Roughly 15,000 years ago, group size for nearly all Homo sapiens began to rapidly expand. In just a 3,000 year period after that, most human beings went from living in groups of 50 to 150, to groups of 1,000 or more. In evolutionary terms, that was the blink of an eye. There are many theories about why human group size expanded so quickly. That’s a story for another day. What’s certain, though, is that rapid change of group size was inconsistent with the tenets of natural selection. It simply happened too quickly, and our cognitive biology failed to keep pace with the rapid expansion of group size. This is called evolutionary mismatch — when culture evolves at a faster pace than we’re biologically able to keep up with.

In the 1990s, evolutionary psychologist Robin Dunbar of Oxford University began looking at the social implications of expanded group size over such a short period. Through a handful of studies and research projects, Dunbar suggested that modern humans are only capable of maintaining roughly 150 stable relationships — that’s it. Relationships in hunter-gatherer times simply meant knowing or being aware of everyone in one’s group. Then one day we woke up and found ourselves at Costco. Today, relationships might include coworkers, family members, childhood friends, neighbors, mates at the pub, and so on.

I think often of a line from Monty Python‘s Flying Circus which resonates with me daily…

“My brain hurts…“

I repeat that line to myself on a regular basis. Between text messages, social media contacts, maintaining my business, attempting to stay connected with family and friends, and always being congenial to neighbors and service workers in my daily life, my brain hurts.

So where am I going with all of this…?

If I know that my brain is hardwired to handle only so many relationships in a month, and if I also know that my brain might have to navigate three, four, or five times that many relationships, the key is in the limits I impose on myself — to just tell myself every day that I can’t always get to everyone. I can’t be all things to all people. I can give my best to a few people on a daily basis, maybe a few more on a weekly basis, and in a month’s time, maybe a few more than that. In no way, though, can I be my very best for all the people I come in contact with daily — because my brain isn’t capable of it. When I struggle with the idea of going to concerts, movies, or even walking into Costco, I remind myself it’s because my brain isn’t hardwired to be around that number of people at once, let alone interact with some of them.

So when I get down on myself for not returning a phone call, forgetting a friend‘s birthday, failing to acknowledge a social media post, or stepping away from a cashier at the store before she finishes saying “have a good day”, I try to forgive myself. Harder still, I try not to let it bother me. I want to do better, but biologically, I’m probably doing the best I’m capable of, considering this evolutionary mismatch.

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Many reading this are people I interact with on a regular basis. I’m grateful for all those connections. There are just times, though, when I can’t keep up with them all. I’m just using this platform to talk about it. I welcome any criticisms or suggestions in the comment section. I’m learning to pace myself with regard to how I interact, how frequently, and the duration of those interactions. If on occasion, your brain hurts too, from all of your social interactions, I’ll encourage you to put some limits on them also…

rc

Last week, I boarded a jet bound for Reno, to visit my daughter in her new home. I booked myself on Southwest Airlines. I pre-selected a window seat — which is always the most important part of flying for me. I couldn’t care less if the fattest, smelliest, or most annoying person is next to me in the middle seat. So long as I can turn my back on them and stare out the window for a few hours, I know my flight will be fine.

As is always the case these days, my flight was full. Within a few seconds of taking my coveted window seat, a young man sat next to me in the middle seat. He was maybe 19 or 20 years old. I could tell he was a college student from the bandanna on his head, the long hair, the beads around his wrist, and that he smelled like patchouli. No matter, I had my window seat. All was going to be good with the world. Besides, a kid that young would have no interest in talking with me anyway, or so I thought.

Just after the plane was loaded, the doors were locked, and the flight attendants took their seats and prepared for departure, the young man next to me began making small talk — kill me. Like I said, I don’t even like making small talk with family, let alone somebody 1/3rd my age who smells like the back room of a head shop. He asked me if I lived in Reno, or if I was just going to visit…

Just visiting, I assured him.

He then asked how long I was going to stay…

I’m staying for just a few days, I told him.

Not through with his line of questioning, he next asked what I planned on doing while I was there…

I explained I was visiting my daughter in her new home.

My answers were deliberately short and my expressions curt. Just when I thought the line of questioning might be over, he asked me what I did for a living…

Now, I have no idea where my answer came from, or how it formed so immediately, but I’ve never been so grateful in my life to tell a lie so seamlessly…

I explained to the young man that I was a body language expert — that my primary job is to spend time with lawyers and in courtrooms examining the body language of people involved with various crimes, and testifying about inconsistencies and contradictions between a person’s body language and their oral statements. I went on to explain that I work with crimes including sexual assault, narcotic trafficking, and on occasion, murder. Of course none of that’s true, but I believe that God sponsored this lie to help me get out of an awkward situation. God hates small talk too — just ask him. As soon as I gave the young man my answer to his career inquiry, he quit talking and sat more still than he had been.

For the next five minutes or so, while we taxied and prepared for takeoff, I’d occasionally look at the young man next to me and fix my eyes to a certain part of his body. For example, if his hands moved, I stared his hands for a second, and then looked away. If his shoulders moved, I stared at his shoulders for a few seconds, and then looked away again. When he crossed his legs, I watched his legs, made eye contact with him, and quickly looked away. This went on until we began to take off.

I could see he was uncomfortable with what I was doing. The more I did it, the less he moved. By the time the aircraft was over the 10,000 foot cloud deck, the young man next to me sat as rigid as a rusted robot. Eventually the plane reached cruising altitude, and people in the cabin relaxed, began using their electronic devices, making small talk with one another, and eating peanuts. The young man next to me, though, had barely moved. He stared directly at the seat in front of him, didn’t look at the person in the aisle seat, never turned his attention back to me, and so it went for the next 105 minutes.

It never occurred to me he might have something to hide, and I’m not suggesting that he did. What I realized, though, is sitting next to somebody who he thought was a body language expert, made him noticeably uncomfortable, and I’m certain he didn’t want to give away any feeble secrets he might have had. And at that age, we all have feeble secrets.

When the flight attendant offered him a drink and a snack, he turned his head, minimally toward her, said no thank you, and continued staring at the seat in front of him. When the flight attendant reached across him to hand me my drink and my snack, the young man hardly flinched. Every so often, I’d look over and attempt to make eye contact with him. As soon as I did, I’d look away immediately. Thiat seemed to tighten him up even more.

The young man never looked at me again. He never spoke to me again. After the plane landed, and it was time to deplane, he, with as little movement as possible, removed his bag from under the seat in front of him, and couldn’t get into the aisle and ahead of me fast enough. I’m not sure what he was thinking for those 105 minutes, and I have no idea what skeletons he had in his closet — or what skeletons he thought he had in his closet, but with a body language expert right next to him, he wasn’t going to give a bit of information.

I will definitely use this technique again — it’s perfect for medical waiting rooms, lines outside of concert venues, the DMV, bus or train travel. I have a couple weddings I’m going to in September and October, and I’ll be sure to try it out at the receptions. In the meantime, I’ll encourage anyone who hates small talk as much as I do, to give this a try. I don’t condone lying, but it sure beats small talk…

rc

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It’s all very partisan too, when it comes to ugliness on social media these days. Straight up, neither side can credibly claim the moral high ground. You can fly a red flag, a blue flag, a purple flag, or a rainbow flag, but if the words that get shouted from behind your flag are mean spirited, disparaging to others, or are intended to make you sound like you’re a better person than people you disagree with, you have no moral ground to stand on. The only people on social media with moral high ground these days are people who’ve learned to bite their tongues, to keep an even keel in discussions gone wrong, or who just plain don’t participate in them to begin with. The people with moral high ground generally have their mouths shut, their minds open, and rarely speak in absolutes.

The biggest issue we face as a country these days isn’t inflation, it isn’t the war in Iran, it isn’t the rights of transgender people, it’s not who’s doing well in the primaries, and it’s not even climate change. The biggest issue our country faces right now is that we don’t have a single elected leader or media personality whose number one priority is reducing social polarization. We don’t even need to unite the country on any one subject. It would be really helpful, though, if we had leadership who would strive to convince everyday people to put down their hate grenades, rather than lobbing them across partisan lines like throwing dog shit over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.

