Podcasts about blackston

Blake and David dive into major industry news, including Ohio ending the 150-hour CPA rule, setting a potential precedent for other states. They also discuss the Blackston acquisition of Citrin Cooperman and explore the implications of private equity involvement in accounting firms. Moving on, they examine workplace trends, including new data revealing that 61% of medium and large employers now require minimum in-office days, and debate the effectiveness of Net Promoter Scores (NPS) in accounting firms.SponsorsOnPay - http://accountingpodcast.promo/onpayBoomTax - http://accountingpodcast.promo/boomtaxTaxBandits - http://accountingpodcast.promo/taxbanditsBasil - http://accountingpodcast.promo/basilChapters(01:03) - Private Equity in Accounting Firms (03:14) - Personal Update: Blake's Hand Injury (05:18) - California's Insurance Crisis (13:57) - Ohio Ends the 150-Hour Rule (22:02) - App News: OnPay, SafeSend, and More (30:16) - Carvana's Questionable Accounting Practices (36:36) - Return to Office Policies (40:01) - RTO Policies and Office Leases (41:15) - Client Satisfaction and Net Promoter Score (42:53) - Debate on the Effectiveness of NPS (44:20) - Implementing NPS in Accounting Firms (52:03) - PCAOB Fines and Audit Quality (01:03:15) - Bitcoin and Government Policies (01:06:54) - Private Equity in Accounting Firms (01:15:07) - Earmark App and CPE Credits  Show NotesReturn-to-office policies gain steamhttps://www.cfo.com/news/return-to-office-policies-gain-steam-remote-work-hybrid-wtw-resume-org/735710Citrin Cooperman, a Leading Professional Services Firm, to Receive Significant Investment as Blackstone Acquires Stake from New Mountain Capitalhttps://www.blackstone.com/news/press/citrin-cooperman-a-leading-professional-services-firm-to-receive-significant-investment-as-blackstone-acquires-stake-from-new-mountain-capital/Ohio is the first state to end the 150-hour rule for CPA licensurehttps://www.blakeoliver.com/blog/ohio-first-state-to-end-the-150-hour-rule-for-cpa-licensureOhio gov signs alternative CPA licensure pathway bill into lawhttps://www.cfodive.com/news/ohio-gov-signs-alternative-cpa-licensure-pathway-bill-law-accounting-aicpa/736942/Thomson Reuters Acquires SafeSend, Expanding Tax Automation Capabilitieshttps://www.thomsonreuters.com/en/press-releases/2025/january/thomson-reuters-acquires-safesend-expanding-tax-automation-capabilities.htmlXero Partners with Gusto to Offer Integrated Payroll Solutionhttps://www.wellesleyhillsfinancial.com/2025/01/05/xero-partners-with-gusto-to-offer-integrated-payroll-solution/Sync your transactions to QuickBooks Desktop with Ramp's direct integrationhttps://ramp.com/integrations/quickbooks-desktopHindenburg Research short on used-car retailer Carvanahttps://www.reuters.com/business/autos-transportation/hindenburg-research-short-used-car-retailer-carvana-2025-01-02/Enforcement Activity Involving Auditors – 2024 Mid-Year Updatehttps://www.brattle.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/08/Enforcement-Activity-Involving-Auditors-2024-Mid-Year-Update.pdfAmid Barely ‘Average' Client Satisfaction, Why Aren't More Firms Using NPS to Improve?https://insidepublicaccounting.com/2024/07/16/amid-barely-average-client-satisfaction-why-arent-more-firms-using-nps-to-improve/The federal government just got the greenlight to sell $6.5 billion in Bitcoin seized from Silk Roadhttps://fortune.com/crypto/2025/01/09/federal-government-allowed-sell-bitcoin-silk-road-courts/Need CPE?Get CPE for listening to podcasts with Earmark: https://earmarkcpe.comSubscribe to the Earmark Podcast: https://podcast.earmarkcpe.comGet in TouchThanks for listening and the great reviews! We appreciate you! Follow and tweet @BlakeTOliver and @DavidLeary. Find us on Facebook and Instagram. If you like what you hear, please do us a favor and write a review on Apple Podcasts or Podchaser. Call us and leave a voicemail; maybe we'll play it on the show. DIAL (202) 695-1040.SponsorshipsAre you interested in sponsoring the Cloud Accounting Podcast? For details, read the prospectus.Need Accounting Conference Info? Check out our new website - accountingconferences.comLimited edition shirts, stickers, and other necessitiesTeePublic Store: http://cloudacctpod.link/merchSubscribeApple Podcasts: http://cloudacctpod.link/ApplePodcastsYouTube:

in this episode i'm talking about Kevin Hart, Ice Cube, Gary Owens, Michael Blackston, Faizon Love & more responding to Katt Williams

This week the guys discuss whether Jimmy vs Key is World Championship worthy, who should be on Cody's team at War Games and when Brock Lesnar should return! Sir Blackston removes his mask ... kinda. Also Q&A and Raw Highlights! --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/raw-impact-radio/support

The guys review AEW Collision, they give their opinions on CM Punk, Monday Night Raw Review and we finally get the T-Shirt Competition between Sir Blackston and The Masked Hope!! --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/raw-impact-radio/support

Welcome to our WWE Night Of Champions predictions episode, where we break down all the action and drama going into WWE's highly anticipated pay-per-view. Join us as we dive deep into the matchups, rivalries, and storylines leading up to this must-see event. From analyzing the in-ring performances to discussing the latest developments in the world of WWE, Raw Impact Radio offers exciting and insightful commentary from fans who are passionate about all things wrestling. Tune in and join the conversation as we give you the ultimate Night Of Champions experience. --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/raw-impact-radio/support

