’ve got nothing bad to say. Well, maybe a few more girls from California or Colorado, or perhaps a hot Russian girl before I finally settle down.”

Humor really is key in life. The caricatures above are an outcome of the outrageous part of our conversation. Here is what really struck me about these guys. They were real. What you saw was what you got, and what you got were true friends who stuck together. I witnessed it in the way they treated each other–with great respect. I caught that message loud and clear the second we started to talk and I was uplifted by their example.

Alexis was an extremely smart gal with a wonderful outlook. A little self-boasting, but it was all in jest. Dalente said, “She is kind of genius.” She accepted the dig without a flinch in completely agreeing with him. I joked with her saying, well that just proves you’re humble, you know you are a genius, so why be rude and hide it.

I had tremendous respect for Joshua. He was the poster man for overcoming obstacles. You see; he was born with embryonic banding. I’m no doctor, but in my layman’s description of the syndrome, the condition occurs when the umbilical cord wraps around the baby’s body. This restriction in blood flow causes developmental issues and can be fatal. Joshua carried the badge of honor with his underdeveloped hands and arms. Neither of which slowed him down or discouraged him at all. He was warm, intelligent and one heck of a world-class athlete–again, three time state surfing champion, a tremendous achievement for someone living in one of the surfing capitols of the world.

Per the above story, I had written it after having been up for almost twenty-four hours. My eyes were blurry as I typed away at the keyboard, 11:19pm Hawaii; that was 2:19a.m mainland time, the clock I was running on.

Still early in the project I had not yet found the full voice of what it was to become, but humbled I was learning the first lessons in how to absorb the world around me. The weeks to come in Hawaii proved to unveil some profound and inspiring moments. Keep reading, a big reveal in almost here.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

As I sit here re-authoring the posts of 2011, I am feeling the magnitude of there impact. Not just in a past tense, but in a go forward perspective–wanting to be certain that I am providing you meaningful stories to read. Now, 20 days into these update, I am reliving feelings, and I hope not typos, that the experience originally had upon me. Plus, now with the full journey completed, it is possible to look with fresh eyes in realizing how life altering the journey was to myself and I hope to you, my readers. In 2011, I stated, “I remain true to my enthusiasm to 365; however, tonight I admit, I’m ready to have this evening’s entry done. The tired is setting in;” and as I type this entry, my daughter has popped her head into my office, clapping hands, “daddy, come on, dinners ready.”

I’m stepping away for a moment.

 

Back now, looking at the entry of September 31, 2011 and it’s recount of getting ready for an away project in the island of Hawaii. An eight a.m. flight to catch, with over two weeks of past twelve a.m. writing sessions, the feeling of missing daddy daughter bedtime reading or falling asleep with my wife becoming less and less frequent. But in loving form they supported me, even all the way to the completion of the first year of the project. A movement now with the inception of Sidewalk Ghosts, it is a life commitment that is re-starting as here I am, typing this entry as family life moves forward around me. Dinner finished as I excuse myself to my office desk to recount, better yet compare a day over eight years ago to today; and as I look back, the moment is still as fresh as the breaths I am taking, moreso familiar, in aligning it with the dinner table I have just left.

It was family date night at Menchie’s frozen yogurt. My wife drafted into taking my photo while was literally writing the evenings entry in accounting where I was and what I was feeling. She asked me to smile for her, but I was too focused. Obsessed by an experience that had me falling in love with the world. Grateful for a family that supported the effort, I rolled my upper lip a little, smiled at the camera, and then drifted back to my focused thought.

For three weeks I’d been navigating on five hours of sleep a day. I’d be a liar if I didn’t say it was getting to me. With no shame I said, “although very rewarding, I’m a little tired and ready to focus on my family.”

We were enjoying an evening out. Yet home-life was calling, reaching out as if a person. Beckoning, “come to me, it’s time to relax with your family;” and as it did, I was captivated by the two enthusiastic young men who greeted us into the store.

In what was becoming my standard approach, I showed them the 365 blog on my iPad. They happily bought in. as we all agreed to wait for the store to slow down. It proved to not be a very lucid thought in quest to quickly conduct an interview.

The place was endless business as a seemingly brief shoot idea evolved into a one-hour plus wait. Not all that bad, ended up being sort of a forced family time, all of us a little punch drunk as we accepted our fate in knowing we were in for a long night.

The crowd thinned, and working to keep the entry moving I handed my iPad off to my wife as my two new friends and I took photos. A new experiment popped into my head: To have my wife record the evening from her perspective.

“OK, Richard is taking photos and hands me the iPads–tells me I can write anything I want. Really? Well, OK, two things.