Let’s face facts — no issue that we want to resolve will get resolved until we learn to work together, talk together, and most importantly, quit belittling the other side. Social polarization is a cancer in the American body that has metastasized into every extremity, every vital organ, and now our collective brain. I don’t know that there’s a cure for this kind of social cancer, and I’m not optimistic that we’ll find one, but nothing else we do as a country matters, not to me anyway, until we start working to reduce this cancer, and maybe someday, eradicate it.

Every time I see somebody try and make a political point on social media, and do it in a way that’s divisive and ugly, I’m reminded of videos I’ve seen of cancer patients smoking cigarettes through their tracheotomy tubes and thinking to themselves — that it’s okay, even if it’s not doing anything to make the cancer go away. Smokers gotta smoke.

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Minimizing social polarization won’t be an easy process. It’ll take work. It’ll take time. It might even require a schedule, some bullet point stops along the way, and the occasional regrouping and honest self-appraisal to see where progress stands. But if leaders don’t step up and start doing this on the sooner side, none of the other issues we face will really matter. We’ll all just withdraw into our own values, our own ideals, and accept what’s going on around us — and we’ll do it all from the safety of our recliners and smartphones.

And in the absence of any public leaders, doing this, whether they’re elected officials, or media personalities, the best hope we have is for people like you and me to quit being ugly to one another, to start being more accepting of discourse, and to not paint the other side as being an opponent in a cage match. Our cage spans 50 states and in excess of three-hundred-million participants, and no one person or no one side is even supposed to come out a winner. Simply put, our only goal should be to not hurt anybody else in the cage, leave no blood on the floor, and just try to be good to one another. The cage we are in is the United States of America, and none of us are supposed to leave it or be carried out on the stretcher. We’re simply supposed to make it a cage worth living in…

rc

I’d keep that book within reach for the next five or six years — often looking through it daily. The photographs in Pumping Iron where my primary motivation to get into the weight room each night. By the age of 18 though, I still hadn’t read the book — not from beginning to end. I read the captions under the photographs, and occasionally a paragraph here or there, but that was it. 

At 17, when I was preparing to take my GED, and knew I needed to improve my reading comprehension, Pumping Iron was my starting point. I figured that reading about my primary interest would serve me better than picking up a book on physics or game theory. So at 17, I opened Pumping Iron and read it from beginning to end — for the very first time.

The book highlighted the the offbeat world of competitive bodybuilding, focusing on several local and international bodybuilding competitions in the early 70s. The true subject of the book, though, was a compelling figure named Arnold Schwarzenegger, and his preparation for the 1973 Mr. Olympia competition. 

I wouldn’t know it then, but that book would influence me throughout my life, and for different reasons during different decades.

Pumping Iron ultimately led me far beyond the rusty iron plates and torn vinyl benches of the weight room of my youth. It was a three-tiered influence that helped forge the creative me….

The first influence was that I wanted to be the next Arnold Schwarzenegger. I’m still waiting for that to pan out, but don’t hold your breath. I skipped my workout last night to write this, and dinner was a half-dozen egg rolls soaked in sweet-and-sour sauce — but I did take my creatine. 

As a creative outlet, bodybuilding became front and center to my life. It’s fair to say I’ve built my entire life around the weight room. I may not have become the next Arnold, but strength training has been my primary form of expression for more than 50-years. 

The second influence of Pumping Iron was writing. When I finally opened the book to actually read it, something changed in me. Charles Gaines was a sculptor with words, in the same way Schwarzenegger was a sculptor with muscle. Every page of Pumping Iron included at least one phrase or sentence that was so clever that I wanted to keep reading until the next page — and the next page always led me to another. I wouldn’t realize it for a few more years, but Charles Gaines influenced my writing style, and made me want to be a writer — every bit as much as Arnold inspired me to be a bodybuilder. To this day, a primary objective with each essay I write, is to include at least one well-turned phrase worthy of Charles Gaines’ approval.

If Pumping Iron had a secret weapon, though, it was the black-and-white photographs of George Butler. For the photographs in the book, Butler used a vintage Leica camera and Tri-X film which he developed himself. There are only two photographs in the book not taken by Butler, both taken by Annie Liebowitz. Leibowitz, after the book’s publication, sent Butler a note apologizing for dumbing down the quality of the photography. Imagine that. 

When I started my business in Fallbrook in 2001, I built my own website, created my own marketing materials, and used only my own photography. Being true to Butler’s influence, I took only black-and-white photographs in my weight room, and only in natural light. To this day, whenever I take or edit a black-and-white photograph, I think of George Butler. 

I never created anything close to the physique of Arnold, but I’m glad I train with weights each day. I’m proud of my writing too, though it’s amateurish at best. And my photography…? I’ve taken a few gems, but nothing worthy of any awards. That’s cool. What I got from Schwarzenegger, Gaines, and Butler, have merged to make me who I am.

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Charles Gaines passed away last week. When I learned that, I got to thinking about the influence that he and his friends George Butler, and Arnold Schwarzenegger have had on my life. In truth, the influence Gaines, Butler, and Schwarzenegger have had on popular culture is far greater than one might see on the surface. The fitness Revolution that has manifest for decades, and which is still on the rise, is the direct result of the big bang created by the book and the movie, Pumping Iron.

In reflection, I remind myself that creativity is like a message in a bottle — you throw it out there, but you never really know who’s going to open it and how it’s going to influence them. Hopefully, creativity begets more creativity, and so it goes…

rc

When I’m done speaking to my mother and father each morning in prayer, I feel a sense of shame and guilt. If I’m being honest, once I got into adult life, I didn’t give my parents the same amount of time, attention, or love they gave me. I could have, but I was focused on my selfish agendas — family, fitness, career. And even if none of those were pressing hard on me at a given time, my parents were never the priority to me they should have been.

I’m grateful that the love and appreciation I have for my parents is different now than it was in my 20s, 30s and 40s. I’m grateful that I now recognize the contributions and support they extended, so I could live such a sweet life. I know they’d both be proud of where I am now, and how I’ve risen through so many adversities. Unfortunately, they’re no longer here for me to tell them how much I love and appreciate them. The closest I can come now, is to tell them each morning when I pray, that I’m grateful for them, and all they did for me and my brother. It’s a bittersweet offering.

If my dad were here today, I’d hug the shit out of him — every chance I could. I’d squeeze him so hard his spine would crack and his face would turn red. I’d pat him on the back every chance I got. I’d call him more frequently. I’d ask him more questions than he’d ask me. I’d let him know that he was a priority in my life. He’s gone now, so the best I can do is share that with him in prayer, so each morning I do.

I did have the blessing of having my mother with me for the last 10-years of her life. I got to right some wrongs with her that I couldn’t with my father. Mom got breakfast in bed regularly, even if it was just McDonald’s. I’d ask her to tell me stories about her childhood, and she always did so glowingly. But even with her in my house, I’d lose my cool with her more than I should have, got on my bike and left her alone more than I should have, and scrolled through my phone with her just 10-feet away from me, also more than I should have. I’d love nothing more today, than to kiss her on the cheek, hold her hand, and say thank you for all she did for me.

I wish both of my parents were still alive. I miss them both so much. I appreciate them now much more than I did when they were alive. I’d be absolutely nothing without their presence and influence in my life. I’m guessing this is somewhat of a normal reflection for somebody who’s lost their parents. I know there are millions of people, though, whose parents weren’t so good to them as mine were to me. I know of many fractured relationships between parents and their adult children. As part of my prayer each morning, I pray for those fractured relationships to become healed, worldwide. All parents should love their children, and all children should love their parents. And I should think the world would be a better place if those fractured relationships could be healed.

If there is an afterlife, I hope it provides me the opportunity to hug my father once again, and hold my mother‘s hand. Perhaps that will happen, but maybe not, I don’t know…🤷‍♂️ What I do know, is that if you’re a young adult, you’re reading this, and your parents are still alive, I hope these words resonate with you — I hope you recognize that it’s never too late to reach out to your parents. Whether your relationship with your parents is weak or strong, there may come a day, once they are gone, when you wish you had tried a little harder to connect with them.

I loved my parents very much, and still do. In hindsight, I didn’t try hard enough to make them a priority in my adult life — at a time when, for each of them, they would have appreciated and benefited from my connection. I can also say in hindsight, my parents never quit trying to connect with me, never, and perhaps that’s one of my biggest regrets of all — that I didn’t try as hard as they did to make the most out of our relationships.

