I’m Bigger. Much Bigger. But He’s Much Better… in More Ways Than One!

I want to introduce you to someone special. He’s someone I love and admire. But first, let’s talk about moi – i.e., my physical fitness routine.

I train for fitness twice a week. I do two hours with a trainer. A combination of stretching, weightlifting, bodyweight exercises, and high-intensity cardio. These workouts are good for me. So, I do them. But they are hard. And boring. So, I dread them.

Four days a week, I train in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu for an hour. (It’s grappling. Like wrestling, except the object is to “submit” your opponent by joint lock or strangulation.) Each session consists of five eight-minute bouts of moderate- to high-intensity grappling, with two or three minutes of instruction between each round.

For me, this is the perfect way to stay in shape. In terms of challenging the body, it’s like combining sprinting, powerlifting, yoga, and Pilates in the same workout. In terms of challenging the mind, it’s like a combination of speed chess and Zen meditation. My BJJ sessions are good for me. But, unlike my workouts with my trainer, I look forward to them. They feel like playing. The kind of playing I did when I was a child.

There is another reason I love BJJ: It gives me the chance to form friendships with people that I’d probably never otherwise know. Three of the four guys I train with are Brazilian. Eric is in his late twenties, Vitor is in his early thirties, Sam is in his early forties, and Renato is 51. Vitor and Sam weigh about 235 pounds, Eric is about my size at 205, and Renato normally weighs about 155 to 165.

In my journal yesterday, I wrote this about Renato:

Renato Tavares is a multiple-time world champion in three weight classes. He walks around at about 160 pounds. But once a year, for the World Master Championship tournament (usually held in Las Vegas), he gets down to 138. At 160 pounds, Renato looks like he could win an all-natural bodybuilding contest. Dropping to 138 means losing like 15% of his weight. That’s hard to do when you weigh 250 pounds. And when you weigh 160, it’s insanely difficult. I’ve asked Renato why he does it. After all, he is competitive at two classes heavier. He tells me that, for him, it is an extreme mental and moral challenge. And when he accomplishes it, he knows that he can also accomplish the many less extreme challenges he faces every day.

And he has plenty of challenges. Besides being a world-class athlete, Renato is a devoted husband and father, a friend to all who know him, an active philanthropist, a successful businessperson, and a lifelong learner.

I’ve known Renato for about 20 years. He came here as a member of American Top Team, one of the more successful teams competing in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and mixed martial arts. He quickly rose to the top of his class as an athlete. But he had other goals. He wanted to partake in the American Dream.

And that meant learning English. (He didn’t speak a word when he got here. He’s fluent now.) It meant getting a job. (He taught BJJ in his spare time.) Starting a side business. (He now has a BJJ association with members in the states and many foreign countries.) He saved every dollar he didn’t need to maintain a simple lifestyle and invested in real estate, one small purchase at a time. Today, he has a beautiful home, several investment properties that bring in monthly income, and a business that is profitable and growing.

He’s the hardest-working person I know. He’s also one of the kindest and most charitable. He’s done all that and he still manages to get better at his sport. The last time I trained with him, he was down to 145 pounds. I was “down” to 205. That’s a 40-pound difference. I felt like I was wrestling with an alligator.

How Renato finds the time to do everything he does and stay on top of his game at 51 years old is amazing. I often tell him, “I want to be just like you when I’m your age.” (That’s a joke. He doesn’t think it’s funny either.)

Anyway, last weekend he was off to compete in the World Master tournament in Vegas, while I was here in Nicaragua, sitting in my Tiki hut, with the beautiful beach and mountains in front of me. I had completely forgotten that Renato was competing when Sam, (one of my 235-pound training partners) texted to ask if I’d seen the news.

Renato took first place and now is ranked number one in his category (50+, black belt) at 138 pounds. As I’ve said, this isn’t the first world-championship belt he’s won. But when I consider all the other things he does, it’s truly inspiring.

And the way he won this year is doubly impressive. He won his first match in 43 seconds (knee bar). And the second one (wrist lock) in 13!!!

That’s him on the podium at the top of this article.

How to Write a Best-Selling Novel

As someone who’s made a fair part of my living writing, I gobble up advice from successful writers whenever I can find them.

I consume advice about writing fiction and nonfiction, poetry and drama, essays, and news. I’ve read all the best-known books and dozens of essays. But because of their brevity, I’m especially fond of checklists.

Judith, my editor, just sent me this list from Elmore Leonard, a very successful novelist that wrote, among other things, Hombre, the book I’m reviewing below.

