"Have you ever heard of the equation, E + R = O?" asked my friend, Scott Magri. 

"No, what's that?" I responded.

Scott went on, "It stands for 'Experience plus Response equals Outcome.'  And the only thing I ever have control of in that equation is my response.  So, knowing that my response to any giving situation will always determine the outcome, good or bad, this simple equation helps to keep me mindful of how I react."

Thank you, Scott.  Having this easy-to-remember equation reminds me that no matter what I experience, I always have the choice as to how I'll respond.  Although most of the time it doesn't feel that way, I am painfully aware that my knee-jerk reaction usually leads to regret.  On the other hand, every time I remember that the outcome will always be determined by my response I tend to exercise my power of choice wisely.  And each time I do I am always pleasantly surprised at the positive outcome that follows.

A reading from the meditation book "Touchstones, Daily Meditations for Men" hits the nail on the head;

"A life of reaction is a life of slavery, intellectually and spiritually.  One must fight for a life of action not reaction." -Rita Mae Brown

... we all confront our reactive habits in relationships.  ... we soon must face how much other people's behavior has been a cue for our own reactions.  There is always a three-part process in any reaction - first, the other person's behavior, second, a moment of choosing a response, and third, our reaction.  But in our spiritual slavery, we don't notice the choice stage.  It feels automatic.  It may feel as though the other person made me do it.

No amount of changing on someone else's part can change us.  We are becoming more responsible for our own lives and for our own behavior regardless of others around us.  There is liberation in noticing the choice stage.  It is tough to follow through on our choices, but when we do,
it is truly a sign of a grown-up. 
Then a remarkable thing happens - our self-esteem rises.

"Today, I will pause to notice the choices I have in the moment between someone's action and my reaction."

-TOUCHSTONES, Daily Meditations for Men

So, in other words it all boils down to the fact that...

The power of choice is always in our hands and will always determine our experience.  The good news is you are not the victim of circumstance as you may have once believed. 

I recently came across this simple and easy-to-remember key to telling a great story.  Like most valuable things in life I stumbled upon it seemingly by coincidence.  It happened when I decided to grab a cup of coffee from a local coffee shop other than Starbucks.  Which is a huge step out of my comfort zone.  But I had no choice since our local Starbucks was closed this week for renovations.  So on this particular day and under these circumstances the Rumor Mill Cafe turned out to be the most convenient place for me and my friend Ed Biagiotti to meet for our regular afternoon coffee.  I ordered my grande drip and since Ed hadn't arrived yet I decided I'd flip through one of the donated books these non-franchise chain coffee shops tend to have laying around for customers to read.  On top of the short pile of books was Alan Alda's autobiography, "Never Have Your Dog Stuffed: And Other Things I've Learned."

Although I'm not a huge Alan Alda fan I do know he lives in New Jersey and his real name is Alphonso D'Abruzzo.  Since he and I had the Italian New Jersey connection I figured, "What the hell?"  Which in New Jersey speak means, "Why not check it out?"  So I picked up his book, sat down at a two-top, opened it up to the very first page and there was this quote; 

"Act One: Get your hero up a tree.
Act Two: Throw rocks at him.
Act Three: Get him down out of the tree.
                    - attributed to George Abbott, on playwriting"

This is great advice to keep in mind anytime you're about to tell a story whether it's in the form of a play, screenplay, book, or even verbally.  It'll work for them all.  The best advice is always simply stated.  But how it gets to me is nothing short of miraculous.  So for this one, thank you Starbucks for being closed for renovations, thank you Rumor Mill Cafe for being the only convenient option available that day, thank you Ed Biagiotti for showing up late, thank you who ever you are for donating Alan Alda's autobiography to the Rumor Mill, thank you George Abbott for putting this great advice so bluntly and thank you Alan Alda for just happening to be an Italian New Jersey-ian living your entire life to get to the point where you decided it was worth putting all together in a book to share, and for some reason feeling so strongly about George Abbott's advice you decided to quote him on the very first page where I would find it. 

BTW, the coffee at the Rumor Mill Cafe is great, too.

Oh, and get this, when I went back to the Rumor Mill Cafe the next day to meet Ed again for coffee I searched for the book and it was gone.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God's world by mistake."
-From the book, Alcoholics Anonymous

The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up.
-Mark Twain

I dreaded our forth grade assembly.  All the kids scampered around the classroom asking each other, “Is your mommy coming?”   Without waiting for a response, they’d finish with; “MY mommy’s coming!” 