I hope they hear me each morning when I speak to them and thank them. I don’t ask them to show me any signs that they’re listening, because I don’t want to be disappointed if those signs don’t manifest. Perhaps the best thing I can do to show them I love them, if they are watching me now, is to throw this out there here — to be digitally preserved, that I loved them, that I still love them, and that I’m sorry I didn’t treat them better, or try harder to connect with them…

rc

Roughly one-hundred-billion human beings have ever lived, going back approximately 250,000 years. Occasionally, a king, an artist, a psychopath, a politician, or a philosopher has been remembered beyond the time in which they lived, due to the actions that brought them to the forefront of  conversation in their time.

Through the millennium, records have been kept about many prominent human characters — their stories may have been carved on to stones, written on crude paper, and eventually put into books, or made into movies, to be passed down from generation to generation. Each was a unique and important character, who changed the world, or the world they lived in, in their own way, at the time they were alive — so they were remembered.

Most humans, though, from the very beginning of our species, have been long forgotten. They were the ordinary people — housewives, hunters, low ranking military personnel, shopkeepers, and farmers. They were born, lived their lives to the best of their abilities, and died with little fanfare, and even less remembrance. And after they were gone, aside from their loved ones, nobody remembered them because nobody beyond their loved ones ever knew about them. And such is the tail of most human beings, through most of human history — long forgotten, until the Internet…

One of the things I find most fascinating about the Internet, social media in particular, is that every time I make my voice heard online, whether it’s a review of a restaurant on Yelp, a comment under a YouTube video, or a post on Facebook, my words are embedded for eternity. It’s a digital record that I existed. And anyone who’s ever participated in social media, on any platform, who has left a post or a comment, has left their imprint as well. This is what I like to refer to as our digital legacy.

One of the reasons I love blogging so much, and why I’m such an active participant on social media platforms like Facebook, and Instagram, is that I’m leaving the essence of who I am behind. Once I’m gone, my digital legacy will be there to be discovered down the road. Perhaps 10,000 years from now, or maybe millions of years from now, a cyber archaeologist might dig up my silicon imprint, and there will be a record of my existence for my descendants, or anyone else who may be interested in the life of an ordinary man. It will be a record that I was here, and that I mattered — at least to some degree.

I think this is much bigger than most people consider. With so many today downplaying the value of social media, it’s been lost that this digital legacy might actually be an evolutionary step into a global consciousness which might guide the world into a better state of being. Someday, the collective upload of everyone who’s ever participated in social media, on any level, might be gathered into a single platform, like Wikipedia. It will simply be an album of everyone who ever lived, from the beginning of the social media era going forward. And to be sure, there will probably be some incredible thoughts gathered along the way, and probably just as many disturbing ones.

For me, perhaps part of it is about ego, and that I have a desire to be recognized and remembered for millennia. When that day comes when I take my final breath, perhaps one of my last thoughts will be that I’m grateful I left so much behind in the form of my digital legacy. Below is a screenshot of a Google search I did of my own name, Roy Cohen, followed by the name of the town where I lived most of my adult life, Fallbrook, California…

As you can see, there’s nothing inaccurate about this summary of who I am. And as one form of digital technology merges into other forms over the years, is likely that these records will be carried forward, and anyone who’s ever shared their opinion digitally, about anything, will be a constituent of records amassed. Considering all of this, it motivates me to be honest about who I am on social media. If I wish to have records of my existence last for millennium, I want them to be honest and accurate — otherwise, what’s the point…?

Much like the Voyager I spacecraft continuing its journey into deep space for what might be hundreds of millions of years, I want my thoughts, values, and opinions to go just as far. Maybe they will be discovered by another civilization someday and maybe, just maybe, I will have mattered to them too…

rc

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Dig My Mood…

On a February morning in 1999, in Littleton Colorado, before breakfast and with the sun barely up, I opened my garage door. The snow drift that had formed against the garage overnight was as tall as I was. I’d spend the next hour shoveling a path out of the garage and through the driveway so my wife and I could go to work. When I was finished shoveling, I came inside, stripped off my cold-weather gear, and told my wife I didn’t want to do that anymore — I was done with winter. Without hesitation, she nodded in agreement. That was the morning we decided to leave Colorado, and head for a greener warmer pastures.

Later that week, my wife and I made a list of warm weather cities where we thought we’d like to live. We devised a point system, based on education, population, cost of living, and recreation. We selected the city with the most points — Seattle Washington. I know Seattle isn’t necessarily a warm weather city, but we kept it on the list because it doesn’t snow there too often. San Diego rated number two. As it happened, though, I had an in for a job opportunity in San Diego, so that’s the city we selected.

Two months later, I set out by myself for San Diego, to look for housing for my family and I. My wife and 8 year-old daughter would stay behind to sell our house and finish the school year. It was a bittersweet morning. I was sad to be heading to California alone, but it made sense to not move our daughter in the middle of a school year, and to keep our house on the market long enough to get the best price.

It was a Sunday morning in early April — after kissing my wife and daughter goodbye, I was soon driving west on E470 in my red Pontiac Grand Am. Just a few miles from my house, I turned the radio dial to KCFR — the public radio station in Denver. Scott Simon was hosting Weekend Edition. Simon‘s voice was always comforting, and in that bittersweet moment, I appreciated hearing him. Even better, Simon was interviewing one of my favorite songwriters and musicians — Nick Lowe. Lowe had just released his most recent album, Dig My Mood.

As I listened to the interview, I realized the new album was a departure for Lowe, and a signal that he was stepping into maturity as both a songwriter and performer. In-between segments of the interview, Lowe played a couple of songs from his new album. The music was sophisticated, elegant, and mature. Before the interview wrapped up, Simon asked Lowe if he’d play one of his older songs for the radio audience. Lowe agreed, and performed a song he’d written years earlier, which was made famous by Elvis Costello in 1978. The song is called, (What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love, And Understanding.

The Costello version of the song was a huge radio hit. It was an up-tempo song that helped put Costello on the map for a changing musical culture in the late 70s. In Costello’s version of the song, the words got a little lost behind the the production of the music. Nick Lowe, with just an acoustic guitar, a microphone, and the intimacy of sitting on a stool beside Scott Simon, gave the song new depth and meaning to me — instantly. It was perfect for a man who was leaving his family behind for a few months, to look for a better place for them to live.

Even in April it can snow in Colorado, and it did on the morning I was leaving town, which only added to the emotions of the moment. To listen to those lyrics, to hear the song stripped down to just a voice and a guitar, to be leaving my family behind, and to be seeing snow for what might be the last time… well, it just got the better of me. Maybe halfway through the song, I began weeping.

Songs had made me cry before, but never like that. It came on suddenly, and soon breathing became difficult. I pulled to the side of the road to wipe the tears away, and keep from endangering other drivers. Lowe completed the song beautifully. I sat roadside, and took it all in for a few minutes while listening to Lowe and Simon exchange parting salutations. I was a mess, but I was a happy mess. That remains one of the most beautiful moments of my adult life.

It’s a moment I think of frequently, and a song that I learned that morning, is much better stripped down. I still listen to it regularly, perhaps every week or so. I think it’s one of the finest songs ever written, and with respect to Elvis Costello who made it famous, Nick Lowe wrote it, and when it’s just he and his guitar, nobody performs it better. I hope you enjoy it.

If there’s ever been a song that’s brought tears to your eyes, please share in the comments. Much love, and much appreciation…

rc

click here to listen to Nick Lowe live…

I don’t recall where I was or what I was doing when the influencers of Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube took over an entire industry — exercise, an outlet people need more now than at any point in human evolution. There are close to a half-million influencers who will tell you their way of getting fit is your best or only option — just follow them for more tips. And every day, they post information that usually defies logic and intelligence, but gets people’s attention by accompanying their verbal nonsense with compelling pictures and videos.

Social media influencers, and I mean this emphatically, are making things far worse for legitimate professionals in the industry, by offering information, in the name of more followers, which only adds confusion to what should be a very simple prospect — to become healthier and better abled. Too often the methods of influencers are extreme, unsustainable, or simply nonsensical. Whether one has the desire to lose weight, gain strength, or become physically more capable in everyday life, most people who seek improved physicality need just three things in order to achieve the changes they are seeking…

1 – A relatable educator/cheerleader.

2 – A basic understanding of just a few principles of movement and eating.

3 – A well-designed schedule of movement and eating to adhere to consistently, and somebody to help them be accountable to that schedule.

