It didn’t last. After 600 years, the resort town was sacked by Muslim raiders in the 8th century and by 1500, Baiae was abandoned. The water level slowly rose (through volcanic vents) and the ancient ruins are now an empire under the sea. Makes me think of our current fledgling (compared to Rome) republic. How long will it last? The waters are rising. That’s a fact.

It also made me think of that gut-punch of a movie, Planet of the Apes, with Charlton Heston coming upon the Statue of Liberty buried to her waist in the sand, as he realized the planet he was on was Earth, sometime in the future.

I tried adding a photo of the Statue of Liberty to the picture above, half sticking out of the sea bottom. But using only scissors and tape (lacking Photoshop skills), the image looked stupid. Laughable. Just as I’m sure ancient Romans, if alive today, would deem the image above to be.

Photo: Baiae, Atlas Obscura

This came to mind when I read some research on how to communicate with others – especially folks (including children) who don’t see eye to eye with you on certain things.

Be careful with negativity. Research has shown that negativity has a detrimental effect on the brain. It can change neural pathways (form ruts) and lead to long-lasting negative thinking. Evidence also shows that positivity – using words that express kindness and respect – can open pathways to further communication and create connections for more constructive dialogue.

That’s the central premise of "Words Can Change Your Brain," a book co-authored by Andrew Newberg, M.D., director of research at the Myrna Brind Center of Integrative Medicine and Medical College; and Mark Waldman, Loyola Marymount communication professor.

They believe that from an early age our minds are “hardwired to respond favorably to certain types of speech and negatively to others.” As children, our brains are molded by the words we hear. Teaching children to use positive words helps them with emotional control and can even increase their attention spans.

Newberg states: “If you’re always emotionally stressed as a child, you become more easily stressed and more anxious throughout the rest of your life, almost. Those early childhood years are really essential for trying to create connections in the brain that foster more compassion, love and forgiveness and less fear and anxiety.”

Research also indicates that we often talk too much – longer than the average person is able to easily digest. Our brains can only grasp four things at a time. If you speak too long and make numerous points, the person listening will get just a portion of it. Eyes glaze over. Minds wander off. So I’d better finish this.

To get your point across, try to be more positive than negative. Use short sentences, simple words, and avoid adverbs and adjectives (which show bias). Limit your argument to just a few sentences at a time, approximately 30 seconds max. After that, comprehension drops like a rock.

Compassionate and kind trumps mean and nasty. Enough said.

Click your heels together or click the link below to sign up.

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30 YEARS SERVING THE ENTIRE EARTH

Many thanks to clients and associates who have made it possible for Les Overhead to exist for 30 plus years. As mentioned in the "Wall Street Journal". It's amazing what you can achieve with passion, hard work, creativity, scissors, and double-stick tape.

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But no, I wasn’t smuggling anything. I did have a bottle of Smirnoff but that’s not illegal (although I could be charged with lack of taste). Like any red-blooded American patriot, I felt compelled to see what this border crisis is all about. I went to Naco, a small Arizona border town south of Bisbee.

Naco’s nothing much. Dirt streets, low-slung adobe homes, shaded windows. Huge dump trucks were parked by the iron-ribbed fence, a mile east of the border crossing. I pulled up next to one in my rental car and got out for a look around. Nothing was happening.
I stood and waited a half hour for the caravans to arrive, the horde of migrants. But nada. No migration invasion anywhere. It got boring.

I went back to the car and listened to the radio – Spanish songs and announcers. I did not hear the word “emergencia” once.
And then I saw him. Or her. About a hundred yards down the road, on the other side of the fence. A single figure crouched on a teal blue bucket seat torn from some long-gone vehicle. The bucket seat was sitting on the gravel on the Mexican side.

As I came closer, I got a good look at the crouched figure. There was no doubt. It was a Chihuahua. The bony dog had its head deep into a tin can licking out the last drops. My mind flashed: photo op. But when I stepped up to the iron bars to take a pic, the pooch heard me and slunk off, tail curled through tiny legs, continually looking back to see if I might have something to eat. Emergency rations for a hungry mutt.

I had little to offer other than sunflower seeds and gum. I went to my Camry and brought back a handful of seeds and a stick of Big Red. I offered them through the fence, but the Chihuahua wouldn’t come near. Didn’t trust me. Can’t say I blame him. Or her. Or them.
Before I left, I sent my apologies and best wishes through the iron bars.

