What terrifies Republicans... or should.

I was sitting at work (back up a second here, I moved to New York and took a new job at a new company in anticipation of my significant other going to Columbia this spring) and bantering with some younger colleagues.

Then a couple of more senior people sat down. And we got to talking, generally about benign things such as sports and light gossip. Then it got political. Taxes. And of course the old guys are upset about how the government pilfers their hard earned income. And they turned to us younger folks and asked why we weren't more distressed about the big, bad, evil government trying to take our money away. And I responded. And they didn't like it.

In 2004 an American author named Joseph Pine delivered a Ted Talk that hit the nail on the head for me. Pine broke down the progression of our economy from a commodities based marketplace, to a goods based one (think farming to manufacturing). That led to the services based economy (think latter half of the twentieth century, baby boomer positions of prestige: lawyers, accountants, therapists, etc.).

Then he brings us right to the cusp of where we are now: the conversion to an experiential economy. People, slowly but surely, are becoming less obsessed with the idea of accumulating goods and more interested in spending their capital on new experiences. That is to say, periods of time that will be remembered fondly and do not leave you with any tangible evidence you undertook such activity, simply your memory. Or some heinous gut-rot after an ocean cruise.

A great example of this is Angry Birds. The Finnish software maker Rovio truly doesn't have any physical product.  They sell an experience for 99 cents on the mobile device marketplace. They literally sell you the experience of playing a game, nothing more. It's not a good because it has no physical form. It's not a service because functionally it does nothing other than distract you and silence bored children. And all you're left with is the memory of three-starring a level you've been hammering on for two days.

This trend in the economy isn't isolated to games and vacations either. Young people, especially hardened Generation Y and Z (arbitrarily pinning that on those born after 1985 or so but earlier as well), are becoming less interested in the pursuit of massive wealth.

Soon, gone may be the days of owning a cabin, jet skis, motorcycles, etc. Why buy the headache of all that when all you really want is the experience. Rent a motorcycle. The best part is, if you don't like it, return it to its owner. If you're still in one piece.

If you hear that hissing sound in the background, you're not alone. It's the Baby Boomers trying to impart a sense of wisdom... owning is better! The concept of ownership bringing forth equity and therefore a higher net wealth has been the underpinning of the Baby Boomer economy for years. Look at all the stuff they have accumulated. Massive suburban houses, massive suburban vehicles, furniture that goes unused in rooms rarely occupied in these houses, televisions, boats, oh god I'm having a panic attack writing this.

Young people today can survive on a set of clothes, a laptop, and a modicum of dishes and furniture. That's about it. Why? We're more interested in spending our time having good experiences. Travel, food and wine, having friends over, going to art galleries, seeing new films, concerts, all of this doesn't actually have substance (well the wine and food perhaps, but they consumed anyway).

If you're still reading, my sincerest thanks. I get to my point right about now.

This experiential economy is transferring to the workplace for young people now. Salary is not about who dies with the most wins, salary is about being able to experience new things and live in relative comfort (and comfort, by the way, doesn't mean a 3,000 square foot home, it means a shorter commute to save more time for experience).

And your experience at work matters now too. Companies that seem to get it are going to extraordinary lengths (by Boomer definition) to accommodate. Bring your dog to work, cereal and ping pong in the break room, jeans on Friday, hell jeans everyday, incrementally increasing PTO, etc. It all adds up.

Okay, says the Boomer. I can deal with smelly dogs in the office. Maybe, but I know what you can't deal with and it's driving you insane to watch your children recklessly disregard it: giving your life over to work. We won't do it. The experience we feel entitled to in this life is worth too much to live at the office. And if we don't get ahead because of it, well so be it. We'll find other ways to get our experience. Boomers hate this. They have been disarmed of their one motivational tool: money. Or as I like to call it, greed.

Call me crazy but I just don't see the younger generation as a greedy one. Our needs are largely met by the agency we have on facebook, where everyone is equal, whether you're a kid in India, Zambia, or Germany, we all have the same tools to represent ourselves and be heard. We don't need a Chevy Suburban and a perfectly manicured lawn to fill the deep hole in our soul left by materialistic society and prove to someone else we're awesome.

And that's why employers are paying billions of dollars to the Republicans to repeal the Affordable Care Act. ACA represents the first step away from employer-based healthcare. It's once again stripping the old white guys of one of their most treasured instruments to keep unhappy people in their seat at work.