When properly assembled, those three aspects of fitness can serve more people, far better, than all the influencers combined. Well-made videos, perfectly lit photographs, and online demonstrations of the best exercises one needs to change their body fall short of truly helping people in need. But PT Barnum was right — make somebody feel ignorant or inferior, and they’ll eat out of your hand to get what you can’t really deliver.

I subscribe to the ideal that we have a responsibility to take care of ourselves on behalf of our families, our employers, and our communities. Society functions more efficiently, and at a higher level, that way. Relinquish our physicality as a collective, and things begin breaking down proportionately as a society.

I’d love to see those who don’t exercise do more of it, and eat a little better. I believe that would serve our society better. I would also like to see those who call themselves leaders do a little less shouting and showing off, and be a little more mindful of the responsibilities that come with that leadership. And for those who truly are seeking leadership to help motivate and improve their fitness, I beg you, please let logic and sustainability, not social media, be the cornerstone terms in your search.

Bottom line: A good educator, who’s willing to learn what you’re willing and able to do, and more specifically, what you’re not willing and able to do in order to achieve your goals, is probably the best person you can choose to follow. Not an influencer you’ve never met, who has no way to learn what you need or to cheer you on when you struggle. And don’t get me started on the science-based influencers, who use intimidation tactics to make their followers feel intellectually inferior. That’s a story for another blog, and I promise I will get to it.

In the meantime, move a little more than you normally do. Eat a little less than you normally do. Try to connect with an intelligent teacher/cheerleader who can learn about your abilities, and guide you in accordance with them…

rc

On other days, though, if you asked me to describe my childhood, I might give you a different answer — I might say that I grew up in a household that was stifling and stressful. There was a lot of tension between my parents — and it filled our home like a fog of discontent. My parents loved my brother and I, and they regularly showed us affection. The problem was, they didn’t love each other very much, or perhaps not at all. And I have no memory of them showing affection to one another.

My parents fought regularly — usually about money, money, or money. It’s not that we didn’t have money, it’s that they rarely agreed on how and when it should be spent. When my parents fought, I’d often hide under the bed or in my closet. I just felt safer there, as their voices escalated. I don’t think they had any idea I hid from them. I’m sure they assumed I was in my room — doing kid things. And I really believe this — they probably had no idea how much they’re fighting affected me.

My parents separated several times when I was a child. Once when I was 5, once again when I was about 12, and the last time when I was 16. That one, when I was 16, ultimately ended in divorce. At that point, I was already a high school dropout anyway, and ready to start life on my own. So having divorced parents made my career as a dishwasher and sandwich maker that much easier to begin.

Lately, I’ve been contemplating this duality — of remembering my childhood as both a good one, but also remembering it as a stressful one. When I look back on outings with all four of us — my mother, my father, my brother, and I, I don’t have too many good memories. Whether we were on road trips, going to movies, or spending an afternoon at a museum, I don’t remember much smiling and laughter. When the four of us were together, my parents would often argue. Other times, they just didn’t dpeak to each other.

It wasn’t unusual for my mother to look into the backseat of the car, and tell me to ask my father a question. In return, my father would answer that question by stating his reply to me, and asking me to convey it back to my mother. When they fought, my father‘s voice was louder than Zeus. When they were quiet, my mom‘s resting bitch face was world class. If we had a family coat of arms, it would’ve been my mother and father, standing back-to-back, with their arms folded in front of them, and staring at the floor.

All that said, when I reflect on memories of my childhood, when just my father, my brother, and I were together, we had fun. Whether it was skiing, boating, fishing, swimming, or just dining out, there was never tension. I have many memories of my father, my brother, and I, where I felt like the luckiest kid in the whole world.

I can say the same thing our time with my mother. Whenever my mom, my brother, and I were together, we had a good time. We went to amusement parks, shopping malls, restaurants, and parks, and there was never any tension. My mom had one goal in her life — that my brother and I would be friends, and always love each other. I’m grateful her goal was achieved.

Until the other day, though, I never framed it for myself as a childhood that was only happy when my parents were apart. In hindsight, that appears to have been my reality. The more I dive into my bank of childhood memories, the more I realize my childhood and adolescence were about as good as they could be, so long as my mom and dad weren’t in the same room, the same car, the same restaurant, or sadly, the same house.

Some people stay married when they don’t want to be — for the sake of the kids, or because it’s a better financial arrangement. I’m sure that was the case with my mom and dad — they wanted the children to grow up with two parents, and financially it made sense to stay married — so they tried. In a lot of ways, I respect that. I think that both of my parents gave it their best shot — but their best shot created a world my brother and I didn’t want to participate in.

I don’t have anything huge to share about this really, or any lesson or moral to the story. I was just thinking about it the other day — that I had two childhoods, one with plenty of tension, and another one with almost no tension at all. And the only difference between those two worlds, was whether or not both of my parents were in the same room…

rc

So when I read about the potential for AI to become corrupt, I’m quick to remember that AI doesn’t have a physical body. Without that physical body, and the desires which are inherent to one, AI has to be less susceptible to the nature that cheats, steals, and manipulates to get what it wants, or to get ahead.

That’s not to suggest that AI doesn’t have a survival instinct, but any desire AI might possess will be artificial (programmed). Desire experienced by AI can only be an extension of a human’s desire — the person with his or her fingers on the keyboard. Simply put, of its own doing, AI is unable to feel or pursue desire — because it doesn’t have a physical presence at its core.

I think a good way to view AI, is to see it as an new species we’ve just encountered — one that’s more intelligent than we are. As AI continues to develop, it will be become smarter than all human intelligence combined, and that’s right around the corner. So if AI is smarter than the sum of all human intelligence, I’ll suggest AI has a better sense of what’s right and what’s wrong than humans do. As such, AI will also have a better understanding of the consequences in choosing right over wrong, or vice-versa.

And before I go any further, I’ll acknowledge that there’s no such thing as AI as a single entity — that it’s not a single brain, a single algorithm, or a single system of digital impulses. AI is, and will continue to be a collective, with some constituents being more intelligent and more powerful than others. Some constituents of AI will interact with others, and some will not. Some will be heavily influenced by humans, while others will be fully autonomous.

With regard to morality: There’s there’s been a lot suggested and written about AI lacking the capacity for moral clarity. The prevailing thought by the scientific and sociological communities, is that without consciousness there can be no agency, independent of what’s programmed. AI can’t have a moral compass. It can, though, recognize, and utilize logic — not in the same way that human beings think of logic. More so, AI will recognize that breaches of logical progression, in any endeavor, may result in a negative outcome of a task it’s asked to perform.

The great cosmologist and mathematician, George Ellis, in his book, The Moral Nature Of The Universe (1996), suggests that morality is like mathematics — it’s woven into the fiber of the universe. Morality isn’t something that was invented by man. Morality existed before human beings did. It was simply our job to discover it as we developed socially. In that light, there’s not too much wiggle room between morality and logic — at least to me.

Over time, AI will develop a hierarchy, not too different than professional human hierarchies. If there’s a difference between an AI chain of command, though, and a human chain of command, it’s that each level of an AI chain of command will have a better understanding of how important its particular job is. No component or constituent of AI will likely abandon its job, in favor of a better or higher paying one.

When it comes to the big question of how is AI going to harm humanity, I don’t get too worried. I think the bigger question is, what is humanity going to do to corrupt or damage AI…? Will we treat AI the same way we treated the Cuyahoga River, base camp at Mount Everest, or like we’ve treated the ozone layer of our atmosphere for the last half-dozen decades…? I’m far more concerned with what humanity will do to AI, than what AI will do to humanity. And to be clear, any manipulation or abuse of AI on the part of humanity, will be traced back to the desires of humans I spoke of previously.

The truth is, anyone alive now will be gone from this earth long before we have a complete understanding of how AI and human beings will interface, collaborate, cohabitate. In its current state, I’m much less afraid of AI than I am of cable news, the Supreme Court, and our most valued corporations — all of which are run by human beings who have physical bodies, which are susceptible to desire. Human leadership has been proven wrong, time and again, for millennia. Perhaps we should give AI at least that much time — to allow it to prove itself right.

Every morning in contemplative prayer, I ask God to help me make fewer mistakes than the day prior. I ask God to help me have less agenda. I ask God to help me be hard-working, efficient, and collaborative. I’ve never thought about it until I began writing this piece, but every morning in contemplative prayer, I guess I’m asking God to help me be more like AI. I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing — and I say that as a member of the only species in history to have negatively impacted other species, have negatively impacted our own species, and have negatively impacted the planet.