Over and over, the same thing would bounce out of every kid’s mouth but mine.  I answered by nodding yes and praying to myself, “Sweet Jesus, please don’t let my mommy come to the assembly.”

At School 9 the assemblies were held in the auditorium.  It was really an indoor basketball court with a stage.  Folding chairs were set up for the audience.  The students from all the other grades attended and the parents of the students performing were all invited.  Because the assemblies were held during the day it was usually only mommies who showed up.

Our performance began as planned.  Throughout the performance I was tormented by the thought that at any moment my mother would show up while I was on stage.  It wasn’t until we were halfway through that I began to feel relief, thinking to myself, "Maybe my mom’s not going to make it after all!"

Then there was a loud “Ka-Chun-Ka!” sound that came from back of the auditorium.  It was the loud sound of those, “Ka-Chun-Ka!” bars, the long brass bar handles on the doors to the auditorium that you have to press down hard to open, and when you do they make a loud, “Ka-Chun-Ka!” noise.

The doors flew open and the entire audience abruptly spun around toward the back of the auditorium.  Silence.  Everything stopped.  It felt like I was dreaming while standing in shock.

There she was, my mommy, drunk out of her mind standing slightly off balance in the doorway with her frosted hair all banged up, a purse dangling off her left arm, wearing a tight sweater, Capri pants and heels.  Oblivious to the fact that the entire audience was twisted around in their seats and staring at her in shock, she pointed at the stage and proudly shouted, “My baby!”

All at once everyone swung back around in their seats curious to see who her “baby” was.  Frozen on stage, I convinced myself, as my face heated up like the coils in a toaster oven and turned just as red, that maybe they’d think it’s one of the other kids; after all, there are four of us standing on the stage.  But as soon as she blasted out, “Daaaaa-rell!”  it was all over.  I just wanted to fall on my cardboard sword and end it all.

Walking home from school humiliated I couldn’t imagine anything worse, until I heard Brazil 66's, "Mas Que Nada," blasting from the open windows of our house.  When I stepped inside my mom grabbed me by my hand, pulled me into the living room began leading me around as she danced with a drink one hand and holding mine with the other.

“Come on Darrell, dance with mommy.  Maybe if you moved your ass a little more we wouldn't have to shop in the 'husky' department.”

Seeing your mother drunk is one thing, but being forced to dance with your drunken mother is discomfort like no other.  Even though no one was there to witness this, except for my younger brother, Eric, (who pretended to be a cat so he wouldn’t have to dance with her), the pain of humiliation was excruciating.

At the stroke of five o'clock my dad walked in the back door and mommy made a beeline for the kitchen.  The crash of the silverware drawer hitting the floor was followed by my father's shout,

“Billie, will you put down the knife!”

From past experience I knew she didn’t really intend to stab my dad; she just wanted to get his attention.  But this time it was obvious that she really wanted to teach him a lesson.  While my dad tried to convince her out of killing him or herself with the knife, she began to strip off her clothes until she was standing in the kitchen completely naked.  Then out of nowhere she threw down the knife and made a mad dash out the back door.

“God damn it!  Darrell, Eric get out here!” my father yelled, “Your mother just ran out of the house.  Naked!” 

When my father caught a glimpse of me his impatience grew to outrage, “What the hell are you doing putting shoes on for?  Your mother’s not wearing any!  Come on we’re gonna lose her.  We got to go get her!”

So there I was with my little brother, Eric, chasing our naked mother through the neighborhood and it wasn’t easy keeping up with her, she was jumping hedges like a wild gazelle!  It was like and episode of "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom."  Then our neighbor’s porch lights started popping on like flash bulbs on cameras.  It wasn’t until we were halfway down the block that my father was able to tackle her.  Unfortunately, it was on Rhonda Mangels’ front yard.  We were in the same class.  I can still see her standing there behind her screen door with her parents just staring at us.  I had a crush on Rhonda, but now it was clear my chance of ever winning her over was shot.  From then on Rhonda Mangels was like kryptonite, anytime I'd see her what little self-confidence I had evaporated on the spot, nothing remained but the urge to hide or die.  Oh, and all my friends who lived in the neighborhood and walked to school with us were now coming outside to see what all the commotion was.  They watched as my dad, heading in the direction our house with my mom, struggled to keep her wrapped in the terry cloth robe he tackled her with.  Eric and I followed behind.