Mexico has had its fair share of immigration problems. It was in the San Pedro Valley, near Naco, where Coronado and his immense force of Conquistadors marched through in 1540 heading north in search of the fabled Seven Cities of Gold. It was a fruitless journey. As was mine.

Finding no crisis in Naco, I headed north on two-lane roads and came to Sonoita. At a wide intersection, turning onto a road toward Tucson, I turned too early and ended up in the wrong lane going the wrong direction. A simple mistake. One anyone could make.

Two Border Patrol vehicles were parked on each side of the road. The officers saw me and no doubt smirked. One of them tailed me for two miles before pulling me over. I like to think he was waiting to see if I’d make a dash for it, but in reality he was probably running my plate.

I stopped the car and two officers approached. One stood back and to the side, in my blind spot. The other spoke and asked for my ID which I handed over. He asked what I was up to and I didn’t lie. I said I was investigating the border crisis. I think one of his eyebrows raised.

“Mind if we take a look in your trunk?” he said.

I paused to ponder it. Do I mind that? Did he have the right to search it? What if there’s something in the trunk I don’t know about? My inner voice said hell yeah I mind, but my outer voice said, “Knock yourself out,” and I popped the trunk.

They found nothing. No drugs. No warrants. No bust. No glory.

The officer seemed disappointed. He looked me in the eye and said smugglers often miss the same turn I just missed when they see their Patrol vehicles. In other words, I fit the pattern of a smuggler. I smugly put my sunglasses on and pulled my hat down low as I drove off. A codger to be reckoned with.

The fact is, illegal border crossings are at a near 40-year low.

Dept. of Homeland Security data shows that undetected unlawful entries into the US from Mexico decreased from 851,000 in 2006 to 62,000 in 2016. Other reviews from independent groups seem to agree there is no emergency crisis at the Mexican border. Chihuahuas may beg to differ.

Coronado on his quest for gold went all the way to Kansas before concluding he’d been hoodwinked. He had his guide, a native known as the Turk, killed by garrote. Then he mounted up and slunk back down to Mexico City, his tail through his legs (he fell off his horse and had to be carried part of the way). He died at age 44, a bankrupt and broken dude.

Makes me wonder what folks 500 years from now will think of our current Coronado – and his deluded search for gold, glory, and fame – again in vain. To those in the future, I send my apologies and best wishes. Happy trails.

I flew to Billings last weekend for a friend’s memorial service and got more than a flight into the past. On August 13, 1976 this friend banged his head on an armrest while lying in the backseat of a car heading home from a bar.

The vehicle had ventured just a few feet off the road, for just seconds. The bumping broke a vertabra and cracked his universe, throwing him into a wheelchair for the rest of his life, a distance of some 40 plus years.

He was one of the good ones who so often get a bad hand. Generous beyond belief. The one who’d gather everyone left at last call and buy us all a late night dinner at Wong Village.

He was a genius math whiz poker-faced Packer fan. A railroad worker with a pocketful of cash on fire. A true class act.

His quadriplegic existence wasn’t easy but he went on living, aging, engaging in life as he rolled his shoulders forward and back and friends raised his drink with straw to his mouth. He swallowed deeply. It was a tough road to roll.

At the memorial service I talked with a guy I hadn’t seen in 25 years. I recognized him and thought he did me. But an hour later he came up and said he had no idea who I was when we talked earlier.

I was taken aback. Everyone else had aged and changed a great deal it seemed, but not I. I wondered how he couldn’t recognize me, until I went to the can and looked in the mirror and wondered who invited my dad. I must have shocked the guy. And no doubt others who pretended to know me.

The next morning after the Memorial Service I visited two matriarchs of family clans who were best friends of our family growing up. They now live next door to each other in a senior care center in Billings.

One had the marks and blotches common with an aging body, but her mind was tack-sharp. The other had not a pockmark on her, her smiling complexion still creamy smooth. But her mind was off skipping to a different tune and time. She didn’t follow too well. Both are exactly alike in one way: they face their future with grace and courage.

My visit with them left me wondering which is better – to look your worst, and have a sharp mind that knows it. Or to look fine, but have a mind that won’t focus. I vacillate between the two. Of course I should pick mind over body. But Vanity is almost my last name and it’s hard to shake.

