Category: relationships

Hack, Steal, Swipe, and Other Modern Courtesies.

It’s the Language of Plunder, and it’s all the rage I’m talking about today.

Every so often, my thoughts drift toward the strange new definitions floating around in the modern lexicon.  It’s those little word fads that flare up, spread everywhere, and then vanish the moment a shinier bit of slang arrives.  A word fad, as I see it, is a piece of language used mindlessly, repeated without understanding, and destined for the linguistic landfill as soon as the next trend rolls in.

One of the most abused is hack.  We now have hair hacks, cooking hacks, travel hacks, security hacks, hacks for everything under the sun.   The word is slapped onto any tip, trick, or mildly useful suggestion.  Yet its true definitions include “gaining unauthorized access” and “cutting with heavy blows.”  Neither definition suggests something gentle, clever, or admirable.  Hack!

But instead of offering tips such as hair tips, security tips, cooking tips, we hack, hack, hack.  Take unauthorized access.  Grab and run.  Rip off.  Steal.

Which brings me to another disturbing phrase I hear far too often: “I’m going to steal that idea!”

Usually, it’s said when someone supposedly admires another person’s décor, recipe, style, or skill.  Once upon a time, we might have simply complimented the person.  We might even (brace yourself) have asked permission to borrow the idea.  However, courtesy is apparently passé these days.  Why ask when you can proudly announce your intention to steal from that person?

Why, indeed?  Hands up!  Hand it over!

So now everything is framed as theft: steal, swipe, take, hack.  Even admiration is expressed in The Language of Plunder.

It’s a small thing, perhaps, however, small things shape habits, and habits shape culture.  When our everyday speech defaults to the vocabulary of taking, it’s no wonder the world feels increasingly coarse, transactional, and grabby.

And yet, here we are.  This is the way of things now.

In the end, these little phrases are not harmless quirks of speech; they reveal how casually we treat one another.  When the language of theft becomes the language of admiration, something in our cultural posture shifts away from gratitude, away from courtesy, away from the simple dignity of asking.  Words shape habits, and habits shape the world we build together.  If we want a gentler world, perhaps we begin by speaking as though one is still possible.

 

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When the Hallways Talk.

A short story from the past.

For hours, JeVaughn Willard sat in his recliner, frowning at the sporadic thuds and rolling rumbles echoing through the Sage Pointe Condominium building.  He took another puff of his Kools and listened hard.  The sounds came and went with no discernible pattern, bouncing off the walls and rattling his nerves.  He strained his ears, trying to pinpoint the source, but the building’s acoustics made it maddeningly elusive.  He slid out of his recliner and ambled over to the picture window.  He pushed aside the slats of the Venetian blinds and was glad he was not in the howling thunderstorm.  JeVaughn returned to his recliner.

As the clock struck eight, he took a break from reading his latest mystery novel.  His overflowing garbage bin finally gave him a reason to investigate the noise in the hallway.  He grabbed the bag and shuffled out into the dimly lit hallway, trying to keep his ragged brown corduroy slippers from flying off of his feet.  The carpet muffled his footsteps, but the strange racket had grown louder.  Then, as he rounded a corner, the mystery revealed itself.

Two neighborhood kids, the brood of the Reverand and Mrs. Stankle, were tearing up and down the long corridor, kicking a slightly deflated soccer ball between their feet.

Bam!  The ball slammed against a wall, leaving a faint smudge before careening into the air.

Thud!  The ball rebounded off the ceiling, narrowly missing a flickering light sconce as it came down.

JeVaughn Willard sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching with restrained annoyance.  He trudged to the garbage chute and let the bag drop with a hollow clang, watching it disappear into the void.

“Pointless,” he muttered under his breath, sparing one last glance at the kids.  They laughed and shouted, blissfully unaware of their disruptive echoes.

JeVaughn tightened his terry cloth robe and shuffled back to his door.  “No use mentioning it to their parents,” he thought grimly.  “The reverend’s sermons are loud enough.  I don’t need him aiming one at me!”

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Smoke, Scrape, Yell, Repeat.

After writing “The Sheriff of Decibels,” regarding the whole “your TV is too loud” saga with the neighbor who may be had been hearing phantom sounds, I thought I had earned a brief intermission in the neighborhood drama, but then it reminded me of one of the downstairs neighbors I had once, and those thoughts led to me think of a whole different angle.  Life in a condominium is basically a rotating cast of social challenges, and the next act began downstairs.