My only message to Republicans is this: let it go, your relevance is waning anyway. And take comfort, so is the Democrats'. This isn't about partisanship anymore, it's about a painful generational transition that's taking place where the very language of one generation isn't shared by the other.

More to come.

Hot Jazz... and a Funky Butt?

A norm-challenging moment is a terrible thing to waste. No one understands this more than Jeanne Calvit, Dario Tangelson, and Aaron Gabriel.

I took my seat Friday night at The Lab Theater (formerly the Guthrie's lab space) not sure what to expect. The enormous space was hazy with an overworked smoke machine chugging along in the corner. Characters were sprinkled across the barely lit stage quietly waiting for the audience to materialize.

Stacked boxes, beds, dressers, and other sundry items were stacked in two large piles flanking the stage. It looked as if Katrina had just visited.

Written by Jeanne Calvit and Dario Tangelson in 2005, "Hot Jazz at da Funky Butt" centers on a small group of principal folk-lorish heroes of Jazz during turn-of-the-century New Orleans.

James Europe (Reginald D. Haney) is a foxtrotting band leader of the time who falls to the mercy of the intoxicating sound of an unseen Buddy Bolden's new sound... the sound of Jazz! With a voodoo priestess, Marie Laveau (Zena Moses), sprinkling her sorcery on Europe and the people of New Orleans the main tension of the show resides in the resistance of the period's white culture to the new sound, and even more pointedly, heavy recalcitrance to civil rights for the black people.

While there is a weaker love story woven into the greater plot, it's challenging to grasp onto a focus of the plot. But there's good reason for that.

"Hot Jazz" is produced by Interact Theater. Their mission is to be "radically inclusive." The troupe's members are individuals with disabilities that vary in degree but in no way are allowed to inhibit each member from becoming a full and engaged contributor to the artistic process.

With a handful of the cast comprised of local actors and a transplanted Rue Fiya (a New Orleans R&B group) in concert, the vast majority of the fifty or so person cast are members of Interact Theater's troupe.

On-stage the result is an almost overwhelming exercise in social justice. While the story addresses racial tension (often with music as the vehicle) with confidence and self-awareness, audience members simply cannot deny the additional dynamic of having person with disabilities deliver this story.

Music and lyrics were written by a very competent Aaron Gabriel. The majority of musical performances have over twenty actors working in cohesion to provide viewers no excuses for disinterest. Transitions between scenes are often painted with extremely active street scenes that might fool even a native New Orleaner.

As I got up from my seat I realized that not only had I witnessed a piece of musical and cultural history, Interact Theater made history with another demonstration of their radical inclusion.

The show's run ends May 21. Tickets are still available.

Cosi fan What?

One of the hidden gems of Minneapolis lay not in the big name theaters (sorry, theatres) like the Guthrie or the Minnesota Opera, it rests with the small ones, the ones still willing to take real chances.

Last Friday I went online at the behest of my friend who happens to be the assistant director for a local theatre company's performance of Mozart's Cosi fan Tutte (roughly translated--Woman are Just That Way) and purchased tickets.

To be honest, hoping he's not reading this, I had a moment where I cringed. Oh god, I thought, another experimental theatre performance where my ass goes numb and my neck hurts keeping my head upright.

What the Dead Composers Society has done with this reliable operatic standby was astonishing even to people like me, who own no more than jeans, t-shirts, and hoodies in his weekend wardrobe.

The premise is simple and the story starts like so many great stories do: scheming men (read: boys). Guglielmo (Ben Henry-Moreland) and Ferrando (John deCausemeaker) take the bait on a wager with their single side-kick Don Alfonso (Scott Sandersfeld): we'll disguise ourselves and test the fidelity of our respective female companions. If we're wrong, woman are vindicated. If we do convince them to commit an act of infidelity, then you're right, Don Alfonso, all woman are the same.

The two woman completing the love square are Fiordiligi (Kristin Newbegin) and Dorabella (Meredith Cain-Nielsen). They are accompanied by Don Alfonso's counterpart, Despina (Sarah Gibson), a maid who has no more faith in the female race than she does of her own loyalties.

Guglielmo and Ferrando feign being drafted into battle, leave in an emotional thunderstorm only to return in disguise a short time later. Ferrando, returning disguised a la Garth from Wayne's World and Guglielmo returning resembling some approximation of Brendan Fraser in Encino Man make prey of each other's love interest.

Needless to say, Mozart wasn't directly copying Shakespeare and Shakespeare was probably copying someone who didn't matter anyway. Chaos and delight ensue. I'll spare the spoiler. It was written in 1790, something tells me the cat's out of the bag.