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/new-books-network

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/gender-studies

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/critical-theory

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/anthropology

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/sociology

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/psychology

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/lgbtq-studies

Hello, this is Eric LeMay, a host on the New Books Network. Today I interview Susan Stryker and Dylan McCarthy Blackston about The Transgender Studies Reader Remix (Routledge, 2023). This is a book that's as big as it is rich. It brings together 50 previously published articles that track both the history and the current directions in the interdisciplinary field of transgender studies. The reader shows the conversations taking place not only within transgender studies but also between transgender studies and such fields as feminist theory, queer theory, Black studies, history, biopolitics, and the posthumanities. In our conversation, editors Stryker and Blackston gives us a sense of this range and also the crucial issues that inform the creation of the reader itself and the importance of transgender studies as a field. Blackston is an Assistant Professor of Gender, Women's, and Sexuality Studies in the Department of Interdisciplinary Studies at Appalachian State University. Stryker is Professor Emerita of Gender and Women's Studies at the University of Arizona, founding co-editor of TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly, founding co-editor of Duke University Press's ASTERISK book series, and co-editor of Routledge's two previous transgender studies readers. And here's our conversation. Eric LeMay is on the creative writing faculty at Ohio University. He is the author of five books, most recently Remember Me. He can be reached at eric@ericlemay.org. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices Support our show by becoming a premium member! https://newbooksnetwork.supportingcast.fm/public-policy

The guys review Monday Night Raw and discuss the buildup of Brock vs Cody; Trish Stratus is now a heel. How did her first promo go?; Does Omos belong on the Mount Rushmore of big men? The Masked Hope wants all of the smoke and challenges Sir Blackston to a match. Plus lots more!! --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/raw-impact-radio/support

In this episode, BA communication team member Jennifer Vickery Smith sits down with Andy Blackston and senior basketball team member Alec Rasmussen to discuss this year's state championship-winning season and to hear Andy's story of healing after a medical scare in the fall of 2022.

Andy Blackston's debut season at Brentwood Academy has been a memorable one. The Eagles (25-3) have only lost to one in-state team (Rossview), feature a Mr. Basketball finalist (Tyler Tanner) and can advance to the Division II-AA final four with one more win on Saturday (against MUS). Hosts Tyler Palmateer and Russell Vannozzi also give an update on postseason hoops and state wrestling.

Back with another one! Great convo with some old & new friends. We discuss the Grammys 50th HipHop performance and the importance of it. Dula, Bruce, Blackston talk the LeBron scoring record (where I tuned out because sports isn't my wheelhouse). We also discuss current shows and reminisce on the days it was myself,Marcus, & Dula rolling around. Enjoy!!!

Business owners and managers along Blackstone Ave in Fresno voiced safety concerns to the City of FresnoSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Matson Montilla talks with Clemson football tight end Will Blackston about his career at Clemson and his goals for this season. Later, they talk about Blackston's recruitment and playing at Belton-Honea Path high school. Blackston also talks about the special moments at Clemson, like running down the hill.

Russell & Tyler visit with Brentwood Academy's new basketball coach Andy Blackston, plus NFL Draft results from the weekend, and who from the Midstate could be next? Plus, an update on basketball coach movement season & Mensi Stiff breaking records at the Great Eight Invite.

Our guest today is COO Alliance Member Glen Raven's VP of Operations, Randy Blackston.   As VP of Operations, Randy is responsible for global manufacturing of the Sunbrella Branded Products. He's also directly responsible for the operations of 5 manufacturing plants with 1,500 associates.  His biggest achievement includes the design, engineered staffing plan with job […] The post Ep.196 – Glen Raven VP of Operations, Randy Blackston appeared first on COO Alliance.

Our guest today is COO Alliance Member Glen Raven's VP of Operations, Randy Blackston.   As VP of Operations, Randy is responsible for global manufacturing of the Sunbrella Branded Products. He's also directly responsible for the operations of 5 manufacturing plants with 1,500 associates.  His biggest achievement includes the design, engineered staffing plan with job […] The post Ep.196 – Glen Raven VP of Operations, Randy Blackston appeared first on COO Alliance.

We are taking ya'll a little bit south to Natchitoches, Louisiana for today's story. My sister in law Ashley will be joining me as I tell the story of the Blackston family and the terrible tragedy that they suffered in 1985. Follow us on Instagram  Follow us on Twitch Follow us on Twitter Sources: https://apnews.com/article/636907081d909f1a41135f05a3253fbe https://www.leagle.com/decision/19901869559so2d131011633 --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/bayouchronicles/support

The title pretty much sums up the conversation. Spoke with three of my longtime friends of over 20 years about what Biggie meant to us as well as the Tupac situation and underrated/overrated emcees etc. First time having Blackston on the podcast. If any of you know him, you know that he's very opinionated so don't be shocked by what you hear today. Enjoy. --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

