The Road Runner at Grace Farms is eye-balling me.
He was there before me, and he is intent on not letting me forget it.
The bird presents himself to me every time I arrive. The colors of his plumage are much more subtle than I realized.
I know Road Runners differently because I focused on this Road Runner.
“Don’t talk to Pete. He is a dipshit.”
In another era of my professional life, I read this love-note on an e-mail from a disgruntled client to her boss. I am unsure whether I was copied intentionally ? but I am sure it gave her a certain amount of pleasure that I got to read what she thought of me.
At that time of my life, I was part of an international sales-force of a company that did business on 5 continents.
And a month before I am called a dipshit ?
I was celebrated
as the highest performing sales-person
Among hundreds of sales people around the globe.
In fact, they give me a bunch of money and big, fat prize
for being so great.
The Divine likes to remind me:
The distance between hero and dipshit is the length of time it takes to read a two-sentence e-mail.
Somewhere in the mid- 1960’s he is in the 10th grade and doing a handstand on the top rails of the Empire State Buildings observation deck.
Some volunteer parent looking after the high school kids take one look and faint dead-away.
An unfortunate gust of wind sends him tumbling like a fall leaf.
But it didn’t and the story lives on in family infamy.
“Ya ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
This is my first voicemail of the day.
When I worked for a giant company and held a position of authority and influence
I liked the money –
Everyone likes the money.
But next on the list was this:
Everyone returned my calls.
The Modern Revolution 