1. Never open a book with weather.
2. Avoid prologues.
3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said” …he admonished gravely.
5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.
6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.But Leonard’s most important rule is one that he says sums up all 10: “If it sounds like writing, rewrite it.”

Can This Old Dog Learn This New Trick? 

I’ve been told more than once that I have a rather undiplomatic communication style when talking about business problems and solutions. I’m quick to arrive at a conclusion. I push my opinion strongly. And I’m blunt.

I would describe it as passionate and supportive. That’s how it feels to me. But when it comes to communication, it doesn’t matter what the communicator feels. What matters is how well the message gets across and what, if any, the unintended consequences are.

I’ve been communicating this way for more than 40 years. And with dozens of businesses and hundreds of executives. Overall, it’s worked for me. And for the businesses I’ve grown.

That doesn’t mean a kinder and gentler version of what I do would not have worked better. I don’t know. Neither do my critics.

But I believe – no, I know – that there is a better way to communicate my criticisms and suggestions. And I want to learn. In fact, I’m getting coaching right now from a partner and colleague who is very good at this skill I haven’t yet mastered. So, there’s hope!

I was reminded of my struggle to make the change when I saw this clip about Katelyn Ohashi, the Olympian gymnast whose career was turned around when her coach figured out how to be more supportive. Click here.

What I Believe: About What Matters Most to the Human Animal

If you want to know the truth about government and big company activities, instead of believing what you read in the government- and big company-influenced press, you must “follow the money.”

That’s what they say. By “they,” I mean those that believe that world politics – including geopolitical relations and even war – is controlled by a small group of very rich individuals. And there is no doubt that many wealthy people use their wealth to try to influence political and social outcomes.

But if you want to know what really shapes the world, in the larger context, it’s not the money. It’s something much bigger, much stronger, and much less easy to understand. I’m talking about culture.

Some people will lie and steal for money, but very few will commit murder for it. However, every person that feels they are a good person (even down deep) will be happy to kill and die to preserve their culture.

Grandparenting; The Good. The Bad. The Incompetent.

I was always told that it is more fun to be a grandparent than a parent. And that is true for a very well understood reason. As a grandparent, one has the luxury of interacting with one’s progeny without the responsibility of rearing them into responsible, well-mannered adults.

Unless, of course, we have agreed to take charge of them for any length of time. When that’s the case, we must act in locus parentis. We must keep them safe. But we must also entertain them with stimulating and enriching diversions, and discipline them when they misbehave.

In theory, that should be a simple job: Just care for them the way, decades earlier, we cared for their parents. Of course, it doesn’t work that way anymore – at least in my situation. I’m expected to parent my grandkids according to the same child-rearing theories and protocols their parents follow. These, I’ve been told, are more enlightened than the crude techniques they remember me using with them.

I can understand the point. Children need consistency. And even if I don’t believe an extra scoop of ice cream will permanently damage a toddler’s brain, there is no absolute need for me to provide one. No matter how adorably the grandchild asks for it.

But when it comes to the activities and interactivity my grandchildren are accustomed to, I must draw a line. I have less energy, emotional elasticity, and physical endurance than I had 20 or 30 years ago. There is a limit to how many times Dado is willing to be pushed into the pool.

Because of such expectations and constraints, I am happy to be the Dado when my grandkids’ parents are present. But as for keeping them safe – i.e., alive, uninjured, and un-kidnapped – while I’m watching them, I’ve established a time-limit of five minutes.

I just can’t imagine how embarrassing it would be to have to say to the mother of one of them, “Gee. I don’t know. He was there when I nodded off. I’m sure of it!”

Luckily for me, I’ve never been asked to be the sole guardian of my grandkids for more than five minutes. If, like me, you think that is a good thing, you may be interested in emulating what I did to get my name checked off the list for long-term care.

Volunteer to be responsible for the children’s pets. And then mindlessly (and honestly) allow them to disappear. I have done this twice in the past five years. And I’m happy to report that each time the animals were eventually recovered. But the lesson was clear: Momo is fine. Dado? Not with my babies!

This has worked out very well for everyone involved. And it has taught me something about grandparental love that I admit and respect. My affection for my grandkids is roughly equal to their affection for me. When they are adorable, I adore them. When they are affectionate, I am delighted, and return the affection. When they want to listen to a story, I’m more than happy to read to them. And when they want to play, I am good for as long as my cardiovascular system allows. But when they are irritable and obstreperous, I leave them to K or their parents. They have no objection. And neither do I.

What kind of grandparent are you? If you’re not sure, click here to read an article that might help you figure it out.