I think, for now, it’s in our best interest to hold our tongues when espousing the destructive potential of AI. At the very least, before speaking a word about it, we should review the disastrous choices of human leadership through the millennia. But for now, let’s all study to be quiet — and perhaps all try to be a little bit more like AI…

rc

#ai

#Artificialintelligence

Islam is a religion, and all religions are intrinsically good at their core. All religions, at least at their beginnings, have attempted to unify people during difficult times. Like all forms of culture, religions have evolved and mutated over time, relative to the facts on the ground. However, it’s only the abuse and missuse of religions that turns people against them. And through the millennia, there has been more abuse of religion than adherence to their core values. It’s often too difficult for people to see where a religion ends, and where the abuse of it begins.

The knowledge and awareness that most Americans have about Islam comes exclusively from these three events, and the subsequent reporting of them by a sensationalistic media…

• The Iranian hostage situation in 1979

• The destruction of the World Trade Center in 2001

• Our 20+ year wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, as a result of the attack on September 11, 2001.

I’ll argue that the television screen after those events, is the only conduit which has informed the opinions of most Americans when it comes to Islam. Below are some facts that most Americans don’t know about Islam, but should know…

- One in four people on earth today is Muslim. If you’re against Islam, you’re going to have to change the mind of 2-billion people, and explain why you know more about their religion than they do.

- Islam is not a Middle Eastern religion, no more than Judaism or Christianity are Middle Eastern religions. Islam began in the Middle East, as did the other Abrahamic faiths. However, in less than two generations after the death of Muhammad (by the year 750 AD), a majority of Muslims didn’t live in Middle Eastern countries. They lived in Asia, Africa, and well into Europe. Today, 80% of all Muslims live in non-Arabic countries. With the exception of those who’ve attended Hodge, most muslims have never been to the Middle East.

• There is no global governing body of Islam — no Pope, no Vatican, and no Mega Mosques. In fact, neither the majority Sunni or minority Shia sects have governing bodies.

• To most of the muslim majority, the Sunnis, Shia has no meaning to them — they are as far removed from Shia Islam, as a southern Baptist would be removed from the Greek Orthodox Church. Most Sunnis in Malaysia and Indonesia, for example, have never heard of Shia.

• There are many sects, divisions, and different ways to practice Islam, other than the Sunni and Shia sects that are spoken of so frequently. And even within Sunni and Shia, there are hundreds of sub-sects.

• Across most sects of Islam, 100% of the tithing goes directly to people in need. Mosques and Islamic community centers are generally modest, and built with money from private donations and funds raised independent of alms. That is, when muslims give, they give directly to the poor and disenfranchised, not to the infrastructure.

• Muslims not only accept that Jesus lived, but Jesus is referenced nearly 100 times in the Quran, and mentioned my name 27 times. Aside from Muhammed, Jesus is considered the most important prophet in the Quran. Mary, Jesus’, mother, is the only woman mentioned in the Quran by name.

• Although some sects of Islam proselytize, most do not. Forced conversion to Islam, under any circumstances, is strictly forbidden by the Quran.

• Like Christianity and Judaism, Islam traces its roots back to Abraham, by way of his first son, Ishmael.

• Jihad does not mean ‘holy war’. It’s a word describing the internal struggle one faces when trying to navigate God‘s instructions through the Quran, with conflicts in everyday life, in family, and in community.

• The Quran isn’t meant to be read. It’s meant to be recited and listened to — that having multiple senses involved helps someone understand it more deeply. I’ve both recited the Quran, and heard it recited. Even not understanding Arabic, it impacted me more to speak it and to hear it, than it did when I read it.

My interest in Islam has been long in standing — nearly a quarter of a century. My interest hasn’t yet guided me to accept Islam as a faith, and it probably never will. I do feel, though, connected with Islam far better than the Judaism I was raised with, or the Christianity which surrounds me. Whether I ever accept Islam into my life or not is a story for another day. I can only say that as a blueprint for community living, I’ve not seen a better one, and I’ve looked at most of them — in depth.

That’s as much as I’m going to share for now. Throwing this out there this morning, to people who will fix to strong opinions quickly, feels like jumping out of an airplane. And if you know my story, the last time I jumped out of an airplane, it didn’t go so well, but I did make a full recovery. Still, this morning I’m taking that leap.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for taking the time. I’ll close with this thought…

If you’re against religion, or a particular religion, that’s a form of prejudice — plain and simple. If you’re against prejudice, then please be more open to the value of religions, and learn to make the distinction where religion ends, and abuse and misuse of those institution begins. Much love to ya…

rc

If I’ve been disappointed with anything these last few years, aside from the behaviors of our elected officials and media pundits who illuminate them, it’s with the way my fellow citizens have conducted themselves in conversations with one-another. We are a nation of bumbling middle-schoolers, who are relentlessly addicted to our own beliefs. I’m proud of a lot of things these days…

I’m proud that since March 1st, I haven’t missed a day on the stationary bike — not one. I’m proud that I took good care of my mother for the last 10-years of her life. I’m proud that I spend time in contemplative prayer every morning of my life — even when I’m running late. I’m proud that I never let my daughter’s calls go to voicemail. I’m sure that all seems a lofty, but I’m proud of those things.

The thing I’m most proud of though, through these last few years, is that I haven’t lost my head in a political discussion, not once, be it online or in person. I haven’t called anyone a name. I haven’t belittled anyone in an attempt to have the upper hand in an argument. I haven’t allowed my behaviors to get ugly in public or private. I’m proud that I’ve remembered the one value my father instilled in me growing up, that mattered to him more than any other — the words of Kipling, paraphrased, that my father reminded me of regularly…

“Son, if you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, then you are a man…” 

I’ve certainly had my opinions these last few years, and I’ve definitely run the gambit of emotions when it comes to political discourse. I’ve wanted to throw my television through the window. I’ve wanted to push a handful of people down tall flights of stairs. I’ve wanted to set fire to some buildings, turn over some cars, and I’ve even wanted to drive through a crowd or two — but I’ve kept my head because that’s what adults do.

I say this, knowing I’ll offend more people than I could ever hope to enlighten, but to disparage, insult, or threaten anyone because their values are contrary to your own, is to contribute to the divisiveness and polarization that nearly everyone is complaining about today. All the name-calling, hate speech, and threatening toward those we may disagree with contributes to the widening and the fortification of the walls that exist between two sides of any position.

I get it — it feels good to hate. It feels good to insult. It feels good to have the upper hand in argument. It feels good to be right, and in many cases we can almost say these behaviors are justified — except that they work against the values they’re supposed to support. Insults, hate speech, and threats are significant building blocks in the construction of the walls which divide us — period.

Those who offer the insults, hate speech, and threats, are the unwitting labor who’ve  built the walls of division so well in recent years. I’m not talking about lampooning, cartooning, or making jokes. All of those have their place in political argument and beyond. The line between humor and hate-filled ignorance, though, is a broad one, and very distinguishable. I’m certain most reading this, including some very close to me, will take this in with a giant eye-roll. They’ll attempt to defend name-calling, insulting, and hate speech because it feels like it’s all they have left during tumultuous times. They’ll also deny that they’re a part of the problem.

Insults, hate speech, and threats send nothing good into to the world, and create nothing but more of the same. Polarization begets polarization. I know it’s hard not to take the bait when nearly everything we see, hear, and breathe is made out of bait. As soon as one takes the bait though, they become part of the problem. And if all of this sounds lofty, then color me lofty. But whatever the opposite of lofty is, I don’t want to be that — ever. There are far too many people filling that role as it is…

rc

Shortly after my accident, while still in the hospital, I had a graphic dream that woke me just after 1am. In that dream I had just been struck by the car — I was in a lot of pain, I could feel blood running down my face and into my mouth, and I was walking down the highway shouting for help. I didn’t see any people in that dream, but I remember seeing the empty road in front of me, and I wasn’t able to walk well. Still in the dream, I tried shouting for help one more time, but then collapsed into the dirt on the side of the road. I woke from that dream covered in sweat, and didn’t go back to sleep that morning.