I lived in a condominium where one of my downstairs neighbors used her balcony like it was her personal broadcasting studio.  Whenever she had company, the visitors were always on the sidewalk below.  Their conversations rose straight up.  I didn’t even have to try to overhear; the dialogue arrived fully formed, projected upward with the confidence of someone who believed the entire building was her audience.  If she ever decided to start a podcast, she wouldn’t need equipment.  She already had the lungs for it.

Another neighbor was forever loud on her cell phone.  One afternoon, I heard her give out her bank account number, a passcode, and the balance.  Wow.

Then there’s the patio furniture.  There is a neighbor who, every time she shifts a chair on her balcony, it sounds like she’s dragging a cast-iron park bench across a stone floor.  I’ve heard less noise from actual construction sites.

There was the cigarette smoke from a cheap brand yet another neighbor probably bought by the truckload.  It drifted upward in slow, dramatic spirals, and somehow it slipped into my condo like it had a key.  One moment I’m enjoying fresh air; the next, my living room and kitchen smelled like a casino buffet circa 1960.  It wasn’t ideal, but I learned to adapt since the odor didn’t last more than a half hour or so.

But here’s the important part: I didn’t complain.  Not ever.  Not a text, not a note, not even a pointed throat-clear over the balcony railing.  Why?  Because this was life in a building full of people.  They talked loudly.  They scraped furniture.  They smoked.  They lived.  And unless someone was hosting a demolition derby in their living room, I tolerated the occasional disturbances.

Besides, after the Sheriff of Decibels dealings, I’ve developed a new appreciation for not becoming That Neighbor.  If I ever feel tempted to pick up the phone and lodge a complaint, I remember how it feels to be scolded for noises that may or may not exist.  It’s an excellent deterrent.

So, I let the balcony monologues rise, let the furniture screech across the concrete, let the cigarette smoke drift out and upward like a weather pattern.  I breathed, I adjusted, I moved on.  Because in the grand, chaotic symphony of condo living, sometimes the most intelligent thing you can do is simply not add your own instrument to the noise.

I just laughed it all off.

 

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The Age of Adonis (Part 3).

Part 3 of 3:  The Middle Distance.

There is a peculiar vantage point one gains simply by living in close proximity to other human beings.  Not close enough to know their secrets, but close enough to witness their habits; their triumphs, their peculiarities, their kindness, their small vanities, their authenticity, and quieter graces.  It is the view from the middle distance, where comedy and clarity often arrive hand‑in‑hand.

From this vantage point, I have watched our neighborhood Adonis swell into his mythic proportions, strutting through the hallways and on the neighborhood sidewalks like a man auditioning for a protein‑powder commercial.  His life is lived in bold, glossy strokes of sweat, swagger, and spectacle.  He found the easy way in life to make a dollar, becoming a grifter front and center on the unholy stage of a community fellowship group, sermonizing under the guise of praises and blessings peppered within his readings of scripture verses found in a distorted Bible.  He is the sort of person who seems to believe that if he flexes hard enough – whether it is flexing by quoting scripture or flexing muscles – the world will mistake it for virtue.  At the same time, he soaks in the adulation and attention as one would with water from the River Jordan.

And then, from the same vantage point, I have watched the quiet ones; the door‑holders, the plant‑waterers, the hallway‑softeners moving through the building with a gentleness that neither asks nor demands anything in return.  Their lives are lived in gentle lowercase letters, steady and unadorned.  They are not trying to be noticed, which is precisely why they are.

Modern life, for all its noise, has a way of revealing character in the smallest of moments.  The man who performs goodness loudly often performs it only for the applause and attention.  The man who waters the begonias when no one is looking is not performing at all.  He is simply and unobtrusively being who he is.

Discernment, I’ve learned, is not about judging people harshly.  It’s about seeing clearly and recognizing the difference between shine and substance, between the man who builds his body like an Old Testament golden monument and the neighbor who quietly builds a life of decency.  Humility, too, is not a grand gesture.  It is the quiet refusal to make oneself the center of every hallway and fellowship stage.  To learn what not to become is one of the great lessons of life.

And what about the comedy of modernity?  It’s everywhere.  It’s in the man who cannot lower his arms because his torso has become a personal billboard.  It’s in the fluorescent lights catching a thousand sequins on Cowgirl Betty’s jacket in the middle of a sunny day.  It’s in the way we all, at one point or another, take ourselves far too seriously.

But the deeper comedy is the one that makes you smile long after the moment has passed.  It is this: the people who most want to be admired rarely are, and the people who never think about admiration often end up holding the whole place together.

