"Wall Street:" It's All About Luck

There's a scene in the 1987 movie "Wall Street" where Gordon Gekko played by Michael Douglas is riding in his limousine with Bud Fox played by Charlie Sheen. Looking out the window of the limo, Gekko points out two men standing side by side waiting for the light to change.

One man is wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase. The other is a street person pushing a shopping cart. Gekko says to Bud Fox, "You gonna tell me the difference between this guy and that guy is luck?"

The answer to Gekko's question is a resounding, "Yes." It's all about luck.

Take Steve Jobs. Jobs' luck in being born in what became Silicon Valley and not, say, Toledo, Ohio led directly to the creation of Apple. His neighbors worked for Hewlett Packard. His classmate was Wozniak. He was surrounded by a culture of experimentation. Because of these connections, he was able to call David Packard and talk to him personally. Talk about luck!

How about something germane to our daily experience? Did you eat in a restaurant in the last month? You're lucky to be alive. After all, the person preparing the food didn't decide on the day you ate there to put a little arsenic in the lettuce.

Have you flown on an airplane in the past year? Good for you that you were lucky enough to choose a flight flown by a pilot who valued his life as much as he valued yours and mechanics who made sure your plane was safe.

Are you alive? Do you think that's a silly question? Well, congratulations on being lucky to have had parents (or whoever raised you) who nurtured you enough to ensure that you made it to this point.

My father's parents emigrated from Russia in the early 1900s. Because I'm an American and not a Russian with all the advantages that implies, I'm richer than 95% (99%?) of the world and I'm only in the middle of the middle class here.

Think about it: Every day, including today, our survival is based on luck. We walk down the street and don't get mugged or shot or run down by a car as we cross to the other side (not everyone will be so lucky). Our children go to school and come home safely (not everyone will be so lucky). We plug in the microwave and don't get electrocuted (not everyone will be so lucky). We didn't come down with an incurable disease today (not everyone will be so lucky).

Gordon Gekko, the man who claims to be superior to that street person, is lucky, although he'd probably attribute it to his "greed is good" ethos. Gekko says to Bud Fox, " You see that building? I bought that building ten years ago. My first real estate deal. Sold it two years later, made an $800,000 profit."

Do you think it was anything but luck that caused Gekko's building to appreciate? How much did your house depreciate during the mortgage crisis? Gekko's lucky timing was responsible for his profit.

I'm writing this because I hear people claim that they are "self made" and many of these people, I'm sure, worked hard for their achievements. But to take just one of a thousand potential examples, unless they've never eaten in a restaurant, "self made" people owe their lives to the chef who didn't poison them.

In fact, we're so lucky that we take our luck for granted when we should be grateful.

I wish you all the luck in the world. May today be your lucky day.

"Meatballs" and "Groundhog Day:" It Just Doesn't Matter

Bill Murray stars in two movies that have had a huge impact on me and both have similar messages.

The first is the 1979 movie "Meatballs" in which Murray, playing an iconoclastic camp counselor, counsels his youthful charges that "It just doesn't matter" if they win or lose an athletic competition against a much wealthier and more athletic group of campers across the lake.

Rather than being depressed by Murray's exhortation, the campers are joyful, free of the paralyzing fear of failure that has plagued them. After all, if "it just doesn't matter" if they win or lose, why not just enjoy playing the game?

In 1979, I was struggling to teach reading to students in a Chicago public high school. I was successful on some days and an abysmal failure on others. I recorded the audio of Murray's speech, played it as I drove to my teaching job and chanted, "It just doesn't matter" along with the campers. Murray's exhortation was liberating. I began enjoying the inevitable wins and losses of the "game" of teaching.

1993's "Groundhog Day" is the other Bill Murray movie that had a profound effect on me and, in its message, bears a striking resemblance to "Meatballs."

In "Groundhog Day," Murray discovers he can lie, steal and consume all the carbohydrates he wants because there will be no consequences. Tomorrow, he will wake up and begin the same day all over again. Whatever he does, "it just doesn't matter."

The similarity of "Groundhog Day" to "Meatballs" is observed in a scene where Murray, drinking in a bar, asks two fellow imbibers, "What would you do if you were stuck in one place and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?" One of these drinkers responds, "That about sums it up for me."

The trio gets in a car and is soon being chased by the police. Murray drives on railroad tracks, straight towards an approaching train. Veering away from the train at the last minute, Murray laughs as he reminds himself that, whatever he does, "it just doesn't matter."

Just as in "Meatballs," Murray discovers in "Groundhog Day" that the futility of life, the realization that nothing one does really matters, rather than being an excuse to quit, is an impetus to create joy even in the most absurd of situations.

I worry about what may happen in the future and I regret things I've done in the past. I worry about having enough money to pay my bills and live comfortably. When I teach or write, I worry that I'm not good enough to make a difference. I have regrets about not having been a better student in college and a better son to my deceased parents. I regret not being as loving to my wife as I aspire to be.

And then I recall these movies.

In the end, both "Meatballs" and "Groundhog Day" are odes to the joy of existence. Both movies ultimately provide mundane advice, but they do so in the most entertaining and delightful of packages: If the world gives you lemons, make lemonade. Don't just accept your fate. Embrace it. Do for others regardless of what they do for you. Above all, laugh in the face of failure and success because there's really nothing to worry about or to regret.

After all, "it just doesn't matter."