What makes this performance so watchable to someone like me was surely the bedrock of solid singing and musical accompaniment but even more so, the stripped away, no frills, raw staging. Held in the basement of St. Paul's Episcopal Church on Lake of the Isles, it was clear more Alcoholics Anonymous meetings probably take place there than operas.

There was no lighting other than one individual at the back of the sparsely populated audience who turned the lights on and off to single beginnings and ends. And it was all florescent. Again, my thoughts upon first sitting went right to a numb ass. Not so.

The singing was spot on, and while conventionally it's believed opera singers struggle with acting (a direct consequence of focusing on singing and not acting) I have to say an incredibly capable Sarah Gibson makes the show extremely watchable bringing nuance and character to an arguably cob-webbed storyline.

Tickets are still available and it would be a shame to miss Robert Neu's work on the side of his professional demands at the Minnesota Orchestra.

When the Doctor Stops Listening

I have a small confession. Franky it's not a confession but a disclosure. Maybe even a disclaimer. I suffer from an ailment that has no symptoms other than the unreasonable absence of symptoms. For those of you who have already caught on, you know it's probably one of the more torturous challenges you've encountered on your journey thus far. It's called hypochondria. Or as the culturally sensitive put it "health anxiety."

I've always battled anxiety. While most people just say "Suck it up cupcake" and be on with your day, for some it cripples their ability to get through the day and plagues their relationships. It takes several forms but the common thread is really excessive worry. There are a host of physical symptoms that accompany anxiety and because this is not WebMD I will not elaborate.

Hypochondria has been an episodic companion throughout my personal growth. It's not a welcome companion, but fiercely loyal when it's there. I can remember in ninth grade having a panic attack that caused me to hyper-ventilate in the car ride to the airport. We were literally in the departures lane when I asked my friend's parents to call an ambulance. My whole body was numb. Let's just say I haven't been back to Tampa's airport since.

When the paramedic took my vitals, she knew exactly what was going on. She looked at me and told me I was having a panic attack. Shame and embarrassment washed over me. Here I was, a fifteen year-old punk who drew the attention of hundreds of travelers all for what could have been averted with a f**king paper bag and a stern adult presence.

I remember the flight back home was still treacherous.

That was thirteen years ago. I remember it with vivid detail though, just like anyone who endures traumatic moments. What's funny is that it shouldn't have been traumatic at all. It shouldn't have happened at all if it weren't for a chemical mishap in my brain. I still feel ashamed thinking about the drain I was on everyone's time, patience, and care.

Through the years I self-diagnosed myself with many ailments. I have recovered completely from each without medication or surgery. Gum recession, Lyme's Disease, even colon cancer for Christ's sake. The one thing I cannot seem to recover from is the re-occurrence of hypochondrical thoughts.

The obsession has reached a cross roads. I have started to be concerned that others around are becoming sick with terminal illnesses. Consequently, it is again plaguing my relationships, testing people's patience, and stretching the limit if what was a charming idiosyncratic tic of mine. I've spent numerous hours researching the matter and come to several conclusions, at least preliminarily, and some solutions perhaps.

Please note that at this point this was kind of a neurotic biography perhaps for amusement if anything. What's below is really a boot camp of sorts, and marked with sheer practicality.

First, the internet is a hideous library of information. If you have a suspicion, you can confirm just about anything (I think I managed to diagnose myself with uterine cancer once). I adopted a "no cyberchondria" rule. If it's freaking me out enough, I need to consider a doctor's visit.

Second, hypochondria, for me, is about reassurance. A $20 co-pay at an urgent care can generally let me sleep at night knowing that my eczema is not morphing into skin cancer. Here I would consult the internet for reassurance but alas, that only made things worse. Logic is really my best ally to this point and I cannot keep taxing the healthcare system with unnecessary visits. I AM the healthcare problem.

Third, no one cares after you punch the terror card enough times. Or in other words, read "the Boy Who Cried Wolf." Patrick Stewart has a lovely narration on LP out there somewhere. Usually after meeting someone new you can freak out about something once before they stop caring. Solution: don't freak out. Call your therapist instead and promise yourself you won't see the doctor until you've made an appointment to talk with your therapist.

Fourth, those who love you most will eventually lose their tolerance for it. Again, make your therapist the one who you channel this stuff to. They get paid to listen to your inner crazy.