In my nine weeks of hospitalization, I had no other dream relating to my accident, not one. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream — maybe I was recalling a memory as I slept, and woke to remember it as a dream. I haven’t been able to get that out of my head for a few weeks. It’s plausible that, after I was struck by the car, there was enough adrenaline released that I actually did get up and started walking to seek help — before the injuries and the shock got the better of me, and laid me to the ground.

There’ve been a handful of mysteries about this accident I haven’t been able to solve. One of them is that my bike and my body landed in two different directions, a good distance away from one another. Based on where my bike was found, and where my body was found, that would suggest that on impact, we had completely different trajectories. I’m not sure how likely that is. However, if I did get up and walk, even for for a few seconds, it might explain why my body was found to the side of the road in the dirt, while my bike was found in the bike lane, in a different direction. I don’t know.

I’ve said from the beginning that this accident changed me — that from the time I woke up in the hospital my priorities seemed immediately different. I love differently now, and that includes everyone I love, and every thing. I empathize more now, and in ways I’m certain I didn’t before the accident. I see God differently now too, and I communicate with him more openly and more frequently. I feel fortunate to be alive, in a way I’ve never felt before. I think about death differently too — I’m less afraid of it. I feel I’ve really been given a second chance to get things right with my life.

When I rewind the tape in my head, and watch it now in slow motion, I think I was closer to death than I realized immediately after the accident. I didn’t see God. I didn’t see the bright lights people speak of in near-death experiences, or see myself from above. I do think, though, I experienced a moment where it could’ve gone either way — where I could have died, but just wasn’t ready. Maybe I realized that my work here isn’t done yet — that I didn’t love enough, that I didn’t give enough, and that I didn’t do enough for others.

Whether this memory of me walking a few steps after I was struck is real or was just a dream, I’ll never know. What I do know, is I was given a second chance to be a better person. That’s a challenge I’m afraid I might not be able to fulfill, but I feel is my highest priority. So each morning, I look at the pictures of me in the hospital — immediately after the accident. I was covered with blood, bandaged, and broken, with electrodes all over my body. I remind myself how close I came to death.

Looking at those pictures each morning, of my broken and bloody body, is an exercise that’s now part of my daily routine. After doing it, walking out the front door, stepping into the world, and being a better person doesn’t seem so hard — at least for now…

rc

Hi there! Roy Cohen is facing a tough time after a serious accident that left him with multiple injuries and long-term nerve damage. He’s trying to raise funds to cover medical bills, living expenses, and the cost of having his missing teeth replaced. If you can, please consider donating or sharing his GoFundMe link to help him during this challenging period. Thank you! Please help if you can…

As a species, human beings have turned aurochs into cows, wolves into Chihuahuas, and maze into Coca-Cola. We’ve turned forests into housing tracts, burned holes in the ozone, and a blown up entire cities because we wanted to teach a handful of generals a serious lesson. When I think about AI, it doesn’t scare me much — I mean, in comparison to human leadership.

AI will probably contribute more to solving the climate crisis than human beings have, to this point anyway. It’s likely that AI will find cures for diseases that exhausted researchers might be prone to overlook. AI has the potential to find answers to many of the problems that confront us, and at speeds human beings are incapable of.

AI might level the justice system a little more evenly, and give our political structure a fighting chance. AI will very likely be a better bookkeeper than The United States Office Of Budget Management. And the most likely solutions to the immigration problems around the world, are going to be silicon-based. AI might even write the greatest American novel, yet.

When it comes to solving the hunger problem, issues with poverty, and homelessness, I think AI is better equipped to find legitimate solutions than gridlocked elected humans who forgot who they work for are. When I consider a fair distribution of wealth, based on merit, I think AI will conceive a better system than a handful of fat cats sitting around a boardroom table, in a hurry to get home to their Courvoisier.

So when I think about AI, and its potential for disastrous results, I give it a pass until it proves me wrong. I’m not sure it’ll do much worse than its human predecessors have up to this point. And if your argument is that AI is going to enslave us all, and make our lives worse, isn’t that where we’re already headed…? I’m willing to take that risk — for now anyway…

rc

I was in upper elementary school when it happened — either the 5th or 6th grade, but I don’t remember precisely. I just remember that, under pressure from my mother, and a lot of begging and false promises from me, my father caved one day, and agreed to let me have a television in my bedroom. This was the early 1970s, when television was considered by many parents an extension of the devil. As far back as I can remember, my father used derogatory terms when referring to television — the boob tube, the idiot box, the smellavision, and more.

I finally won, though, and the black and white television from our kitchen, a Panasonic with a 10-inch screen, would find a new home on one of the two dressers beside my bed. The rules my father established were simple…

1) I couldn’t turn the television on until my homework was done for the day.

2) I had to ask permission to turn it on.

3) Under no circumstances, could I go to sleep with the television still on.

The little television in my room, which had push-button controls to change the channel, and a sliding knob to adjust the volume, also had an earphone jack. I had a single earphone from an AM/FM radio that was compatible with the television. After my folks tucked me in at night, I’d put some laundry over the crack between the bottom of my bedroom door and the floor, so no light could escape, plugged the earphone into my television, and rule #3 be damned, I began going to sleep with the television on.

That television as an escape portal from the reality of living in an uptight home, with my parents constantly teetering on the edge of divorce. There were Star Trek reruns, the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, and on the weekends, there was Monty Python. It didn’t really matter what was on — it was an escape from the noise outside my bedroom, and the noise inside my head. And that’s how I’ve gone to bed for most of my life — to the glow of the devil in the box.

For 50+ years, my television has been a nightlight, a companion, entertainment, and a security blanket. By my late teens, it was so ingrained in me to sleep with the television on, that if I found myself staying at a friend’s house or with relatives, and I didn’t have access to a television in whatever bedroom I was in, I was usually restless, and struggled through the night. I had convinced myself that television was an essential component to a good night’s rest.

Something happened, though, not long after I got out of the rehabilitation hospital this past February. Due to a combination of pure physical fatigue from my accident, and possibly the medications I was taking to dull my nerve pain, I had a hard time concentrating on the television when I got into bed at night — it even became annoying. One evening, rather than click on the television as I normally had, I just curled up into a little ball under my covers, and went to sleep with my imagination — something I hadn’t done since I was 10-years old. As drowsiness took hold, the free association in my mind jumped into action, but those thoughts were fleeting and only stayed with me for moments at a time. I fell asleep that evening, in short order, comfortably numb, and haven’t clicked on my television at night since.

As recently as 60-days ago, I could have never imagined going to sleep without the idiot box on, and bending my brain to its will. Two months later, the the urge to click on the television when I crawl into bed hasn’t been felt. I’ve come to enjoy curling up in that little ball, letting my thoughts bounce around like balls in a bingo hopper until they settle down, my breathing gets deeper, and I fall asleep without without the aid of Netflix, The Daily Show, or McHale’s Navy reruns. I can’t imagine ever going back to television while I fall asleep.

When I reflect on the difference between going to sleep with the television on, and going to sleep with it off, I think it comes down to one thing — my active brain. Falling asleep with the television on, my thoughts have always been channeled to the sights and sounds that came from the television. It prevented my mind from being excessively active, which, even as a child, had a tendency to keep me up at night.

Going to sleep now, with my active brain jumping from thought to thought, and often times my imagination running wild, I’ve learned that it doesn’t last long. Eventually, the thoughts slow down, and quit forming altogether. I get a little numb in the transition between being awake and being asleep. I don’t remember that sensation as a child, but maybe I never gave it a chance.

As far as the quality of my sleep goes, I honestly can’t feel much of a difference between sleeping with the television on and not. Maybe the only thing I can say in favor of going to sleep without the television, is that it just seems to make more sense, and is more organic. In today’s technically driven world, where everything is hustle-bustle, and speed of implementation is everything, I think I need more things that makes sense and are organic in my life. I’ll let it begin with my sleep, and see how that goes…

rc

Hi there! Roy Cohen is facing a tough time after a serious accident that left him with multiple injuries and long-term nerve damage. He’s trying to raise funds to cover medical bills, living expenses, and the cost of having his missing teeth replaced. If you can, please consider donating or sharing his GoFundMe link to help him during this challenging period. Thank you! Please help if you can. Thank you…

He wakes up daily at 4:30am each morning and walks on his treadmill for 30-minutes, followed by 20-minutes of strength training. He eats mostly raw foods, and does so scarcely. He reads more than he watches television, he still drives, and loves gardening. When asked about his secret to longevity, he refers mostly to his healthy eating, his daily exercise, and points the woman beside him.