“First, I must say, these two boys working here at Menchie’s tonight are two of the best employees I have seen in a long, long time. Here’s my husband trying to get their portrait, and even though they are into it they never loose focus on their job. Every person who walks throughout the door gets a resounding, “Welcome to Menchie’s!” They are super-attentive and friendly with the customers, and keep a fun attitude.  As I write, I hear a customer telling them that they are a lot of fun (I told you.) The minute the crowd dies down they are cleaning the machines and restocking. I see these kids going places in life. Parents, be proud!

“Second, I’m trying to encourage my dear hubby that it might be a nice change to get a full night of sleep by going out in search of his 365 subjects in the MORNING or perhaps during the afternoon. He keeps telling me he will, just as soon as he gets through this week (I’ve been hearing that answer for a few weeks now and here we are at Menchie’s at 10pm. did I mention we have an eight year old?)”

Pictures taken and the night coming to an end, my two new friends Brandon and Aaron were busy cleaning the store in preparation for closing time. So per their request, I followed them as they worked, managing to get them to answer two general questions.

QUESTION ONE:
Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

ANSWERS:

Brandon
“Owning my own restaurant, or at least leading a corporation.”

He already had proven his ability in operating a home-made beef jerky business he created while in high school. He talked of quality control, consistent product and profits. His next step was his degree in business administration.

Aaron
“To be big in the electronic music industry.” Told me he was into the lifestyle and dug how complex, detailed it was. He went on to tell me it required critical thinking.

I asked him if he is a critical thinker, he replied, “at least I like to think so.”

Curious if they made it. Perhaps I’ll follow up with them to see how they are doing. Readers, stand by.

QUESTION TWO:
What would you like to share with my readers?

ANSWERS:

Brandon
“Hard work, ethics, and morality pays off; and remember to always have fun.”

Aaron
“Don’t take life too seriously. Have fun. Enjoy it while you can. Keep what you want to do in the back of your mind. Don’t feel pressure to rush in being independent. You have time before you have to pay bills.”

I looked at the clock; it was 11:25p.m. and getting close to my publishing deadline. I imported my photos and posted the story. Needed to get some sleep, had an early flight to catch.

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

“not too tight or loose, gentle, like you care.”

 

It was my first attempt at going to a shopping center to meet a stranger. A destination filled with many guarded people. Made sense. After all, it is at the mall where endless unsolicited sales approaches happen; and as per what I was doing, how could anyone easily separate me from all the others who had product or services to sell.  But, I was there. Ready to follow through in an experience of discomfort. A close to end of day and desperate attempt to find a new friend to interview, and after quite a few days of close to nine p.m. outings, late evening shoots were starting to wear on me. On top of that, with an hour-and-a-half of mall time already committed, I was determined to meet someone.

Yet, even with my stubborn commitment to staying at the shopping center, I had reached my breaking point. I needed to get out of there! If I had to take even one more lap around level two I would have most likely jumped over the railing as a plea to break the monotony.

The place was a maze and, with my desire to meet anyone numbed by the buzz of countless people, all I was fixed on was finding an exit. Thinking purely of the freedom of the empty streets and getting away from the filtered air that was filling my lungs. I didn’t care if I had to shoot at eleven p.m. that night. I just wanted out of the mall!

Eyes straight ahead, I was almost to the door when I came across a different type of mall goer. A group of very edgy looking kids, chilling as they stood in a circle. At first I questioned approaching them. But as I walked past I could not ignore overhearing their conversation as they showed off their tats to those around them. Their words were aggressive, loud and disrespectful, quite the contrast to the overall shopping center vibe of canned music and conservative shoppers. My first instinct was to avoid them, but my intuition nagged at me, telling me I had to find out more.

So I listened, stopped to talk with them–my introduction a little shaky as I pushed into their gang formation. Was I nuts? Stepping head on into a bunch of tatted and signing kid standing in an unapproachable attitude. But somehow, maybe it was my blend of anxious sweat and direct-eyed confidence; I managed to break through their walls. Took only about ten minutes to get comfortable with each other. Now, not all of them were interested in being photographed, yet all were willing to hang for the ride. They had let the conservative dad-looking white guy into their tribe, and strangely, I felt safe there.

We walked the mall, and as we did I could see the looks of other mall patrons trying to figure out my fit in the group. An experience, that in a most substantial way, taught me the sting of judgmental eyes as we found an open spot to take photographs. Three of the group volunteered to be photographed.

Readers, please shake hands with Jose, Franke and Jonathan. Needing no direction, and enjoying the curious looks of the girls passing by they independently posed for the camera; when, only four frames in, security came out of nowhere and shut us down. There were no questions. No listening ear; just a very one-sided push to not only stop taking photos, but to leave the shopping center all together. It torqued us all. We were not a commercial shoot; just a couple of people taking a few harmless snap shots, and with me in the group the gang had managed to keep their tone quite low key. There was no need for the strong arm.