I most surely will be an ugly old cuss and some will say I already am. Then again, maybe I won’t have to worry about it.
While in Billings I heard that the father of a rancher friend of mine had received a health diagnosis that didn’t sit well with him. So after making and eating breakfast one morning he loaded a revolver, put the barrel to his temple, and shot the diagnosis all to hell.

My mind works in morbid ways and I wondered what he’d made for breakfast. Eggs over (to the other side) easy? Scrambled? Ten pieces of bacon? Had he done the dishes? We all discussed it solemnly, put a brave face on it and said assuredly we’d do the same thing. Maybe not by pulling a trigger, but with surefire thought and action.

I wonder if I would really take that fork. Eat some eggs and bacon, clean up, then blow out the candle for good. I have no idea. I doubt it. I’m not that strong of mind, or that steady a shot. And to give up bacon forever would be hard.

When bored, I often think of ways to die. It’s amusing to me. In my mind, if you imagine in detail the circumstances of your death – like getting bit by a rattlesnake while hiking near Pictograph Cave, or keeling over from a heart attack in the grocery store and causing a cleanup on aisle 7 – the scene you imagine is guaranteed not to happen.

Because NOTHING ever happens exactly the way you envision it. It would be a cosmic fluke, near impossible. But if it does occur that I die in a grocery store on aisle 7, it’s proof the game is fixed and there’s order in the universe. Science will be advanced.

So when I saw the kangaroo headline in the Billings Gazette this weekend – the one that said, “Driver rolls car to avoid kangaroo” – I was pleased. I thought of the scene (near Fort Belknap).

The driver was taken to a hospital and a state patrolman checked on her. She said it was definitely a kangaroo. He said sure, with a smirk no doubt. Then he drove back to examine the scene and sure enough spotted a kangaroo standing 30 feet off the highway. It turned out to be a wallaby.

Now I KNOW I’ll never die in a car wreck caused by a kangaroo (or wallaby). I hope not to be paralyzed by one either – left in a wheelchair, unable to hold a gun, someone making breakfast for me.

Aging is a losing battle and time wins every time. But we still control how we spend it. I plan to spend less of mine looking in the mirror. Get lost vanity.

RIP Kevin D. and Bert H.

I flew to Billings last weekend for a friend’s memorial service and got more than a flight into the past. On August 13, 1976 this friend banged his head on an armrest while lying in the backseat of a car heading home from a bar. The vehicle had ventured just a few feet off the road, for just seconds. The bumping broke a vertabra and cracked his universe, throwing him into a wheelchair for the rest of his life, a distance of some 40 plus years.

He was one of the good ones who so often get dealt a bad hand. Generous beyond belief. The one who’d gather everyone left at last call and buy us all a late night dinner at Wong Village. He was a genius math whiz poker-faced Packer fan. A railroad worker with a pocketful of cash on fire. A true class act.

His quadriplegic existence wasn’t easy but he went on living, aging, engaging in life as he rolled his shoulders forward and back and friends raised his drink with straw to his mouth. He swallowed deeply. It was a tough road to roll.

At the memorial service I talked with a guy I hadn’t seen in 25 years. I recognized him and thought he did me. But an hour later he came up and said he had no idea who I was when we talked earlier. I was taken aback. Everyone else had aged and changed a great deal it seemed, but not I. I wondered how he couldn’t recognize me, until I went to the can and looked in the mirror and wondered who invited my dad. I must have shocked the guy. And no doubt others.

The next morning after the Memorial Service I visited two matriarchs of family clans who were best friends of our family growing up. They now live next door to each other in a senior care center in Billings. One had the marks and blotches common with an aging body, but her mind was tack-sharp. The other had not a pockmark on her, her smiling complexion still creamy smooth. But her mind was off skipping to a different tune and time. She didn’t follow too well. Both are exactly alike in one way: they face their future with grace and courage.

My visit with them left me wondering which is better – to look your worst, and have a sharp mind that knows it. Or to look fine, but have a mind that won’t focus. I vacillate between the two. Of course I should pick mind over body. But Vanity is almost my last name and it’s hard to shake. I most surely will be an ugly old cuss and some will say I already am.

Then again, maybe I won’t have to worry about it. While in Billings I heard that the father of a rancher friend of mine had received a health diagnosis that didn’t sit well with him. So after making and eating breakfast one morning he loaded a revolver, put the barrel to his temple, and shot the diagnosis all to hell.