It wasn’t long after this episode that my parents divorced and our mom moved out.  I thought having her out of our lives would change how inadequate I felt.  It didn’t.  I still felt like a turd compared to all the other kids on the School 9 playground.  I knew I needed something special to transform myself from what I believed everyone thought of me, into someone they would admire.

That day came when I discovered where my dad hid his card playing money.  I knew with money I could impress the other kids.  I had a plan: if I only took the change, and not the bills, my father would never notice.  Our dad worked during the day, so each day I walked home for lunch; I’d steal a roll of quarters.  This was 1972 when a ten dollar roll of quarters was worth like, I don't know, eight grand!  So, I was able to buy massive bags of Starburst fruit chews.  I didn’t even like Starburst fruit chews, but the cool kids like Wayne Giambatista and Joe Ciampi did.  It worked like magic.  As soon as I’d arrive at the playground at lunch recess all the kids would crowd around me and I’d throw out Starburst fruit chews to the group.  It was like throwing herring to hungry sea lions.  The kids went wild for these fruit chews.  It was incredible, like being a Rock Star with groping fans.  I had arrived, I was famous.

This went on for weeks seemingly unnoticed until the owner of Carousel, the local candy shop, asked me where I was getting all the loot.  I told him it was from allowance and shining shoes.  This lie made me feel uncomfortable but not enough to stop.  Then while skipping home for lunch to snatch another roll of quarters I noticed my dad’s car in the driveway.  Because of his job he was never home at lunchtime.  I panicked; “He knows!”  There was no way out, if I don’t show up for lunch it would confirm my guilt and if I do, I faced severe punishment and possibly death.  I decided, since running away wasn’t an option for a cowardly ten year old, that I’d take my chances with trying to deny it.  I continued toward our house working out the most plausible lie, or excuse, if the evidence he had was too great to surmount.

Before I got up the front steps my dad swung open the screen door and looking down at me he began, “Darrell I want to talk to you.  Someone’s been taking rolls of quarters from my card money.”

Bracing myself as he continued.

He asked, “Have you seen your mother around here, lately?”

I stood in shock and slowly nodded, “Yes.”

Can you believe it?  Only ten years old and I threw my mother under the bus.

The years following this incident flew by without our mother around.  Her leaving us became my great excuse, for all sorts of irresponsibility and bad behavior, especially when I got caught.  When I was eighteen our father died.  Without direction or a rudder I was lost.  Failing miserably at life I was full of self-pity, quick to blame it all my problems on our mother’s leaving us.

At twenty-four years old, unable to lower my standards as fast as my behavior I finally hit a wall.  It took a military court martial for me to realize that my problems were of my own making, no one else was to blame.  The only alternatives left were either change or die.  Thank God for the U.S. Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant who made that painfully clear to me.

It was during this time, motivated to change, that I reached out to renew a relationship with my mother.  It had been many years since I had been in touch with her.  When I contacted her she was very happy to hear from me, but because she left when I was so young, the best way to describe how I felt would be, ambivalence.  Over the years I continued to keep in touch with her, with letters, postcards, and phone calls telling her I loved her, but I was doing this mostly because I felt I ought to.

Then about seven years ago, out of nowhere, guilt over stealing those damn quarters began to resurface.  Should I say something to my mother and admit what I did and apologize? 

It went back and forth in my mind, “I should apologize to her for that.” to “Why should I bring that up?  It wasn’t a big deal.  I was only a kid.  It happened so long ago, besides, she left us.  She’s lucky I’m talking to her at all.” 

But every time I thought of my mother I’d remember the quarters and wrestle with why I should or should not apologize.  The agony of the back and forth kept on.  It's true; avoidance is a full time job.  So, I threw in the towel, asked God for the courage and called her.  The conversation went like this:

“Mom, remember when I was little and you got blamed for stealing the quarters from daddy’s card playing money?  I lied to daddy; I was stealing them and blamed you.  I feel really bad about doing that.  I’m sorry.”

She responded kindly, “Isn’t it funny the silly things we do when we are young?” and then after a pause, her voice quivered,  “Darrell, I don’t want to go to my grave with you and Eric thinking that I didn’t love you both.”  She began to cry as she continued,  “The hardest thing I ever did was to leave you boys, and it kills me to think how much I loved you both and that you both probably think I didn’t.”