Fifth, while I have discovered that cognitive (behavioral) therapy is very effective, anti-depressants can be as well. I don't trust many drug makers today especially regarding psycho-tropic pharmaceuticals. I don't take them. I heavily rely on vitamin B and D along with a regular regimen of exercise and yoga. Real medication will give you cancer in my opinion (kidding).

Sixth, and finally, while there are many nights I lay awake considering the new possibilities of my death by terminal illness, one of the most powerful tools against it has been humor. After realizing the sheer absurdity of what I am thinking, I start to laugh.

We're all going to die. That's probably the only certainty in life and I take a strange, perverted sense of comfort in that. Then again, maybe I'll contract an illness that makes me live forever. How poetic would that be... you get to love forever, but with hypochondria.

On The Merits of Business School

In college I befriended the dean of students. It was mainly a way to ensure I got a quote for a column in a snap, but soon turned into less a political relationship and more a intellectually spiritual one.

The dean I speak of unfortunately left the school over a year or two ago citing (very quietly--if at all) political changes at the institution too cumbersome (and idiotic, if you ask me) to overcome. I realized after reading about the episode that higher education is just as susceptible to the fallacies of human organization as say, for-profit constructs are.

I know what you're thinking... no $hit Sherlock. Forgive my connotation of being naive. I'm not, I just didn't realize the depth of pettiness in the administration (I know professors are like a bunch of fourteen year-olds vying for the attention of Justin Bieber--err--The New England Journal of Whatever).

The point I'm making is that I think at their core schools are companies providing a service. And they have serious customer service and value proposition challenges ahead of them. The graduate school I just withdrew from is a very large Catholic institution in the Twin Cities (I was seeking a business masters). I went to a small Lutheran school for my undergraduate degree.

For the sake of financial comparison, just consider the recent funding initiative at the Catholic school. They received an anonymous $25 Million matching program grant. They have almost completed fulfilling it and achieving the $50 Million in fund-raising. At last count their endowment was in the $400-$750 Million range. That extra $50 Million cherry is literally the size of my undergraduate institution's entire endowment.

Kudos to the Catholic school for cranking out countless local business leaders. Bad on my old college for producing a disproportionate number of nurses, teachers, and ministers. They're nearing broke every year with just a pittance of donation activity.

Here's the funny part that seems to get me. There is little to no reasonable financial aid available to business graduate students at the Catholic school. My tuition was closing in on $2,500 a course. The expectation of course, is you work for one of the myriad Fortune 500 companies in Minnesota and they're paying for your tuition (or partially at least, as in my case).

If you are one of those students who is jobless or works for an organization that doesn't support your higher education goals, then you take loans in the HOPE that you will earn a higher wage later and pay it off. One aside note, word to the wise, networking opportunities in a part-time program are a joke. Who wants to get chatty after a nine hour work day and then staring down a three hour class?

Back to my argument... where is all the interest off the endowment going to? Why are the school's graduate programs still so tuition-driven? Simple answer, it costs stupid amounts of money to keep an educational institution operating, even nine months out of the year! Professors aren't even making that much. I don;t know how you reduce those costs. It's like the healthcare Rubik's cube.

New buildings, upgrades, renovations, new computer equipment, additional faculty to handle additional students, etc. all adds up. And that's the rub, that's the part that educational institutions are going to need to unlock the secrets of in the coming years: creating growth. These organizations are no different than any company, each year it needs to make its marks whether it be 1% or 10%. How do you grow an organization designed to sustain and only grow after the needs arise? Well, you jack tuition.

And in the case of business schools you can. And that frankly gets on my nerves because everyone is getting a tax deal. Especially given the incestuous relationships organizations like Target and the Carlson School of Management have.

This leads me to my final and last point: tax the ever-loving crap out of business school tuition at the institution's income statement level. It's simple, the money they earn is tax-sheltered from the companies aiding their student-employees (to the tune of $5,250 per student for reimbursing companies federally). The students, for their portion paid, get one of three tax-credits available to them.

You're probably thinking something along the lines of why? These are educational institutions and enjoy their 501(c) status with the IRS (tax-exempt). Well, yes, they are, but what do the business schools (I am isolating my argument to a graduate level) do other than act as a powerful source of easy-money for these institutions and crank out degrees that only enhance for-profit entities' employee experience bases and increase salary expenses? Graduate business schools make and beget money down the line. They are not, frankly, altruistic institutions in this regard. They are cash cows.