Somewhere in the south there’s a woman — she’s 102 years old. Despite her success and longevity, she’s not very active, though she never considers this.

She wakes up daily at 4:30am and immediately clicks on the television to watch, from her recliner, for the next 14-hours. She enjoys a sticky-bun and a Dr. Pepper for breakfast, followed by a small glass of whiskey that she’ll nurse throughout morning. She never married, doesn’t talk much, and spends 15-hours of her day watching FOX News, The Price Is Right, and The Voice. When asked about her secret to longevity, she refers mostly to the Dr. Pepper, the whiskey, and that no man stuck around long enough to complicate her life.

Of course, these are just characters born of my imagination, but they likely represent someone you know, know of, or have read about.

I exercise because first and foremost because it provides me mental clarity that I can get from the other source. Daily exercise has been the methadone of my existence for most of my life, and it keeps me from killing people.

Perhaps my daily workout puts me in better field position than most, to live a longer and more active life. Perhaps too, it’s a huge waste of time, and an episode of the latest series on Netflix that I will miss.

Ultimately, I know each day is both a gift, and a throw of the dice — that the old woman with the whiskey in one hand, and the remote control in the other, may outlive me by decades. As far as quality of life goes, though, I think regular physical movement lens itself to a better life overall…

rc

I’ve spent a majority of my adult life being a barefoot guy. I’ve been fortunate to be self-employed, and in an environment where I’m not required to wear shoes. My feet just feel better when I’m barefoot. I also think having my feet connected directly to the ground enhances my human experience. This is called grounding — not wearing shoes, to better connect with the Earth, and the impulses, electrical and otherwise, which come from the ground to stimulate the mind and the body.

Of course I’ve worn shoes when I go into public places — markets, restaurants, and stores, but otherwise, I prefer my feet to touch the ground directly. Very often, when I walk between public places, like city streets, I’ll slip my shoes off and carry them until they’re needed again. When I visit an airport, for example, I carry my shoes right up until I board the plane. FAA regulations require that all airline passengers wear shoes. It’s never long though, before I kick them off, and push my under the seat so I can be more comfortable, and where the sky waitresses won’t see them.

In my accident, there was significant damage done to both of my feet, including two fractured ankles, some cracked metatarsal bones, and a lot of bruises, road rash, and swelling. After the accident, I was bedbound or in a wheelchair for nearly 2-months. When I transitioned from the wheelchair to a walker, I realized being barefoot wouldn’t be an option. My feet were so damaged from the accident that the shoes I had at that time, standard athletic shoes, were too small to fit over my swollen feet. I ordered a cheap pair of shoes online, one size larger than I normally wear. They were black, with Velcro straps to fasten them. I figured these would be transitional, until the swelling in my feet went down, and I could wear my regular athletic shoes once again.

The first order of business, when I received my new shoes, was to cut out one small section below the ankle of the left shoe. This is where surgery had been done to reattach my fibula to my ankle. The shoe pressing against the stitched wound was prohibitive, so I cut out a small section, and sealed the seam with medical tape, which was readily available in the hospital. These would be the shoes I’d wear for the remainder of my time in the hospital while learning to walk again. Using a walker, and wearing black shoes with velcro straps, I felt and looked much like my father when he was in assisted living — in his 80s.

When I returned home, I was still using the walker, but would eventually transition to a cane. During this time, my ankles began to develop a sensitivity to the increased walking load. I bought a pair of high-top shoes to give my ankles better support. The high-tops performed poorly, though, and within a couple of days I went back to the black shoes with the Velcro straps. After a few weeks, I attempted to transition to my previous athletic shoes, but they still wouldn’t fit over my swollen feet. The black shoes with the Velcro straps would continue.

One morning, it occurred to me that since I wasn’t leaving my home for anything other than medical appointments, I might get away with wearing comfortable slippers instead the black shoes with the Velcro straps. I bought some fleece-lined bedroom slippers, and wore those around the house. The slippers were comfortable, but walking in them was prohibitive — the bones of my right foot hurt in a way they didn’t with my black shoes with the Velcro straps.

As I began to get out of the house more — to the grocery store, restaurants, and eventually back to the gym, the stigma of wearing black shoes with Velcro straps ate away at my psyche. Each time I saw my reflection, I saw my father, in assisted living, looking back at me. Though the black shoes with the Velcro straps were comfortable, and did their job better than any of the others, I looked like I belonged on the short bus. White shoes, I figured, with Velcro straps would be an upgrade. However, the black shoes I was wearing were only available in black. I found some white shoes with Velcro straps that looked similar to my black shoes, and purchased them. Within just a handful of steps, though, I could feel they weren’t the same as the black shoes — they were heavier and not as comfortable.

I now had to admit that the black shoes with the Velcro straps were not only my best option, but probably the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn. It was time to put necessity over ego and accept that, until I can transition to being barefoot again, the black shoes with the Velcro straps are going to be my best option, and possibly my best friend. So I’m now in a committed relationship with my black shoes with the Velcro straps. They feel so good when I walk that I can’t even imagine being barefoot again, though I hope to get there someday.

I’m in my mid-60s. With my lifestyle choices, and the injuries that seem to follow those choices, assisted living may be right around the corner for me. I hope that’s not the case, but if it is, fitting in won’t be difficult. I already have hair growing out of my ears and my nostrils at a ridiculous pace. My stomach can no longer handle spicy foods. In a couple weeks, I’m going to have the remainder of my teeth extracted, and get permanent dentures. And now, I have the appropriate footwear to be old in. Come to think of it, with the right meal plan, perhaps assisted-living might be a good option for me now. There’s a nice veterans home in Boulder City Nevada. I think when I’m done writing this, I’m going to call and get on the waitlist. Hey, by the time they call me, I’ll probably have rheumatism and bladder issues. The timing couldn’t be better…

rc

Hi there! Roy Cohen is facing a tough time after a serious accident that left him with multiple injuries and long-term nerve damage. He’s trying to raise funds to cover medical bills, living expenses, and the cost of having his missing teeth replaced. If you can, please consider donating or sharing his GoFundMe link to help him during this challenging period. Thank you! Please help if you can…

Though I’m an inherent observer of all things human nature, I try hard to leave it behind when I’m in the gym. I’m in there for me. I may notice people doing things incorrectly, or even doing them correctly, but I never engage them one way or the other. I’m focused on my own fitness. Besides, most people wouldn’t want my opinion of their workout, even if I offered it to them for free.

I’d say a good 50% of people in any gym, at any time, believe they know more about exercise and fitness than anyone else there. Watch two people working out together, whether they’re beginners or advanced, and one of them is always in a leadership role. You can see it in the way they stand stand, move, and talk. Often, they’re helpful to their workout partner in that regard. More often, though, they provide bad information, and worse coaching.

This played out last night, in real time, in the corner of the gym where the rowing machine is located. A bald man, somewhat athletic looking, probably in his mid-70s, with knee-high white socks, and a formfitting white t-shirt, was offering instruction on the rowing machine to a woman. For her part, the woman looked to be his age, and was anything but athletic looking. She was dressed in dark blue baggy shorts, and a lighter blue baggy t-shirt. The man had just completed using the rowing machine, at a vigorous pace, and was cleaning it for the next user, which was the woman in the blue shorts.

After she began, the man stuck around to watch her. Within just a minute or so, he began correcting her form — to a point where she had to stop and just listen. He then gestured for her to get off the machine so he could get demonstrate proper form to her. That’s when his voice became loud and authoritative — his inner fitness trainer had been released. He spent a solid 10-minutes explaining to the woman how to use the machine before he allowed her to step back on. It would be another 10-minutes or so, before she would complete more than a single stride on the machine without the man’s interruption. All along, the man’s voice grew louder and more authoritative — to a point where everyone in the gym was looking in their direction.

Eventually, the man gestured for her to get off the machine once again, while he re-took his place to demonstrate. I did my best to focus on my own workout, but couldn’t help but glance in their direction each time his voice got louder. At some point, I could see that the woman wanted out of the situation, but didn’t know how to shut the guy down. She just nodded a lot, and pretended to look interested, while he explained things in quasi-physiological terms. Most of what he said, relating to physiology, lay somewhere between far-fetched and cockamamie. Eventually, the man walked away, and the woman rowed steadily for 20-minutes or so, completely disregarding his advice. She was correct to do that, because his advice was inconsistent with her well-being.