My mind works in morbid ways and I wondered what he’d made for breakfast. Eggs over (to the other side) easy? Scrambled? Ten pieces of bacon? Had he done the dishes? We all discussed it solemnly, put a brave face on it and said assuredly we’d do the same thing. Maybe not by pulling a trigger, but with surefire thought and action.

I wonder if I would really take that fork. Eat some eggs and bacon, clean up, then blow out the candle for good. I have no idea. I doubt it. I’m not that strong of mind, or that good a shot. And to give up bacon forever would be hard.

When bored, I often think of ways to die. It’s amusing to me. In my mind, if you imagine in detail the circumstances of your death – like getting bit by a rattlesnake while out hiking near Pictograph Cave, or keeling over from a heart attack in the grocery store and causing a cleanup on aisle 7 – the scene you imagine is guaranteed not to happen. Because NOTHING ever happens exactly the way you envision it. It would be a cosmic fluke, near impossible. But if it does; if I die in a grocery store on aisle 7, it’s proof the game is fixed and there’s order in the universe. Science will be advanced.

So when I saw the kangaroo headline in the Billings Gazette this weekend – the one that said, “Driver rolls car to avoid kangaroo” – I was pleased. I thought of the scene (near Fort Belknap). The driver was taken to a hospital and a patrolman checked on her. She said it was definitely a kangaroo. He said sure, with a smirk I’m sure. Then he drove back to examine the scene and sure enough found a kangaroo standing 30 feet off the highway. It turned out to be a wallaby.

Now I KNOW I’ll never die in a car rollover caused by a kangaroo (or wallaby). I hope not to be paralyzed by one either – left in a wheelchair, unable to hold a gun, someone making breakfast for me.

Aging is a losing battle and time wins every time. But we still control how we spend it. I plan to spend less of mine looking in the mirror. Get lost vanity.

RIP Kevin D. and Bert H.

As a competitive basketball player for untold years (48), I know well how important knees are. I would never have blocked as many shots (11) or swished so many countless jumpers (1,393), or dunked in so many opponents’ faces (0), without my knees rising to the occasion time after time. Go ahead and laugh.

But today, knees are no laughing matter. Never have knees been so powerful, so impactful, so important as they are now.

The action of kneeling and the phrase “taking a knee” has taken on a nebulous new significance and meaning. Meaning that's often unclear and misunderstood. Opinions of what it means are all over the map. Arguments erupt, tempers flare, tension boils, and friendships get destroyed.

To me, taking a knee shows support and empathy for people of color who, for generations, have been disrespected, harassed, and more times murdered than we might imagine by law enforcement in this arguably great country.

Kneeling is a humble, non-aggressive, patriotic act designed to call attention to what’s going on in cities large and small, black and white.

But news is fractured with so many sources. People get their information from similar-thinking friends and media outlets (left or right) that mirror their personal views.

As disputes rise, words and sentences get more angry and mean. Extremists get microphones and seats in Congress. The media ratchets it all up for ratings and pundits pontificate as if they are the voice of God. Facts be damned.

Meanwhile, we the people get more and more steamed each day as we approach the boiling point. Frogs? Trolls?

But I have hope. Recently, a relative in the Midwest reached out to me (not me to her) and asked in a courteous manner why, as I had claimed, taking a knee was good for our country. I’m thinking she felt the opposite, and probably still does. But she was sincere and civil. She lowered my temperature. Words can do that (it's some kind of physiological thing). I paused before firing off a reply to her, long enough to tone down my rhetoric.

I’m honored she reached out to understand her wacko relative in Portland a little better. Seems we need more of that – getting out of our silos and walking and talking down paths that lead to friendship and understanding. Kneeling if need be to start the conversation.

That’s the importance of knees, to me. I’m proud to take one. I hope it holds out.

Strangely enough, I’ve recently collaborated on a book with good friend and weirdly talented Portland artist, Karen Wippich. It’s titled “Driving Strangers: Diary of an Uber Driver.”

The book combines Karen’s oddly intriguing portraits with my brief, pithy musings about people I’ve ferried around Portland as an Uber driver. It features 25 art portraits, 75 Uber reflections, and driver data showing my net earnings per shift.

Even stranger, the book is for sale on Amazon and Createspace. In a blatant act of self-promotion, I’ve provided the link below.

P.S. The book also makes a nice cheese plate. Perfect for the holidays!

Find it on Amazon!

- Thomas Jefferson

“Happy evolution, America. Stay cool. Don’t blow off any fingers.”

- Tom Vandel and Les Overhead