In Search of Meaning, Redux

Part II: Worse, Then Good

After an evening of anxiety and self-flagellation, I decided that K had the right perspective. My stolen bag and its contents could be replaced. Easily. And the loss of income, though substantial, could also be replaced in time with some energy and effort.

So, no, I would not book the next flight back to the US to deal with it in familiar surroundings. I would ask Gio to rush me a replacement computer. And until it arrived in Greece, I would do as much work as I could typing with one finger.

Gio bought one (pink was the only available color) the next morning, and shipped it via FedEx Express that afternoon. It would arrive at our B&B in Naxos in four days, the agent told her.

Meanwhile, we flew to Mykonos to meet our friends (who were already on the boat) and embark on our 10-day exploration of the beautiful Cyclades islands. The boat, a catamaran, was largish and luxurious. Our bedroom was small but comfortable. The captain and his mate were welcoming. And our first meal on board was satisfying.

We docked at Paros the following day and set out to explore the island. Stepping down off the gangplank, I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my left foreleg, at the point where the Achilles tendon ties into the calf muscle. Having had two ruptures of the Achilles tendon before, I could tell that this was a minor tear, one that would eventually repair itself. But it left me half-hobbled and unable to walk at a normal gait. Luckily for me, one of our friends, Roger, had an arthritic knee that was acting up. So, we limped along together, behind the others.

Like many seeming setbacks, our mutual handicap had a silver lining. Roger is, among other estimable accomplishments, an art historian with an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient art. I was able to take advantage of our situation by having him regale me with arcane details about the archeological sites we would be seeing, and it was good for Roger, too. He had a captive audience, someone who genuinely appreciated his expertise.

Thus, our onshore excursions were gratifying. And when we were on the boat, I spent every idle moment corresponding with my business partners on current projects and writing my twice-weekly blog posts. In addition, I spent several hours on a strategy for managing my now-reduced cash flow – a Plan A, a Plan B, and a Plan C (optimistic, realistic, and worst-case). This, I knew, was necessary not just for practical reasons, but also as a psychological palliative for my recent misfortunes. (Longtime readers know that I believe the best way to overcome a setback is to (a) accept it stoically, and (b) set to work immediately on a recovery plan.)

These activities had the hoped-for effect. My mood improved quickly, enabling me to participate in our common adventure without complaint. That, in turn, allowed K and our friends to enjoy their vacation without the unnecessary and undeserved burden of catering to a malingerer.

The island tours were, as I explained in the June 17 issue, terrific, exceeding my highest expectations. But on the penultimate day of our journey, sailing from Santorini to Naxos, the captain informed us that the seas would be choppy and that the trip, which normally takes five or six hours, would likely be “a bit” longer. As someone who is susceptible to seasickness, I was not happy to hear this. But okay. I would take my Dramamine as prescribed and be fine.

Oh wait! I remembered that the Dramamine was in the pilfered bag! And the seas were worse than the captain had imagined. We were sailing into a perfect storm. Within an hour, I was retching off the side of the boat. And the five or six hours turned out to be 10.

If you have ever been seasick to the point of vomiting, you know that the misery you feel extenuates time in a way that can only be described as torture. I spent the next nine hours curled up and face down on the deck, wiping bile from my lips and resisting the temptation to hurl myself off the side of the boat and drown.

Finally, finally… we arrived at the port. I hobbled off the boat, lay down on a park bench in a nearby plaza, and stayed there until my stomach settled and the vertigo receded. We took a taxi to our B&B, where I slept for nearly 10 hours. I woke, feeling fine, and enjoyed the next three days in Naxos, a wonderful seaside city in every respect.

Of course, the laptop Gio had sent me did not arrive at the B&B while we were there. It was held up in customs, and was then forwarded to Athens, where we were spending another several days. It did not arrive while we were in Athens either. And so, I had no choice but to have it returned from whence it came in Florida.

Our trip to Greece completed, we said our goodbyes and K and I took a plane to Rome. As I said in the June 28 issue, Rome was, as always, marvelous. The hotel K had booked was five stars. The city was alive and thriving. And our week there, just the two of us, was a happy ending to a journey that had begun so badly.

So, no, I don’t feel like I was victimized by the robbery. Or by the injured muscle. Or by the customs officials or by the fact that my credit cards didn’t work in Rome’s ATMs. I feel like my misfortunes had been due, at least in part, to imprudent decisions on my part. And I was happy to have gotten beyond them.

In Search of Meaning… Redux 

Part I: A Bad Start to a Summer Cruise

A friend said I was victimized. I don’t see it that way.

The outbound flight that was to take us directly to Athens to begin our three-week European vacation was delayed by six hours, which meant we were routed through Amsterdam and Paris and arrived numb and tired, too late for the scheduled departure of our cruise. Our travel companions had already left. We would catch up with them at the next port a day later.