Former Danish investment banker, Charlotte Valeur, is an internationally renowned and highly experienced Non-Executive Director and Chair who is committed to increasing levels of good governance globally through value-based leadership. Always destined to live and work abroad she admits, at the age of 22, Charlotte transferred from Denmark, her home, to London with the bank she was employed with at the time and has remained there ever since. Raised by an adoring father who encouraged and supported all of her choices, his words of advice have been key to her every success: “Jump life before life jumps you.” In this episode, Charlotte reminds that everything that happens to us in life is based on our personal decisions and no one else's. Intrigued by the behaviour of people, Charlotte studied psychology when she took some time off work when she had her children. It is these soft skills, paired with her innate knowledge of investment banking, that have set her apart in the Boardroom. Charlotte has extensive Board level experience with IPOs, mergers and acquisitions, and restructuring, and her portfolio of sectors range from construction, infrastructure, renewable energy, private equity, property, finance/investments/debt, higher education and the third sector. When she entered the world of Board governance, she had a feeling that the overriding principles of best practice were the same, no matter the country or the organisation. From Board composition, to risk management and oversight, to stakeholder engagement, she found from her lived experience that the principles were in fact the same. When Charlotte first stepped into the Boardroom, she was alarmed that she was the only woman most of the time. Male Board members would justify the polarisation by saying there were no women with Board experience. This motivated Charlotte to establish Board Apprentice Ltd, a not for profit organisation that collaborates with Boards, governments, academia, the third sector and businesses in many different countries to achieve greater equality, diversity and inclusion for women and minority groups. Today Charlotte is Non-Executive Director for Liang O'Rourke and NTR plc, Chair for Blackstone Loan Financing Ltd and FSN Capital GP and Advisory Board Member for multiple organisations. When she first began chairing 15 years ago, the appalling slow pace of governance shocked Charlotte. Following the 2007, 2008 and 2009 financial crises, and now COVID, she confidently says we are witnessing a push for better governance and leadership. Hear about Charlotte's upcoming book, why her Autism diagnosis has in many ways made her a better Board member, and the benefits of her many transferable skills. LinkedIn Charlotte Valeur | Claire Braund (host) Further Information about Women on Boards (WOB) membership, events & services, please visit our website. to receive our weekly newsletter, subscribe to WOB as a Basic Member (free). join as a Full Member for full access to our Board Vacancies, WOBShare (our online member platform) and more. Follow us on LinkedIn, Facebook and Twitter

Coach Blackston is a future Hall of Fame High School basketball coach in the state of Alabama. He is a 6 time State Champion. He has coached many high level division 1 athletes. But Coach Blackston will be the first to tell you that it is about the relationships with his players and trying to influence them for Christ on a daily basis. He has built a culture around Madison Academy Basketball that will carry-on long after he has left the program. You can follow his journey on Instagram and Twitter @mamustanghoops ENJOY!

It is Wednesday, which means it's time again for our weekly author profile. This week's author is one you probably don't know, but definitely should: Ray Blackston. Let's get Bookish.                 Support us on Patreon at www.patreon.com/bookishpodcast --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/bookish/support

Syracuse commit Jatius Geer’s head coach Russell Blackston joins Fizz Film Room to discuss Geer's position versatility once he arrives on campus, as well as his best skillsets right now.

The Community Connections show is hosted by Ryan Sauers. The show brings you positive stories and encouraging news from top leaders in various sectors of the community who are are interviewed. **Enjoy this show to hear exciting news and developments from our guest Sabrina Blackston,Location Manager & Funeral Director, of Eternal Hills Funeral Home & Memory Gardens.Contact info: Website= www.eternalhillsfuneralhome.com Email= Sabrina.Blackston@Dignitymemorial.com

This week on Coach Digital Tweet Talk Podcast, Vintage Stylist, Selena Blackston owner of BluButterflyVintage.com (with the big beautiful blue butterfly logo) shares her stories behind some of the most intimate moments she has experienced on her entrepreneurial faith journey.  Selena digs into some of her most rewarding work and gives advice to anyone who wants to live their dreams right now! One of the few Christian females in her industry, Selena has traveled the nation documenting some of the most elusive vintage pieces on our planet. When you experience Selena's work it is impossible not to feel a deep emotional connection to her styles. Her passion for Jesus, her family, and helping others look good is the true north for her work. Find out how she uses her gift as a vintage stylist for sharing her client's best image above all else.