All guards were down as saw past the rough exterior of group of teens who perhaps were trying to figure life out; and with the degree of respect they extended to me, I wondered if they were looking at me as some type of father figure. Yes, a romantic notion on my part, but what if? In later stories an overwhelming truth to my reasoning to be there came into view. An experience that in a most humble explanation can best be described as remarkable. But I won’t let the secret out of the bag in this story. You’ll just have to stay with me to find out.

The mall cop was adamant; we had to wrap. The guys wanted to chest up, but I talked them down as we sort of complied. It was not worth turning the event into a big deal. I already had a couple good frames, so I was good to go as we accepted our interview had been cut short.

We shared departing handshakes and with they’re first smiles shown, I was accused of having a weak one. With a brotherly bond, they schooled me in the art of proper three-part handshake. The student I was as my new friends instructed, “not too tight or loose, gentle, like you care.”

In the end, there were no worries in regard to mall cop’s total annihilation of our shoot and of his breaking us up; nothing could stop us from becoming new in-the-moment friends.

My take away that day–“we should be cautious in not letting first impression overly affect us.” Even though these kids carried a tough facade, I found them warm, welcoming and genuine; and if I were to cast them off as useless gang members, perhaps my influence upon them would have never happened. They were, in my opinion, simply struggling teens. I had no window into their lives, pasts or knowledge of any pain or abuse they might have been subjected to. All I knew was their acceptance of me was real. So I’ll own my outlook. Call it my fantasy, and with optimism, I’ll keep it in my heart as such. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, in a few more essays there is a big reveal coming that will push this concept to the limit. If you need to know now, click here.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

 

“everybody can run, only one can be first, but the last across the finish really is the one who wins the greatest prize,”

 

It was high school football night as I sat on the sidelines of a family friends game. Thought I’d try an experiment and just sit. Settled in to not wander. Figured I would simple see who came into view. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes, nothing pulled at me. Until in the middle of a wave of parents, players and coaches, I saw him. It was weird how for some unexplainable reason he stood out as I first put eyes on him, standing about forty yards downfield from where I was sitting.

Without hesitation he accepted the offer to share his wisdom as he fully opened his life to me. His name was John, Born in Croatian, age 79; he came right out of the gates telling me he was a Pancreatic Cancer survivor. My knees buckled. It was very personal, maybe even the reason I was attracted to approach him. You see, my father died in just six weeks after being diagnosed with the disease. And every since then, I’ve viewed the sickness as hopeless. A whole topic in itself, one that I am still dealing with in my lack of respect for many of the health care options available to senior citizens: Perhaps I’ll address my feelings on the matter in another story one day.

John healed part of me that day, and I hope for anyone in the midst of the disease who may be reading this essay, that maybe it can give you a little faith in the possibility of surviving Pancreatic Cancer.

John, Croatian name, Ivica Vukovic, credited his miraculous healing to a special tea and not to modern medicine (taheeboteaclub.com). After a very aggressive six-and-a-half hour procedure to remove the affected tissue around his Pancreas, the doctors gave him two months max. He lifted his shirt to show me a twelve-inch scar to prove it.

Telling me all options were off the table, except one, the special tea; known for its healing properties as he insisted it was the cure to his illness. Ignoring the doctor’s predictions, he promptly began drinking it. Thirteen years later, he was still here to watch his grandson play football.

This heavy accented glowing human being had pulled at my heartstrings. A man of great positivity, his energy was duly noted by the line of bi-passer’s who, as they walked by us while we were taking pictures, harassed: “Hey John, have him photograph me, I’m much more handsome than you. So, now you’re famous? Looking good John!”

We talked of his escape from Croatia during the Yugoslavian occupation. What a blemish in human history. In speaking of such a horrific account he did not even break a sweat, and I know he had seen things too dark for many to discuss. John just kept smiling and redirected by giving me advise on making my wife happy. But I could not let go of wanting to know more about his exit of Croatia.

How did you get out, I asked. “Simply,” he said, “with a gun and not a passport.” I paused to reflect as he took a breath of remembrance. Then resuming his story he described his path: Trains to a few stops within the boarders of Austria and Germany, then footpaths over the boarders (what he didn’t share was how heavily they were patrolled). He credited our German friends for their acceptance of he, his wife and six-year-old son.

Once in Germany, he was screened for one year and finally got papers to exit the country. It took that much time to confirm that he had no criminal background or any other unsavory past. I’m sure he had lost his gun by that time.

With papers in hand, he moved his family to Toronto Canada, thirteen years later to California. He claimed, “best place on earth to live, anywhere between Santa Barbara and San Diego, I’m a California Boy!”

In closing, I asked him if there were any thoughts he wished to share with the world.