In the middle distance, the truth becomes clear.  Strength is not measured in inches of bicep or the girth of one’s chest.  Beauty is not measured in lumens of sparkle.  Virtue, the real kind, is almost always quiet enough to miss if you’re not paying attention.

But once you see it, you start noticing it everywhere.

This is the final chapter of three parts.

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The Age of Adonis (Part 2)

Part 2 of 3:  The Quiet Virtues

Not long after watching the rise of our neighborhood Adonis — the sweat, the swagger, the ever‑expanding circumference of his upper body — I began noticing something else in the building.  Something smaller, quieter, and far easier to overlook.

It started with the older gentleman on the fifth floor, the one who always carries a canvas tote bag and walks with a slight shuffle.  I once saw him pause in the lobby to hold the door for a mother wrangling a stroller and two grocery bags.  He didn’t say much. He just nodded, smiled, and waited until she was safely inside.  No flexing.  No performance.  Just a simple act of courtesy that didn’t require an audience.

Then there’s the woman down the hall who leaves small seasonal decorations on her door.  They aren’t elaborate, just a tiny flowery wreath or a quilted, hanging pumpkin door decoration.  She never announces them, never tries to impress anyone.  But somehow those little touches soften the whole hallway, as if she’s quietly reminding the rest of us that beauty doesn’t have to shout.

And of course, there’s the retired engineer who waters the courtyard plants when no one else remembers.  He doesn’t make speeches about community or stewardship.  He simply notices what needs doing and does it, his hands moving with the calm competence of someone who has spent a lifetime tending to things that grow slowly.

None of these people would ever call themselves virtuous.  They would laugh at the idea.  They are simply living their lives with a kind of unselfconscious decency that doesn’t demand or look for applause.

It struck me one afternoon, watching the engineer mist the begonias while Adonis strutted past, that quiet virtues are the ones that actually hold a place together.  Not the loud displays of strength or the curated personas, but the small, steady acts that ask for nothing in return.

The world has always had its Adonises; men who sculpt themselves into monuments and then wonder why no one bows.  But the world has also always had its quiet souls, the ones who keep the doors open, the plants alive, the hallways gentle.

And if I’m honest, it’s the quiet ones who make a neighborhood livable.  They are the ballast, the steadying weight, the reminder that goodness doesn’t need to be dramatic nor a showboat to be real.

In a culture obsessed with spectacle, the quiet virtues are almost radical these days.  They whisper instead of shout.  They build instead of pose.  They endure long after the muscles deflate and the spotlight moves on.

And perhaps that is the real miracle: that in a world full of noise, the softest lives are often the ones that speak the truth most clearly.

Part 3 will be published on April 18, 2026.

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The Age of Adonis (Part 1)

Part 1 of 3:  Reflections on Vanity, Virtue, and the Modern Parade

He was the sort of man who made a living preaching The Word while somehow managing to sidestep most of its demands.  You could see it in the way he carried himself; earnest on the surface, but with a hollowness underneath, like a sermon missing its last page.

When I first met him, he was almost aggressively unremarkable: small, soft around the middle, a crew cut that looked like it had been administered by someone in a hurry, and some type of cologne that would gag a maggot.  He told me he had left the Church and was now preaching at a non‑denominational fellowship down the road.  He quoted Scripture with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered the footnotes and wanted everyone to know and be impressed.  Truthfully, it felt less like devotion and more like a performance of mental gymnastics meant to impress.  They didn’t.

In our brief conversations, he mentioned he was a former drug user, now clean, and that he was “still learning” and had “a long way to go” in understanding The Word.  That part, at least, I believed.

But then something shifted.

Slowly, his upper body began to expand.  It was first subtly, then alarmingly.  I would see him at the neighborhood gym, or returning from it, sweat pouring off him in rivulets that perfumed the condominium hallways with a scent that could only be described as fusty.  Other days, I’d spot him leaving Atomic Health Club in town, towels slung over his shoulder, his wet T‑shirt clinging to him like a second skin.  He would leap into his sports car with the flourish of a man starring in his own music video and drive off like a bolt out of the blue.

By summer, the transformation seemed complete.  One afternoon, he and his family walked down the hallway on their way to the swimming pool. “Walked” is generous—he lumbered, unable to lower his arms fully because his torso had grown to mythic proportions.  He wore only baggy shorts (I cannot call them trunks), his thick thighs rubbing together and his calves looking like chicken legs.  It looked like it hurt him to move his legs, and for that moment I felt sorry for him.  His pre‑tween daughter wore a bikini so revealing it made me blink twice in embarrassment.  His wife and son, ironically, were dressed modestly befitting a church picnic.