   I love to tell stories, especially in writing, and if I can use the responses from the stuff I’ve created as a gauge, I’d say I’m pretty darn good at it. I’m not tooting my own horn here. All a writer has to go by is audience response, but there might not have been a response to give if it hadn’t been for one woman - my eighth grade English teacher, Mrs. Thornton. I’d like to thank her for the way she encouraged me, but I can’t. She’s not with us anymore and I waited too late to tell her just how much her hard-nosed approach made a difference in my life.    I’m Michael Blackston and this is an important part of my Funny Messy Life.    I wasn’t a great student. I wasn’t even a good student, but I had something most prepubescent boys care nothing about. Potential.    My mother was an elementary school teacher for most of her working life and so in the small, southern town I grew up in, all the other teachers knew me. I was Brenda’s son - the one whose summer breaks were cut short because I was made to go a week early and help mom at the beginning of the year to get her room ready during pre-planning and at the end of the year to clean up during post-planning. I was always made to help the other teachers too, by doing things like pushing loads of textbooks back to their storage places on those carts that had two levels and always had one wheel that just spun around like your messed up buddy sometimes randomly did when he was on a sugar high, and all the time the other wheels did their jobs.    By the time I got to the eighth grade, most of the teachers in the school system knew Brenda’s boy and I got used to that. I had a deeper relationship with them because I helped them and I think they had a little sympathy for me because while the other kids were starting their summer breaks or getting in their last week of it, I was pushing that stupid cart around the empty halls of the elementary school, weaving that huge thing around with my tiny seven year old body like I’d had too much to drink the night before, and all because of that one rogue wheel.    I used the fact that they all liked me to my advantage and because mom was a single mother with stacks of papers to grade every night and couldn’t stay on top of me and my homework, I got into the habit of being what we in America call, A Dang Slacker. And I got away with it for a while. I sort of feel like I got a little extra consideration at times for being Brenda’s Boy. That was, until eighth grade, when I was assigned to Mrs. Thornton’s English class. She wasn’t mean; she wasn’t unreasonable. She just expected the best out of her students and would accept nothing less. She was a strong black woman who commanded the room. When she spoke, it was with confidence and articulation. She intimidated me.    Mrs. Thornton knew that if you allow children to function at their lowest level, they’ll grow up to function at their lowest level. If my mind wandered in class, she’d call me out. If I was bored and just stopped paying attention, she’d call me out. I couldn’t stand the woman.    I’m sure I had hurtful names for her and said things behind her back to my friends that made me feel good at the time, while she stood by, fully aware that I was doing it, and she wouldn’t give one, as we say here in the good ol’ U.S. or A., Tee-Total Rip.    Why?    Because she cared a lot about us. She wanted the best for her students, no matter what it took and no matter what we thought about her. We were children and in the long run, there might be one or two of us who realized how much she did care and would appreciate it. I wish I could tell her that I’m one of those kids, but I can’t. I waited too late.    Despite Mrs. Thornton’s and my mom’s best efforts, my eighth grade year was mostly an exercise in me being what we red blooded, southern Americans call, a Jim-Flammin’ Iggit. By the end of the year, I had nearly failing scores in all of my classes except for Chorus. My Math and English scores were failing, but I had one last hope of bringing my grade up enough to pass in Mrs. Thornton’s class. She was waiting on a term paper she said I hadn’t turned in. I actually thought I had turned it in, but it was nowhere to be found and she informed me that if she didn’t get it by the deadline, my English grade would be posted below 70. We could fail one class and still advance to the next grade, but failing two would hold me back to repeat the eighth grade.    There was no way I was going to get my math grade up. They might still be showing that grade to curious gawkers for a quarter apiece at fairs. But I dug in my heels about the term paper. I told her I had turned it in and she told me I had not. If you’re familiar with the attitude of what we Yankee Doodles Dandies call, The Male Eighth Grader, you know they’re stubborn and I wasn’t an exception.    I didn’t do the paper and I had three reasons: #1. I was a male eighth grader and I knew everything, #2. I was a male eighth grader and I was lazy, and #3. I fully expected to get that Brenda’s Boy credit.    When the report cards came out, I opened mine up, already planning my crazy escapades of the summer, and I started to cry. There were all of my scores - Chorus was a bold, high A, Math was failing and I knew it would be, all the others but one were passing. Barely, but passing. All but one. English. It was a failing grade, just as I had been told it would be, and I was figuratively  hit in the face with what we around my grandma’s house call, A Big Ol’ Heapin’ of I Told Ya So!    Mama asked me what was wrong, but she already knew. She’d had a conversation with Mrs. Thornton before I got my report card and she was fully aware of everything, including what was to come next.    “I faaaaaiillled! Mama, I have to repeat eighth grade! WAHHHHHH!”    Mama waited for me to calm down and asked if I turned in my term paper like I was supposed to. I told her I had, but Mrs. Thornton lost it. Mama asked if I had rewritten it to make sure Mrs. Thornton got a copy on time and I screamed something to the effect of …    “She hates me and she lost it the first time - probably on purpose - and I turned it in and it’s not fair to make me write a new one because it was her fault and she lost it and she hates me and she’s always been mean to me since the first day of school and I didn’t know why and I’m telling the principle and she’s gonna get fired and … WAAAAAHHHHH!”    Mama calmly explained that Mrs. Thornton wasn’t to blame for any of this. I hadn’t kept up my homework, I hadn’t studied like I was supposed to, so I failed a lot of my tests. I didn’t pay attention in class and if I had done right, I probably would have passed even without turning in the term paper. She reminded me that I’d been warned this would happen and that Mrs. Thornton had been more than fair by even giving me the chance to rewrite it.    After a while, she also told me the plan going forward and I couldn’t believe my ears.    Mrs. Thornton had called mama and told her she’d give me one last chance. I was to come to her classroom during post-planning the next week and rewrite my term paper. She would read it and if I followed the guidelines for the paper, she would give me a grade one point above failing so that I could go to the ninth grade.    I rode my bike from the house to the school the next Monday morning and went to Mrs. Thornton’s class. She was bent over a stack of paperwork she had to complete to start her own summer break and she looked up from that when I walked in.    “Have a seat at your desk, Michael,” she told me and pointed to the spot where I’d slacked off all year long. She brought some paper and a pencil with her, along with a printout of the expected guidelines for the work. “If you’ll focus, it shouldn’t take you long,” she said, clearly disappointed that it had come to this for one of her students. She also knew that I blamed her for losing the paper and to this day, I still think I turned it in.    I started to write, but I couldn’t think. All I could do was dwell on the fact that there were woods to be explored, bikes to be ridden, and games of pretend Rambo to be played. I got madder and madder, until finally I found the courage to just ask Mrs. Thornton right out.    “Why don’t you like me?”    I think it surprised her and she got back up from her desk again to come sit in one of the smaller ones close to mine.    “Why do you think I don’t like you?”    I hadn’t planned the conversation past the initial question, so I stalled for a minute, but eventually came up with something. “You’ve been mean to me all year. Embarrassed me in front of the class, you’re making me do this paper again when I promise I turned it in.”    “Where did you put the first one?”    “I laid it on your desk.”    “Where on my desk?”    “Right in the middle.”    “Mmm hmm,” she mumbled and walked back over to her desk, taking something off it. She brought the thing to me and presented it atop of the paper I was trying to write. “Do you remember when I showed this to the whole class?”    What she had brought over was a tray, labelled boldly on the front. Term Papers. I shook my head that I did not remember.it.    “I showed this tray to the whole class and asked you each to place your papers in it. I said it was very important and that if you didn’t, I might not see it. It may have gotten mixed up with other things on my desk and I may even run across it one day, but you didn’t follow instructions and that’s not my fault, is it?”    “No ma’am.”    I’ve always had a problem paying attention. I was never diagnosed with ADHD, but I imagine if I had ever been tested for it, the results would have been posted right next to my math grade at the carnival. The doctors probably would have said something to my mother like, “Ms. Blackston, we think your son would benefit from medication.” If she asked which medication, they’d reply, “All of them.”    Mrs.Thornton had learned that about me and I think because of it - and a little bit of the Brenda’s Boy thing - she knew I struggled. But the biggest thing was that she believed in me. I realized early in life that I liked to write and some of that made its way out of me over the course of the year. And that’s what she told me.    “Michael, you’re here today getting another chance because I’m impressed by you. You’ve got a real talent for writing and I don’t want to see it go to waste. I’m not going to pass you without you rewriting this paper because I’ve seen what you’re capable of and I want you to see it too. I want you to understand the value of hard work and to reap the rewards only when you’ve completed the task. You’re a good writer and I’ve not been mean to you this year, I’ve been tough because I see something in you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered to call you out. I wanted you to get it. I don’t hate you. In fact, I like you very much.”    Now, I don’t care who you are or what kind of attitude you throw out there, if someone says that to you, it’s gonna leave an imprint on your life. Nobody had ever told me they actually liked my writing before then and something Mrs. Thornton knew was inside me erupted forth and from that moment, I gave everything I had to my writing.    I finished the paper and she passed me into the ninth grade. I wish I could tell you that my talk with Mrs. Thornton moved me to become a superior student overall, but it didn’t. All through high school, I was what we writers call, Stubborn As A Mule. But I did take it seriously every time I was given a writing assignment and I excelled in those classes. I was on a mission because suddenly I loved Mrs. Thornton. It’s hard not to love someone who inspires you and ignites a fire of passion within you for something.    This podcast comes to you courtesy of that passion. I tried to record a few of these by just writing down a few bullet points and even flying by the seat of my pants without much of a plan, but it never felt right. I always came back to writing the episode all the way out because it’s what I do and I love it. I went through a time of not writing much, but I came back to it and at this recording, I’ve finished two novels and two plays, with more on the horizon and I’m just getting started. I owe that to one teacher who, in her wisdom and love for her students, refused to accept anything but the best from us. I wish I could tell her that, but I waited too late.    You know what? I’ll tell her anyway.    Thank you, Mrs. Thornton.    I love you.