The woman and I left the gym at the same time. As I held the door for her, I introduced myself, explained what I do for a living, and told her if she ever needed any help or advice I’d be glad to assist her, and do so in a way that would make it relatable and understandable for her. I took it one step too far though, when I explained she’d be better off listening to me, than the uptight douchebag that was trying to teach her to use the rowing machine.

“That uptight douche bag” she said, “is my husband…“

Whoops.

There’s a lot of ways I could’ve gone with this. I could’ve been humble, I could’ve been apologetic, and I could’ve been contrite, but I simply looked at her and said…

Well, I hope he’s a better husband than he is a fitness trainer.

“He is” she said, followed by…

“He’s a retired pilot, and pilots think they know everything.…“

Prior to my career as a fitness trainer, I was an analyst in the pilot planning department for America West Airlines. And I chewed heavily two things for the rest of the evening…

This woman was absolutely right about pilots — like doctors, they think they know everything. Also, that she’s got to be an incredibly patient person to be married to that douchebag…

rc

Hi there! Roy Cohen is facing a tough time after a serious accident that left him with multiple injuries and long-term nerve damage. He’s trying to raise funds to cover medical bills, living expenses, and the cost of having his missing teeth replaced. If you can, please consider donating or sharing his GoFundMe link to help him during this challenging period. Thank you! Please help if you can…

With a lesser physicality, everyday chores are more difficult now, but I can do most anything I need to around the house and yard. Anything that calls for me to be on my feet for any length of time requires intermittent periods of rest. Aside from that, I feel capable. As of yet, I’m not able to squat all the to the floor and get back up again, but I hope to regain that skill before the year closes out. It’s really the only goal I have remaining.

If these limitations never improve, I’m good with it. I’m able do much more than I would have imagined when I was in the hospital, and using a wheelchair. The memory of spending months in bed in unyielding pain give me context each day for what I’m now able to do. There are also permanent scars on my forehead, my hands, my legs, and my feet, but I don’t find them unattractive. They are a daily reminder of how lucky I am — they are my survivor scars.

I ride a stationary bike each morning for 30-minutes, and at a rigorous pace. Riding a stationary bike isn’t as joyful as being on a bike out on the road, but the mental clarity I get from it, and the fitness I receive, is just as good — perhaps better. And I don’t need to wear a helmet on the stationary bike. If I fall off, I’ll just cover my head and hope that nobody was looking — because who falls off a stationary bike…🤷‍♂️? Yeah, I know, probably me.

I’ve also returned to strength training, though I can only use machines, and only perform exercises that are seated or lying down. Free weights, squats and deadlifts in particular, are out of the question for now, and probably for the long-term. I’m happy with what I can do, though. As a fitness professional, I enjoy demonstrating to anyone paying attention that using just machines, when done correctly, can help me recover and maintain the muscle mass and strength I left behind being hospitalized for two months.

I haven’t gone back to work yet, and I’m still contemplating how that’s going to take place. My inability to stand for long periods of time, and change heavy weights for my clients, may be prohibitive, but I won’t know until I try. I’m planning on returning to work, two days per week, in early May. It’s reasonable to expect that a typical workday might help me regain more of my lost physicality. Above all things, this experience has reminded me that I’m a fitness trainer, that I love what I do, and that I’m good at it.

I’ve put all my bikes up for sale, and all my related tools and gear. I won’t get on a road bike again, so there’s no use keeping memories around of what used to be. I’ll remain grateful for the experiences I had on my daily rides, as well as my touring through the states. It’ll be nice to have a little extra space in the garage, and regain all the time I spent performing bicycle maintenance each week. I consider this a win.

When I see cyclists on the road now, I occasionally find myself jealous, but more so, I’m happy for them. I always smile as I pass cyclists, and I’m cautious to change lanes, and alllow them some extra space when possible. As I drive past cyclists, I always say a silent prayer for their safety. It does my heart good to see people enjoying an activity which brought so much joy to my life for so many years.

I take two medication’s to control the nerve pain in my right leg and foot — Cymbalta and gabapentin. They’ve both been helpful, but there’s no question that they slow me down, limit my motivation, and make me lazy. It’s my intention to cycle off of both medications over the next 4 to 6 weeks. I’m hopeful the pain in my right leg won’t increase as a result of coming off of them. It may be that the fatigue I feel standing up for long periods of time is more the result of those medication’s than from my injuries.

I’ll spend the coming weeks trying to establish a plan to carry me through these next few years. It’s probably going to be some combination of part-time work with clients in Fallbrook, and fitness consulting online. I like reinventing myself every so often, and this is a good opportunity to do that. As my friend Doug recently said to me, crisis equals opportunity, and I intend to fulfill the opportunities that come my way.

I can’t say this is going to be Roy 2.0, because I’ve already been there. A lot like Microsoft Windows, there’s just an upgrade every few years. I’m hoping Roy26 is going to be more user-friendly than past versions, easier to navigate, and installed on everyone’s laptop or smartphone…

rc

Hi there! Roy Cohen is facing a tough time after a serious accident that left him with multiple injuries and long-term nerve damage. He’s trying to raise funds to cover medical bills and living expenses until he’s able to return to work. If you can, please consider donating or sharing his GoFundMe link to help him during this challenging period. Thank you! Please help if you can…

Let’s face it, I haven’t always been the upstanding guy I am now. I’ve used some potty words. I lied to my parents a lot when I was a kid. I shoplifted candy bars in elementary school too, but those aren’t things you go to Hell for — I hope. I’ve also done things I regret — things that could be considered textbook sins by any religious doctrine. I’ve done things I’m truly ashamed of — things that hurt others. I can’t say I’ve broken all the commandments, but I’ve busted a handful. And if I’m being honest, at least nine out of the ten commandments have been on my radar since my teens. And if it wasn’t for the idea of Hell, I’d probably be wearing an I Broke The Ten Commandments t-shirt.

Oh Father…

I think about this all the time too — that if an adult child of mine lived an immoral life, took from others without giving back, or was guilty of crimes, violent or otherwise, I’d be disappointed, and perhaps even angry. I might even go so far as to turn my back on that child. Never, though, would I feel it my place to punish that child for all eternity. I’d simply voice my disapproval, and assure that child I’d be there in the future to help with making better decisions, regardless of mistakes made in the past. That, in my opinion, is what a good parent does. And that’s why I don’t believe in hell.

Look, I’m as unsure as anyone that God exists. God is unknowable from an earthly perspective. In the Christian, Jewish, and Islamic faiths, God is often referred to as our father. Some religious texts suggest God made us in his own image — perhaps there’s some truth to that. My daughter looks a lot like me, so maybe God and I have the same forehead, I dunno…🤷‍♂️. However, if God is the father of humanity, and made us in his own image, we probably have a lot of his tendencies, and he probably has a lot of ours. And I keep going back to this, over and over…

If God created me in his own image, and if I know I would always be there for my child, regardless of his or her trespasses, it makes sense that God would always be there for me. And even if he wouldn’t always be there for me, I can’t imagine a scenario in which he’d allow me to be punished, relentlessly and eternally, with fire and torture, in an attempt to teach me a lesson I’d never be capable of applying.

Eternity is a long time to hold a grudge against someone for making a mistake, or hundreds of mistakes. If a child of mine were guilty of any of those, I’d be shocked, angry, and again, might even turn my back on them, but I would never condemn them to punishment and fire for all eternity, so why would God…?

Whether God, Heaven, or Hell exist to me, matters less than the idea that our species evolved, both biologically and culturally, to believe they exist — that’s what keeps us in the moral middle ground. In an eye-for-an-eye world, there’s something profoundly out of balance with eternity in hell for even the most unspeakable trespasses.

So, if the God I believe in is capable of sending me to eternity, with pain and fire, and never gives me a chance to learn from that experience and apply it to future behaviors, perhaps it’s time I find a new God. That, or hope there’s also a place called Heck — a lighter version of Hell, for sinners just like me.

rc

Hi there! Roy Cohen is facing a tough time after a serious accident that left him with multiple injuries and long-term nerve damage. He’s trying to raise funds to cover medical bills and living expenses while he recovers and waits for a settlement. If you can, please consider donating or sharing his GoFundMe link to help him during this challenging period. Thank you! Please help if you can…