In a humble tone he spoke of concern for his grandson, “I fear we are in store for another World War. Further quoting Mark 12:31–“Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

Elaborating, “everybody can run, only one can be first, but the last across the finish really is the one who wins the greatest prize,” and lastly,“pray often for yourself, your family and your country.”

In what I quickly realized was signature John style he shared his final wisdom, something that perhaps is scalable to all of our outlooks toward others of different origins. “Canadians are a lot like Americans.” 

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.

It only took me seconds to realize the place was all about respect of other persons…

 

It was starting to look like a night that was going to leave me empty-handed and alone. I had lost count of how many people I approached, all of whom I found on the streets, most very friendly and inquisitive, a few aggressive and dismissive, but none willing to step in front of the camera.

I had been driving around for hours with no clue where to go. Wandering, time burning as a severe migraine began to set in. My eyes were beginning to sag and my motivation to go forward was in question.

It was getting to the point where everywhere I looked businesses were closed and the streets were empty. Pressed to the edge of frustration, I passed the martial arts studio, Gracie Barra. Curiously, the lights were on and half a dozen or so serious looking martial artists working out inside. Even as I ripped past at 45 miles per hour (really 55), the vision of what just blurred through my passenger window forced me to rubber neck as I watched the movement of people through the open glassed store front. Knowing that might be my last chance before I missed my deadline I did a quick speed brake, an illegal U-turn, and in under a minute I was parked right in front of the place.

I grabbed my stuff, walked in, and learnt my first lesson: “No shoes on the mat!” was yelled at me. Great! I had not even opened my mouth and I guessed I was about to be thrown out to continue my hunt. How wrong was I!

Turned out my presence was welcomed as I first met Sammy (more about him below). Second lesson: It only took me seconds to realize the place was all about respect of other persons as Sammy introduced me to head instructor Juan Pablo Garcia, who was intrigued to be interviewed.

Third Lesson: Humility and perseverance are key. We’ll get to other lessons soon, but these were foundational to what I learned.

Juan was to the point. Ecuador born, world traveled, he had competed in MMA events everywhere. I really mean everywhere—globally, with two in the United States. We talked of his path, but first and foremost he admitted, “I am living the dream.”Then he told me what it took to become a nationally respected instructor and champion competitor.

Too much to write, so I’ll let you know the short answer, Juan was definitely self-made. No sponsors, family, money, or handouts. He’s worked hard and you could see the self-respect in his eyes. He shared stories of living in martial arts studios, sleeping on mats by night, and cleaning by day, all in trade for room, board, and training. It was apparent that money was not his focus, perfecting his sport was. Teaching me by example yet another lesson of perseverance and passion.

Doing my best to take notes, I just sat in his office and listened to his history. It was almost impossible to keep up, there was just too much to write. But one thing was evident, he was careful to not take all the credit for his success, making it known that I must acknowledge his professor, Alberto Crane. I added this to my list of lessons: Respect, Honor, Diligence.

Without even stepping onto the mat I was feeling grounded.

Juan invited me behind his desk to look at a YouTube video. It was him winning countless tournaments. His specialty? Grappling. It was hard to see his face in many of the clips, the referee constantly covered it with the raising of the victory arm.

Juan was very humble, so I had to dig these facts out of him: Florida State Champion, Vegas Open Champion, 3 time NAGA Champion. I was pretty sure there were more, but he was closed lip about it. Another lesson: Humility.

All-in-all Juan was a focused and serious guy, but there were a couple of things that brought a smile to his face. In bullets:

• Where he was in life
• Thoughts of his son
• His love for teaching
• An invitation to bring myself and my family to train with him

What about Sammy?

As I promised Juan a DVD of the photos we shoot, Sammy stepped up and volunteering to come to my house to pick up the disk.

I thought I learned enough for the evening. Not even close. School was not over yet.

Sammy Stat’s taught me about focus, mature patience, and listening with the heart. Again, in bullets:

• 26 years old
• Carnegie Mellon Graduate
• Multiple Degrees: Behavioral Economics, Policy Management, Engineering Studies
• Did I say he was 26 years old
• Credits martial arts to his happiness and balance
• Blue belt, almost a purple belt, on the way to black as he was quickly advancing
• Planned to go to Wall Street but at the last moment changed his mind (He’d seen too many of his peer’s burn out too early)
• Could survive Juan pinning him in a cradle (It’s a serious pin. I watched him gasp for air as Juan tightened his hold)

Juan / Sammy, thanks for the schooling. I may one day return to take you up on those mat lessons. Although, I’ll pass on the cradle, thank you.

Talk tomorrow my good friends,

Richard

Readers, if you are returning, so nice to be with you again. If you are new, looking forward to getting to know you.

To all: please comment, like, and forward. Every engagement goes a long way toward connecting us; as together, we grow a movement that betters the way we view and treat one another.