   If you have a phone in your pocket, you know the frustration that comes with what I’m getting ready to talk about. Telemarketers and the annoying trends most of us have to deal with on a daily basis. There’s something to be said about the days of good old when you made a call by picking up an enormous receiver that weighed approximately fifty pounds and asked a woman on the other end whose job it was to physically switch around wires on a big board in front of her - her name was always Marge - and you asked her to patch you in to Big Al at the market so you could have some eggs, butter, and bread delivered because you wanted a buttery egg sandwich. Back then, a telemarketer would have to get through Marge and her nosey wall of defense in order to bother you, but today, well … that’s what this episode covers. I’m Michael Blackston and you’re patched into a party line called my Funny Messy Life.    Today’s technology is great for a lot of things, but it also makes us vulnerable and gives easy access to predators. I want to talk about phone predators. There was a time when the word Telemarketer was pretty much a blanket statement. It brought to mind a peaceful, easy feelin’, interrupted suddenly by an energetic voice on the other end of the phone wanting to sell you a prescription to Egg Sandwiches Weekly or asking for a donation to the local volunteer fireman’s fund so they can feed the homeless egg sandwiches.    But now, there’s a division within the word. Telemarketers still emerge from their dungeons at suppertime to offer a great deal you just can’t miss, but lately it’s more likely the other kind - some recorded voice selling insurance or a credit card, or you’re being informed that you’re the subject of an IRS investigation and all you have to do is give some guy with an Indian accent your Social Security number and they’ll fix everything for you.    What’s happened is that now we’re almost happy to get a real person on the other end trying to sell us something. At least we can actually tell someone we’re not interested and if we ask to be taken off their list, they might - I say might - comply. With the scams, they’ll usually give you the option of pressing nine to be taken off their calling list, then they call again from a different number the next day.    That’s another thing. They hijack local numbers so you think it’s a legitimate call. This isn’t new to anybody, but it’s stupid annoying and so I’ve started trying to play around with them to waste their time since they seem to have no problem wasting mine. Unfortuantely, they must’ve have gotten wise to my shenanigans and put a note on my number to hang up on me when I press one to speak to a representative who would be delighted to show me how I can make $20,000 a month right from my toilet seat.    It’s usually the insurance calls that hand up on me, but I got to have some fun before they decided to block me. Yeah. THEY blocked ME! Here’s a sample of how one of these conversations went …    The phone rings and I don’t recognize the number. Caller I.D. tells me it’s from Beaver Snout, Montana. I know it’s a telemarketer, but I’ve got a couple of minutes while the paint’s drying on the tombstone I’m etching, so I think, why not see how far I can take this?    I answer the phone - “Hello.” - and low and behold a recorded voice starts the pitch.    “This is A-Plus Ultimate New-Fangled Hum-DInger Insurance and Associates with an amazing offer - Don’t hang up the phone! …”    I think to myself, “Oh, buddy, I don’t plan to.”    “We want to give you some exciting news about how you can now get super-duper sweet insurance for you business at a fraction of the price you’d pay for regular business insurance. Press 1 to speak to a representative who’s waiting now to show you how we can change your life, or press 9 to be taken off of our call list.”    Now I’m at a juncture. I know that if I press 9, not only will I not be taken off the list, but there probably won’t even be a recorded Thank You and the call will be ended with a cold, rude click. On the other hand, I can speak with the representative who’s waiting now with baited breath, and probably in an accent I’ll barely be able to understand, to tell me how they are going to change my life! I’m feeling spicy, so I press 1.    A voice comes on the line that sounds anything but happy to be working for A-Plus Ultimate New-Fangled Hum-DInger Insurance and Associates, but at least he has an accent I can understand. “This is Carl. Are you looking for insurance for personal use or business?”    “Business. I’m self employed, but I don’t have any insurance.”    “We can certainly help you,” Carl sighs, then asks, “Can I get your name?”    “Oddly enough, Carl, my name is Carl also.”    He starts to input my information. “Carlton … may I have your last name?”    “No, it’s not Carlton. My name is Carlotte. If I’d have been a girl, mom was gonna name me Charlotte, but when I scooted out of there and she saw I was a boy, she settled on Carlotte. Also, my dad sold Hondas.”    He sighed again. “Is that really your name?”    Now I know he’s on to me, but his job is to try and sell me something, so as long as he has me on the line, he thinks there might be a chance. “Yes, it is.”    “May I have your last name, Carlotte?”    “Driver.”    “How many employees would you need to ensure?”    “That depends on how many are left at the Home Depot when I drive up.”    “Is there anyone who works for you on a regular basis?”    “Of course.”    “How many are there?”    “Hey Carl - his name’s Carl too - how many people are you today?”    “I don’t understand, Mr. Driver.”    “You ever see that movie, SPLIT?”    “Yes …”    “It’s like that, only Carl don’t turn into no monster. Yes, I do. No, you don’t. Yes, I do! Shut up, Carl! Sometimes he’s the only one that comes to work, but sometimes he’s a whole crew. I guess you would call him a beast.”    I hear him tapping something into a computer and at this point, I’m impressed at his tenacity. Salesman Carl either really wants his commission for some really bad insurance or he desperately hopes he can get me to tell him my Social Security number.    