It's not really a secret

Last Saturday morning, at a dedication ceremony for a wing of the local Boys & Girls Club, one of the hosts asked those in attendance to share the best advice your father ever gave you. I kept my mouth shut. I wasn't my show.

But here goes:

When I was in second or third grade, and not exactly Mr. Charisma myself, I took to making fun of the new kid in class at recess. Poor little Bruce ran the funniest way, his arms going in circles like windmills. The poor kid was a bit effeminate, too, which only added to material for my cruel comedy. And I found it funny that his dad worked for Playboy. Sure, I was book smart, but what did I know at that age about being nice to a kid who worked at such a place. I had not yet learned the value of networking. But it got laughs making fun of Bruce, and attention from my classmates.

Come report card time, my grades were excellent, but my marks for conduct were poor. It came as a shock to me, because this was the first the teacher had said anything. And in that special guilt-inducing Catholic way, the teacher sent me to church by myself to pray for myself.

I cried. I thought I was going to hell and was sort of confused about how me getting laughs was such a bad thing. Worse, my folks were summoned to a conference.

I thought I was going to get my ass kicked. Come conference time, we all headed over to the school in the big boat sedan, but only my dad went in to talk with my teacher. When my dad came back to the car, he got back behind the wheel he told me that Bruce was retarded. The term learning disability had not been invented yet.

But I got the point. Then my dad said something like, "You shouldn't pick on him. Try not to do it again."

And that's the best lesson he gave.

Of course, for most of us, with all the bad habits we develop, that is way easier said than done. We drink too much on occasion, or spend too much time screwing off, or ignore the ones we love or those who love us, or worry about petty things, or look for love in all the wrong places, or start futile wars.

Still, for the rest of the day at least, I heeded my dad's advice, albeit in a roundabout way. Actually, I combined it with an Oprah I had seen the night before. It was about that silly book The Secret where if you just keep thinking positive thoughts, you too can wind up with your own talk show.

But cutting through the crap of it, I figured what the hell, what can it hurt to be a bit more positive about things. I didn't have to ask for a better parking space or a fancy house. I would shoot for a pleasant afternoon.

Rectify your mistakes by figuring out how not to repeat them - and try to have fun. It helped that the day was sunny and low humidity, a San Diego day in Chicago. It was so nice I parked a mile from where I was heading just to soak in the city - that, and parking was only $6 at the lot.

I met some friends to see Stevie Wonder for free in Grant Park and got to watch the White Sox beat the Cubs on TV in the bar before they arrived. In the crowded park, we stood near some big black guys who knew every word to all the songs and sang them way off key. But it was funny.

And Wonder was in a Latin sort of mood and mixed that with digging deep into his songbook.

And that night we went dancing at a place where the music was a nice mix of dance and alt pop from the last 20 years or so - and where the crowd was a nice blend of people of all sorts, shapes and sizes, who seemed to be having fun without worrying about their looks. You could be old and chubby and dance at this place, or a nerdy female engineering student. It was all good fun - and somebody even rubbed my bald head for good luck.

On the way back to my car, I heard exotic Asian music coming from a restaurant. I don't know why I mention this but that it made me smile and seemed to fit in with a fine day.