If business school graduate tuition were taxed as ordinary revenue for an educational institution, might an institution have to take into consideration offering more robust programs in the sciences and applied-liberal arts? Two areas where a dearth of graduates is making itself apparent (have you read an internal corporate email lately?).

It boils down to this: stop it with the business schools guys. You're diluting the workforce with people who aimlessly use buzzwords and find themselves at odds with the knowledge that has already been made extinct in the private market and it's creating salary pressure that is unsustainable for median-household and middle class growth.

Perhaps I'm barking up the wrong tree. They will probably just pass on the new taxes in the form of a tuition hike.

I Have No Excuses

It's last week in a dark, smoky, hookah bar in the lower East Side of Manhattan. I'm sitting around with a number of friends new and old. I quit smoking years ago but convinced myself smoking hookah may not necessarily lead me down the slippery slope of nicotine abuse. (It didn't--just exacerbated hangover).

Between pulls on the minty fruit-infused smoke machine and sips of strong Egyptian tea someone mentioned my writing. I laughed... that went away when I was reassigned duties in my company and all of sudden lost myself in the chasm between graduate school and an intense work. That was August of 2008.

Balance was only achieved for lack of wife, children, and home. Yes I laughed--thinking no one ever read this blog. Rather I fancied it a delusional outlet for my thoughts. At least the possibility of an audience kept me writing, while working at my desk in a dead-end IT project management position.

Imagine how I felt when people started talking about my blog, as if they actually read it! Then I started putting together the sporadic but clearly-intentioned comments from friends over the last two and a half years encouraging me to develop a hobby. Hmm.

I dropped out of my graduate school program for a number of reasons this spring. Complete irrelevance to my current occupation chiefly among them. My weekends and week nights (often in the lone as my roommate girlfriend works when I don't and vice versa) were free and playing Shinobi and Bejeweled frankly has lost its luster after 12,678 games.

Time on my hands and encouragement to do what all my liberal arts training has equipped me to do, I sat down this morning and made the decision to throw in a load of laundry and not pick up the Xbox controller.

$hit. I have to write something.

Summer's Cruelty

Last weekend I was over at a good friend’s house to do a load of laundry and play Transformers with his four-year-old. All went well just shy of catching Megatron’s right hook to my cheek without provocation. I guess when you’re Optimus Prime, you have to be a little more aware as I was half-watching a History Channel special on Nazism in America. Yes, Finn was his delightful little self per the usual. Perhaps he was just a bit too generous this time however.

It started the next day. Just a faint tickle in the back of my throat. I was so very astonished but disregarded it as allergies. I consumed the four remaining cough drops I had in my apartment from the previous rhinoviral-related episode to fall asleep, just a little perplexed.

The next day I was dragging. My energy never seemed to replenish. That afternoon, I reconsidered my presence at a client boat outing on Lake Minnetonka. I went though, and was delighted. The boat seemed to be swaying a bit more than the horizon line would indicate. I drank a few more beers hoping that was it. As I drove to a friend’s house afterward to watch a movie, I sniffled a little and noticed my sinuses were totally plugged. The cause of my dizziness was not the boat or the beer (well, the beer is not entirely innocent of fault).

After the movie, I knew sleep would be an evasive little animal all night. And it was. The nasty tasting cough drops didn’t help and just left their nastiness in my mouth. My left leg became terribly sore, the muscles aching so intensely all I could do was whimper. Breathing through my mouth was a challenge until mercy available itself a nostril opened up.

I was determined to skip work the next day, then remembered a few critical meetings I had. Arriving an hour late and having the good fortune of no one noticing, I began a day of utter misery. It was like treatment in a rehab facility for me. Denial was my mantra. No, you don’t have a summer cold. You don’t have a summer cold. You don’t have a summer cold.

As all highly regarded treatment facilities go, I arrived at the truth. I have a summer cold. The day progressed slowly. A small landfill of tissues accumulated in my wastebasket by my desk along with half a dozen emptied cups of tea with honey. Sneezing with regularity drew ire and horror from my colleagues as they skidded backward in an attempt to avoid my leprotic-level contagiousness.

I lost my sense of taste today, which means I’m about forty-eight hours from recovery. My will has not been broken. Though my poor bike has not seen nearly as many miles this week, I shall once again reclaim my ways and habits. Summer colds are a daft affair, filled with irony and subtle cruelty. But this aggression will not stand. This virus had its day in the sun and my immune system will prevail.

I appreciate your prayers and thoughts in this difficult time.

**sneeze**

You don’t have any Kleenex on you, do you?