I guess he regroups and decides to play along because the next thing I hear is, “Let’s do it this way, Mr. Driver …”    “You can call us Carlotte.”    “Certainly, Carlotte. I’d like to see if you come up in any of our databases as having previously been insured with us. It’s something we have to do by law. May I have your Social Security number?”    DING DING DING!    “We have several.”    “Alright. What’s the first one?”    “1”    Carl taps, I wait.    “Yes … next number.”    “2”    Tap, then, “Go ahead.”      “3, I think. Then 4.”    “Mr. Driver, are you messing with me?”    “YES WE ARE, YES WE ARE, YES WE REEEA-LLY REALLY ARE … SHUT UP, CARL! GO BACK TO YOUR HOLE!”    Annnnnd CLICK.    Sweet satisfaction. I’m the reason Carl the salesman will probably look for a different job two weeks after being hired by A-Plus Ultimate New-Fangled Hum-DInger Insurance and Associates.    It’s not always sweet satisfaction, though. Sometimes I get ahead of myself and end up feeling bad for the guy.    The other day, my wife and I were Christmas shopping for a couple of underprivileged kids and my phone rang, interrupting my Christmas spirit and the I.D. said the call was coming from Australia. I don’t know anybody from Australia, but I DO know how to do what I  consider a decent Australian accent, so in order to keep a smile on my face, it was, as they say, on.    “Ello, mate.” I intended to use every single Americanized Australian cliche I could think of.    “Hello, Mr. Blackston. This is James. How are you today?”    Uh oh. This guy knows my name.    “Fine, mate. I was just about to throw some shrimp on the barbie and then hit the bush to hunt me a few Dingos.”    “That sounds like fun. I won’t keep you - I know you’re probably busy, but I notice you have your domain through GoDaddy and I wondered if you might need any help with your website.”    I’ve gotten these calls before, usually from somebody with the aforementioned hard to understand accent, and when I say I’m not interested, they persist until I have to hang up on them with a hearty, “I said good DAY, sir!” But this guy seemed like he genuinely wanted to help me and sounded like he was working hard to support his family. He didn’t sound like he was from Australia, but it didn’t matter at that moment in time. There could be any number of reasons my phone identified the call as having come from the land down under. James sounded like a red blooded American, but he could’ve been on vacation with his family. Maybe they were taking a nap from the red blooded American touristy things they were doing over there and James couldn’t sleep, so he thought he’d squeeze in a little work, trying to offer aid to those in need of web design assistance. Perhaps he was a big wig at the company and was on a business trip, but had a bit of free time to get his hands dirty with the honest work that made him the man he is today. I don’t know why I knew from the start that I could trust him - I just did. It was something in his voice. And now here I was, using a fake Australian accent,  stuck in this insincere conversation with a man who just wanted to put food on his table. Shame on me, I thought to myself, then interrupted that thought to point out to my wife, a cute stuffed crocodile that struck my notice for some reason.    “Hey, Kayla - ow ‘bout wranglin’ that croc into the buggy. Crikey, she’s a beaut!”    Then it was back to James.    “Listen, mate. I appreciate your concern, but I’ve got all the help I need with my website. Howevah, if I decide I need a touch of assistance, you’ll be the first one I reach out to.”    And that’s where the call ended. I picture James softly hanging up the phone, wiping a tear from his eye just before it has a chance to roll down his cheek, and beginning to dial the next number of the person he has a strong yearning to change the life of with his sweet, sweet web designing skills.    I told my wife I had to be more careful with the way I answer my calls and then we finished shopping for the children. I think we ended up adding a framed photo of the big, weird looking auditorium in Sydney and an Outback gift card.    I guess I really should step aside for a second and explain that I have no problem with callers who have accents. I’ve made a bunch of mentions about people I have a hard time understanding and I need to explain a little further. I’m hard of hearing, so I prefer someone who speaks clear english because if they don’t, it’s like the old game of telephone you used to play as a kid, except it doesn’t go through eight people before it gets distorted.    “Mister Blackston, I’m calling from across the street to tell you your house is on fire.”    “Of course I know Fred Flintstone used his feet to spin the car’s tires! What’re you calling me for?” I don’t mind an occasional telemarketer, but the constant barrage and refusing to stop calling once I’ve asked to quit it for the love, drives me insane. So if they DO have an accent that sounds like it comes from a place where there’s a lot of sand, don’t insult my intelligence by telling me this is “Bubba.” I know what a Bubba sounds like and you ain’t no Bubba! If you want me to believe you are who you say you are, try being yourself.    Of course, I realize they may have a name that’s hard for a red blooded American to pronounce, but it won’t matter if we get far into the conversation anyway. If I’m having trouble, I’ll just call you Bubba.    Well, I’m glad I got that off my chest. Don’t be a stranger - if you enjoyed this or want to communicate with me, go to the website at funnymessy.com and use the contact page or email me directly at funnymessylife@gmail.com. Yeah, I did that so it’d be even easier for you. The website has all the stuff you need to subscribe, too, so you get notified immediately when I submit a new episode. See, I want to be your friend and I promise - I won’t call you Bubba.    I’m Michael Blackston and thanks for sitting in on another aspect of my Funny Messy Life.