A warm feeling grew in my chest; wonderful moments began to bubble up to the surface of my heart.  Memories of my mom teaching me how to tie my shoes, how she’d never get frustrated and praised me continuously for the slightest improvement.  I remembered her teaching me how to color in the lines of the coloring book and her sharing her secret on how to make the image pop by applying more pressure to the crayon along the outline of the drawing.  All of a sudden I was struck hard by the clear recollection that while I was a small boy she always told me how special I was and that I would do amazing things when I grew up.  I felt compelled to let her know that I remembered how wonderful she was; it came out simply,  “We know you loved us.  I love you, Mommy.”  It said it all.

Funny, how this all came about by admitting my faults, rather than demanding she acknowledge hers.  Looking back, was my mother really that rotten?  Did my mom really set out to humiliate me by pointing me out at the assembly or wanting me to dance with her?  No, I can believe she really was proud of me and was just trying to include me in the wonderful moments when she was drunk and temporarily free from her anxieties.  In any case, if it weren’t for my mom being exactly the way she was, my life would have turned out differently and I would have missed out on the wonderful life I have today.  So as far as I'm concerned she turned out to be the perfect mother, for me.

So, thank you mom.  To all the other moms out there, good luck.  Have fun and regardless of any mistakes you make along the way, eventually your kids will realize how fortunate they have been to have had a mom exactly like you.

Who can resist stickers?  As a kid I was fortunate to grow up just a bike ride away from a sticker factory.  My friends Larry Cuzzi, Wayne Giambatista and I'd spend our weekends raiding the dumpsters for discarded rolls of stickers.  We had every sticker you could imagine from the familiar classic yellow smiley face and the shiny metallic gold stars, to odd stickers of cartoon drawn assorted meats.  We didn't care what the image, shape, or style was we'd grab them all.  The assortment of stickers enabled us to make our notebooks, lunch boxes, book covers, skateboards and bicycles unique and special.  In other words, cool! 

I really scored big the Saturday I discovered a huge foot-wide roll of white unprinted sticker paper the factory tossed in the dumpster.  This gave me the ability to create my own stickers by drawing on them with my set of Pentel rainbow colored felt tip markers.  These stickers became the ultimate in transforming my belongings into one of a kind creations the other kids admired.  I even made my own eight track tape labels that I'd apply over the existing cover art.  At that time I'd mimic the style of my favorite artists, illustrator/Ad-man *Archie Boston and Artist Peter Max.  Matter of fact, the only reason I bought the Pentel markers was because I really liked the illustration on the packaging which was created by Archie Boston. 

Well, thanks to my friend and graphic artist, Meaghan McCall, I'm getting to relive my childhood all over again.  She's the one who suggested I turn my cartoon logo into a sticker.

"Wow, really?  OK.  Yeah, that would be cool.  I guess."  Which is my typical response to friendly encouragement that I will be obligated act upon.

In spite of my reluctance to act on my own behalf I am forever grateful to have friends like Meaghan, who can see opportunities where I cannot and aren't shy about pointing them out.  They nudge me forward to greater achievements even if at times they need to use a pitch fork to get me to move past my self-doubt.  I'm also grateful for the fact that by agreeing with them I'm held accountable.  I'd much rather follow through on their suggestion than dread bumping into them again and have to explain why I didn't.  The benefits always far exceed the energy it takes to move forward with their suggestion. 

And this case is no exception.  I love my new "devil with good intentions" sticker and I've already received compliments on my newly adorned Moleskine sketchpad. (Scroll up to see photo).  Once again proving that if it weren't for my friends faith in me to believe in, I doubt I'd do anything I'd be proud of.  So thanks to all of you - for everything.

BTW, if you want to have some fun with stickers you can get a sheet of these in large or small sizes at Zazzle.com by clicking on this sentence.  Now available in your choice of either a sheet of 20 small or 6 large, both only $4.95 ea.  Keep this "well-intentioned" little devil as a constant reminder of your loving friend with pitch fork in hand giving you just the nudge you need to take the next step above and beyond.

*By a miraculous coincidence my childhood inspiration Archie Boston (and his lovely wife, Juanita), happened to become friends of my wife, Lori, through her work.  Not only have I gotten to meet him, he's given me artistic advice and I've taken it.  A childhood dream come true.
To visit Archie Boston's official website click here.