Okay. Fine. No problem.

We checked into the nice little boutique hotel we had been registered to stay at the night before. They had a room. And they were very welcoming. In fact, their welcome was so warm and inviting that I didn’t notice that one of my two bags, a Bottega-Veneta Intrecciato, which was sleeved onto the extended handle of my Tumi carry-on, was deftly stolen as it stood, with our combined luggage, just beside and behind us.

Nobody noticed it. Not I. Not K. Not the hotel manager or the desk clerk. In fact, when I turned around and announced, in shock, that my bag was gone, they all agreed that I must have left it in the taxi.

“No. I’m certain it was there, on top of my carry-on,” I said, feeling increasingly alarmed and frustrated at being doubted. “It must have been stolen!”

They again assured me that I was mistaken. And since my track record of being right about remembered events is getting worse with each passing year, I had a flickering hope that perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it was still safely in the taxi. As it happened, the taxi driver had given me his card when he dropped us off. I called. He took a look. No, it wasn’t there, he said. He also said that he remembered seeing me put the one bag on top of the other.

Meanwhile, the hotel manager, who, to her credit, was greatly disturbed by the thought of her guest being robbed inside her reception, went back to the office and reviewed the security camera footage.

Unhappily for me, I was right this time. It showed us walking in and setting down our luggage. Then a man walking in at a quick but unhurried pace, his head tilted down, taking the bag, and walking out while we were chatting happily with the greeting committee. He was very calm. Very efficient. He was in and out in less than 15 seconds.

It was, as I suggested, a rather expensive bag. And it was one of my favorites. Soft, lightweight leather. Just the right size for my business and personal effects. With zippered and buckled pockets.

Inside was a Goyard cigar case, a box of Padron Aniversario Churchill cigars, my Apple Air laptop, a backup laptop (in case something happened to the first one), a Ralph Lauren Dopp kit, a special case I had made to hold my supplements, two pairs of custom-made eyeglasses, several designer bracelets, and a paper envelope containing a substantial amount in euros.

The worst of it was the loss of the laptops. The lion’s share of my life’s work happens on a keyboard. Being without one, even for a day, is difficult. It’s nearly impossible to do any serious work on a cellphone, hunting and pecking out sentences with an index finger. I would try, but until I got a replacement laptop, which I was told would take at least a week to be delivered, I would be falling behind on my work with each passing day. Stressful.

I went to the tourist police, as recommended, and filled out a report. It was a dreary office, sparsely furnished. Fluorescent lights that flickered and buzzed. The young man that took my information was attentive and sympathetic. He worked on a manual typewriter. The report was several pages long.

While he was typing, it occurred to me to check my iPhone’s “Find My” application. Sure enough, there was a location identified for one of my laptops.

“I know where they are!” I told the officer. I showed him my phone.

He looked at his wristwatch. “But they were taken an hour ago,” he said, sighing.

“And?”

“That’s a bad neighborhood. They aren’t there anymore. The man that took your bag, he’s a pro. The computers have been deactivated by now. They’re probably in a pawn shop in some other part of the city. The bag, the cigar case, and the rest of it, too. Each in a different location. That’s how they do it.”

“And the cash?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Oh, that’s in his pocket. But who knows where he is?”

I went back to the hotel, out of hope and empty-handed, and spent the next several hours chastising myself for letting our luggage out of my sight and especially for putting my laptop, and its backup, in the same bag.

K reminded me that everything I lost could be replaced.

“Except my self-respect,” I said.

“That will come back, too,” she assured me.

I used my phone to check my email. And there, in the inbox, was a message from one of my partners. A message I was hoping I wouldn’t be getting. In response to a crumbling global economy and the resulting collapse of the stock market, he and my other partners had decided to reduce the compensation we were taking from our largest business. Did I want to do the same?

I couldn’t say no. Starting almost immediately, and until things got better, that very significant stream of income would be reduced to a trickle.

Strike one: Bag and contents stolen.
Strike two: Loss of my largest source of income.

I was a 6 on my 1-10 mood scale after the theft. Now I was down to a 5. Maybe a bit lower. I opened my carry-on to fetch my antidepressants. They weren’t there. I had left them in the other bag, the one that was stolen.

The thought of spending the next two weeks on a sailboat trying to be on vacation seemed like an impossibility. I wanted to book the next flight back to Florida. But that would mean disappointing K and our friends. It was not an option. I had to get my mind straight. So long as things didn’t get worse, I would find a way.

But things got worse.

More to come…