"High Fidelity:" The Secret To A Lasting Relationship, Guaranteed

I've been married for 41 years. People sometimes ask for the secret to ensure a lasting relationship. I tell them to watch the movie, "High Fidelity." The answers are in that movie.

It may seem more than a little strange to suggest "High Fidelity" as a template for having a lasting relationship given that the protagonist, Rob (John Cusack), is not able to sustain a relationship for longer than a few months. But by the time the movie has ended, we have learned, along with Rob, the secret to creating a relationship that lasts.

Near the end of the movie, Rob invites Laura to meet him at a restaurant. Laura had dumped Rob early in the movie and he has spent the rest of the movie reviewing his past relationships to see why he has been unable to sustain any of them.

Shortly after Laura sits down, Rob asks Laura to marry him. She is startled to say the least, especially since she has recently seen him flirting with a woman he has just met. She asks his reasons for wanting to get married. Rob now reveals to Laura and to all of us how to sustain a relationship:  

"That other girl...woman...whatever. I was thinking they're just fantasies. And they always seem really great because there's never any problems. If there are, they're cute problems like we bought each other the same Christmas present or she wants to go see a movie I've already seen. And then I come home and you and I have real problems and you don't want to see the movie I want to see period. I'm tired of the fantasy because it doesn't really exist."

In other words, the grass always appears greener on the other side until we realize that the grass on the other side needs the hard work of mowing, just like the grass on this side.

Relationships are most vulnerable when we pine for the grass on the other side of the fence. We imagine we'll be much happier with the attractive woman/man at work, at the gym, standing in line in front of us buying coffee because, we're sure, the problems we'll have with that person will be "cute" problems and not "real" problems. We're tired of real problems and long for the cute ones.

Rob's plaintive statement that "...the fantasy doesn't really exist" is a brilliant insight. Fantasies don't exist in reality. In reality, there are real problems that require real work and a real commitment. 

So, in a nutshell, what's the secret to a lasting relationship? Stop mistaking fantasy for reality. After all, the person you're currently in a real relationship with and with whom you are having real problems, was at one time the fantasy person with whom, you imagined, you would share only cute problems. Fantasies are exciting precisely because they are fantasies. Keep them there.

Get to work on your real relationship and you'll be in that relationship for a long time.

Roger Ebert and "Life Itself"

I just finished reading Roger Ebert's memoir, "Life Itself." As a former Chicagoan now living in Arizona, it brought back memories of reading Gene Siskel at the Chicago Tribune and Ebert at the Sun Times. How sad that both are now dead. Even more, it brought back memories of being young and I miss that time. My wife keeps telling me I have to live in the present, but I keep wanting to return to an earlier time when I can undo the mistakes I made and, perhaps, do it better.

The end of Ebert's book is a rumination on the end of life. Ebert is characteristically uncomplaining and, while not looking forward to death, not fearful about that unknown country. After three operations that left him unable to eat on his own and speak, he remains (well, since he's dead now, remains) curious about what his remaining years will bring and even speculates on where the universe is headed in it's expansion and where and how it all started. Even at the end of his book and, as it turned out, his life, he's still contributing to the conversation in which we all engage.

I am scared to death of death. I have so many regrets. If only I could go back in time to those moments when I made choices I regret so that I could choose differently. Flunking out of college. Quitting writing when it seemed I was moving closer and closer to publication. The way I treated my father and mother, never being really close to either. Now not being able to have a conversation with either of them.

Ebert lived with hope while I despair. I know the importance of living in the here and now, recognizing that regrets serve no purpose. Yet I'm drawn, like Gatsby is described at the end of The Great Gatsby, ceaselessly into the past. "Can't redo the past, old sport? Of course you can." If only.

Yet the past is always with us or, as Faulkner noted, it's not even past. If I really connected with the fact of my death, would I live more fully now? Would I love more completely? Would I forgive myself and others more readily...would I forgive at all?

I can't imagine my end. I can imagine it, but I can't...imagine it. The world without me? Consciousness is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it gives us the opportunity to be alive to our lives. A curse because it gives us the awareness of our end. How much better to be my dog, seemingly living in the moment without a care in the world.

How does one live in the moment? Is it even possible? Isn't that the intent of meditation? Just days before the author and Zen monk Peter Matthiessen died, the New York Times Magazine had a profile of him in which he said (paraphrasing here) that it's a miracle if one can be present, truly present for even five minutes.

There was a moment when I was present. Years ago. Perhaps thirty. I and some friends were driving from Chicago to Door County, Wisconsin for a long weekend. The car broke down on a  deserted stretch of highway about fifty minutes south of our destination. It was 10 pm. Pitch black. No headlights to be seen in either direction. No lights at all.

I opened the trunk and rummaged through my suitcase to get the running shoes I knew were there. At that time, I was training to run a marathon and was in the best shape of my life. Completely unperturbed, I put on the shoes. My wife asked me what I was doing. I had seen a sign saying that a gas station could be found about a mile or so up the road. Without a moment's concern, I was prepared to run down this dark highway to that gas station. The car breaking down and the run I was contemplating occurred to me like a grand adventure. I felt alive, present, giddy with excitement.

At that exact moment, as though summoned by our thoughts, a police car came up behind us. We were rescued.

When I try to think of moments when I felt fully alive and present, those few moments by the side of the road in the darkness, keep coming back. I'm sure there were others, but I recall the time on that highway so vividly. I wasn't meditating, trying to be in the present moment. I was in the present moment.

How to recapture that excitement at being alive? How indeed.