Greg Williams & Sabrina Blackston/Eternal Hills Funeral Home and Memory Gardens Eternal Hills Funeral Home and Memory Gardens is a full service funeral home and cemetery that provides exceptional service to our client families. We are able to provide families with the peace of mind that they will be very well taken care of at […] The post MARKETING MATTERS WITH RYAN SAUERS: Greg Williams and Sabrina Blackston of Eternal Hills Funeral Home and Memory Gardens appeared first on Business RadioX ®.

Episode 57 opens up the final month of our Healthy Mom series: Healthy Soul. This week, host Emily ...

This episode kicks off month 2 of the Healthy Mom series over on KindredMom.com, focusing in on having ...

For the next 3 months, the Kindred Mom community will be covering a variety of topics under the ...

  I’ve got problems just like everybody else. I know it’s sort of a sham hiding them all behind a barricade of laughter and merriment the likes rarely seen beyond newborn babies who think a dirty diaper is funny and really old people who think a dirty diaper is funny, but it’s the way I cope. My aunt Janet likes to call me Chandler Bing - the guy from FRIENDS - because no matter what’s going on and even when things get serious, I’ll sometimes break the monotony with a sarcastic or off-the-wall (often not well though out) comment. That’s why I feel like I have license to discuss and laugh about the next three topics. Why I hate the sun (I get skin cancers). I have type 2 diabetes, and I used to be a terribly insecure child. With that, I’m Michael Blackston. Let’s huddle up together - Eskimo style -  because where I’m from, it’s getting colder outside, and let’s roast marshmallows over some stories from my funny, messy, life. ___________________________________  There was one year that I got a tan. One. My mom used to have a picture of it somewhere, but I’m thinking the sun sent an agent to destroy it so there would be no record because I haven’t seen it in years. Otherwise, I burn and peel, burn and peel, burn and peel, and then see a skin specialist. Why? Because ... ___________________________________  The hot, steamy, stupid sun is hot.   My sister is sad because it’s fall and we’re finally getting some relief from the heat.   I know some people like her prefer it – people who enjoy the feeling of the skin melting right off their bones like there was an atomic explosion in their back yard and they neither ducked nor covered. And if that’s you, fine. Don’t worry about my opinion. You go enjoy being a cupcake in God’s Easy Bake Oven.   The misery of stepping outside during summer is hard to put into words that will help you to understand just how big a deal this is for me as one of the true white people of the world. I’m not caucasian - that’s too tan. I’m a snow man. Camera men stand me in front of their lenses to balance the light.   And as to what the sun does to me when I creep from my shadowy depths into the sting of its shine? Well, have you seen the end of the first Indiana Jones movie? It’s like that, except not as delightful. The way I’m built, it’s as if I’m opening the Ark of the Covenant while wearing an Ozzy Ozborne mask made by Marilyn Manson, and signed by Richard Dawkins. It burns.   Not to mention that the sun and I don’t get along for other reasons. You might tolerate the heat to enjoy the beautiful bronze color that your skin inherits from the cancerous rays of the sun, but not me. The sun has a different gift in store if I bask more than approximately 10.62 seconds. I get to unwrap a big ol’ box of Basal Cell Carcinoma – the sort of skin cancers my doctor commented, “They’re the kind you WANT to get if you’re gonna get skin cancers. Hahahaha.”   Well it ain’t funny.   I don’t WANT to get ANY skin cancers, but nature has resolved that they pair nicely with the skin tags under my arms and so I’m  with them. I know it could be worse. My family has dealt with the scare of Melanoma first hand, but even the carcinomas can be bad if you let them go. So my skin doctor tells me to never fear. All I have to do is grease myself down with sunscreen from head to toe every day for the rest of my life and make sure the SPF protection is no lower than 7,948.   “And wear long sleeves if you can, unless you get wet. Once your clothing is wet, it offers little protection from the sun,” he says. “In that case, Mr. Blackston, you should make sure your sunscreen is in place and also carry a spare suit of armor with you at all times. In fact, just to be safe and to ensure that you enjoy a happy life under the sun, you just go ahead and put on that suit of armor first thing every morning and wear it all day no matter how much it chafes your nipples and makes your skin tags sore.”   No big deal, right?   Forget it. Next year, I’m dressing as cool as I can, which may or may not include full public nudity when the temperature rises above 70. You won’t be able to recognize me anyway – my face will be in a puddle around my feet.  Because the stupid hot, steamy sun is stupid.  And hot.  ___________________________________  My wife sent me a photo from Facebook the other day that showed a billboard stating that “This year thousands of men will die from stubbornness.” Under the printed message was a spray painted note. “No we won’t.” It’s a solid statement about men all around the world and the fact that we hate to be told what to do. It also reminded me of how ... ___________________________________  Diabetes Ruined My Day   I have a hard time dealing with nagging. Actually, hard time is putting it mildly. I should probably be honest with you and say that if I feel like I’m being harped on, I turn into an incoherent caveman, one nag away from peeing on stuff to mark my territory. And from stories I’ve heard over the dinner table on Sundays, I think I might get it honest.   I guess that’s why Kayla was surprised when, after several mentions of going to the doctor and getting my medications in order, I said, “Yeah - you’re probably right,” instead of “OG NO GO TO DOCTOR - OG FEEL FINE!” and I didn’t even pee on anything. I did try to argue that maybe I should be a good Christian and let The Great Physician sort it out, but that went over about as well as I expected it to.   I didn’t make an appointment - that would have made too much sense. No, I opted for the walk-in maneuver at the Medical Center, which meant that I wouldn’t see my family doctor, who had a full slate of appointments to examine people who had better planning skills than me or probably the specialist I’d seen in the first place about my diabetes. She wouldn’t be happy at all that I’d not followed her instructions. It also meant I would be waiting in the room of waiting longer than I wanted to. We all know that when you make an appointment, you have to wait anyway, so now that I was being “squeezed in”, I expected to exceed the daily recommended dosage of waiting room while I was in there with sick people and reading magazines that crawled with sick people funk.   