His upper body had become enormous, his thighs still pronounced, his calves still comically thin.  He reminded me of a Greek statue carved by an artist who ran out of marble halfway through.  It was unsettling, the kind of physique that makes you instinctively step aside in case it topples or explodes.

He strutted through the building with the air of a man fishing for admiration, or perhaps for something more.  Someone once told me that people who leave one addiction often find another to replace the high.  Maybe this was that; maybe it wasn’t.  I’m not his confessor; I can only pray for him.

What I do know is this: the greater his muscles grew, the quieter his preaching rang.  There was a disconnect between the man he proclaimed himself to be and the man he was becoming, between the humility of the Gospel and the vanity of the mirror.

And perhaps that is the real caution of the Age of Adonis: when the body becomes the altar, the soul is left without a place to kneel and worship the one true God.

Part 2 will be published on April 16, 2026.

 

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Morning at The Kalamata.

Saturdays bring a delight to our weekends, especially when we change our routine.  For something a little different, last Saturday, mid-morning, we headed out to The Kalamata Kafé.  We weren’t disappointed.

The simple brunch was nothing short of pleasant; it was one of those simple meals that somehow feels like a small private celebration.  Soft violin music emanated from the ceiling speakers.  The waitresses were modestly dressed in pure white short togas tied at the waist with gold belts.  My companion ordered a knish—a strangely sweetened roll made from a dough similar to pillowy Hawaiian‑style bread.  It was filled with soy chorizo and melted queso chihuahua (an imported cheese), a combination that gave it a savory kick and a five-fingered punch beneath the sweetness.  I took a small bite and so did my companion; it was unlike anything either of us tried before, unexpected in the best way, and definitely memorable.  I ordered an almond croissant sprinkled with sugar and sliced toasted almonds, still warm from the oven, its flaky layers giving way to a soft, fragrant center touched with just enough sugary depth.  A cup of weak lemongrass tea sweetened with mesquite honey for the two of us gave the oomph our light brunch needed.

Afterward, we strolled up the bay, the morning light glinting off the water, then we looped back along the main road where the breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand.  The walk stirred up memories for both of us—those long rides we used to take on the Indian Chieftain, chasing the horizon with nothing but vast open road ahead.  Only this time, the adventure came with greater comfort, steadier footing, and a quiet sense of security that felt like its own kind of freedom.  We eventually found our car, hopped in, and headed back home.  Later that day, the soy chorizo-queso chihuahua knish thing didn’t agree with my companion and we spent the late afternoon paying for it dearly.

We’ll go back to The Kalamata, but with a different menu ordering plan.

 

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A Lesson in the Checkout Line.

A couple of weeks ago, we were in the checkout line at the grocery store, the kind of slow‑moving line that gives you time to observe more than you intended.  In front of us stood an elderly woman with a cart full of groceries and a look of growing concern.  Something was clearly wrong, though I couldn’t hear the details—because the man behind us had just answered his cell phone and immediately launched into a booming, play‑by‑play commentary of the situation.

He was delighted to narrate.  Absolutely delighted.  According to him, the woman had “decided not to pay for everything,” and the cashier was now forced to “re‑ring the whole cart,” and on and on he went, blah, blah, blah, embellishing freely, as if auditioning for the role of Town Crier of Checkout Line Four.

Meanwhile, the elderly woman stood quietly at the register, her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands folded around her wallet.  She wasn’t dramatic, nor causing a scene.  She was simply trying to sort out whatever the problem was.

It wasn’t until later, after we’d checked out and were walking to the car, that my best friend, who had actually heard the real exchange, told me what had happened.  The woman’s EBT card hadn’t covered all her items, and she had tried to pay the remainder with a personal check, but the cashier couldn’t accept it for some unknown reason.  That was the entire “scandal.”  No theatrics.  No attempted grocery heist.  Just a woman trying to buy food and running into the quiet humiliations that come with limited means.

The man behind us, however, had been proudly broadcasting a story about her of his own invention, complete with moral judgments and imaginary plot twists.  He had turned her sad difficulty into laughable entertainment.

I thought about that on my ride home; the ease with which some people narrate other people’s struggles, the confidence with which they fill in the blanks, the laughs, the casual cruelty of assuming the worst when the truth is usually simpler, quieter, and far more human.

A checkout line can reveal more about character than we expect. Sometimes it’s not the person in trouble who tells the story; it’s the person who can’t resist telling the wrong one and laugh at a person’s misfortune.

 

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