The wait was long enough, but not as long as I’d thought it’s be. The only problem was the lady sitting next to me who ...   Never.   Shut.   Up.   She talked about her brother who was in jail because he’d been falsly blamed for a crime he didn’t commit - RAWNG ACCUSED, she called it, and just because he had outstanding warrants and was driving a car with no license plates and no insurance. “They’s jest lookin’ fer sumbody t’harr-ICE. Ain ‘t got nuthin’ better to do!”   Of course, that bled into how his no good girlfriend was pregnant with a baby that wasn’t his, but he was still gonna stay with her when he got out because she got a good check every month and everybody else was tired of buying his cigarettes and booze. And Preacher Billy said he couldn’t wait to take him out witnessin’ again once’d he done his time.   It might have been the first time you could actually SEE the IQ level of people dropping. Thankfully, my name was called just in time to keep me from looking up sexy pictures of my cousin Lulabell on Facebook.   I’d been on medication for Type 2 diabetes for a year already, but it only took giving out of my prescriptions and not renewing them once before I was on a downward spiral that mixed it all up. Blood pressure meds out? No problem. I’ll get around to filling that right after I finish this salt lick. Diabetes meds are all gone? Whatever. They gave me an upset stomach and so does Ex-Lax. At least Ex-Lax tastes like chocolate and I ... like ... chocolate.   Then there was the diet plan ... and the cheating on the diet plan. What started out as a random hiccup every once in a while turned into an all out frat party in my refrigerator, except that I was chugging Yoo-Hoos and Mountain Dew.   So there I was face to face with my doctor - the irritated, steaming specialist who I’d promised I’d take my diabetes seriously. She started in like a mother who you’d promised to take cleaning your room seriously, but has found eight dirty plates with silverware, four half-eaten bags of Funyuns and the block of cheese that went missing three weeks ago.   “What did I tell about taking your meds?”   “You said to take my meds as prescribed.”   “Why haven’t you done that?”   I just shrugged and counted the counted the long Q-Tips in one of the jars on the counter. There were ten.   “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”   I thought about telling her she wasn’t the boss of me, but then I remembered she is the boss of my diabetes.   “Have you been keeping a check on your blood sugar twice a day and logging the numbers?”   “Define logging.”   “Writing them down. Have you been checking your blood sugar or not?”   “Define checking.”   “Obviously not.”   “I have been using the little needle lancer thingies, if that what you’re asking.”   “Alright. How so?”   “Blow darts.”   “Do you think this is funny, Mr. Blackston? Diabetes is nothing to laugh at!”   “Well, if you give it giant shoes and a rubber chicken, it might be funny.”   She threw her hands in the air, yelled, “I give up!” and stormed out of the examination room. A few minutes later, my family doctor came in and sat down in front of me. He has a much nicer bedside manner.   “Your specialist has thrown her hands in the air and screamed, “I give up.”   “I know. I think it was the Funyuns that upset her. Or the block of cheese.”   “What?”   “Nothing.”   “We’re going to start from scratch, Mr. Blackston, and this time you’re going to do this the right way. You got it?”   “Yessir.”   I ended up getting three gallons of blood sucked out of me to see where I was at, diabetically and cholestoralicallty, and was given so many prescriptions that the doctor had to put on a hand brace.   “Can I still have bread?”   “Some, but small amounts of it.”   “Can I have Coke?”   “Not with sugar. Diet Coke or Coke Zero, although I’d prefer you cut out colas altogether.”   “What about a little candy?”   “How much is a little?”   “A party bag of  peanut butter M&M’s.”   “No.”   “I’m also going to insist you check you blood sugar regularly and not use the needles as darts. Can you promise me you’ll do that?”   “My ninja training is gonna suffer, but I guess so.”    In other words, I can eat grass and drink water. That’s how I took it. Diabetes had turned me into a cow. My wife tried to talk some sense into me and tell me that all they’re saying is to put on my big boy pants and be smart. If I have candy, eat a couple of pieces and be done. Watch my carbs and learn to enjoy more cleansing beverages. she told me. .   It would be an adventure alright - the Temple of Doom - because they’d ripped my heart right out of my chest.    I wonder if I could dip green beans in a chocolate fondue?   ___________________________________  I lived a pretty charmed life as a kid. My complaints were about things that would get me slapped by children less privileged than me, so I didn’t say a lot. My problems were more of the mental kind. I was small and weak and bad at sports. I could use my imagination, though. There was just one problem. I spent a lot of time with my cousin and he was strong and great at sports, so I defaulted to him in almost everything. It’s time I came forward about ... ____________________________________  The Acceptable Mulk And Other Semi-Heroes   There’s a reason behind my hard-headedness and insistence on being in control of my own life, which, by the way, I refuse to apologize for and you can’t make me. Until adulthood, I never felt like I had control of anything. And that didn’t last long because I got married when I was 21, so by law, all control of my life was ceded to my wife. Growing up, I was always a pushover and I wouldn’t stand up for myself. I went along with whatever I was told to do by whoever told me to do it. Part of that was being a scaredy cat and part of it was hating any kind of confrontation.   Enter the relationship between me and my first cousin - the one you’ll probably hear plenty about throughout the life of this podcast - the one that did the stupidly stupid things with me I mentioned in episode 2.   He had no trouble taking the lead. He was a lot tougher than me and seemed to enjoy a little confrontation because he knew he’d usually win. He’s also five months older than me, so in our childhood minds, his nearly half a year of extra life experience gave him the power by default. We were inseparable as kids, so there was a whole bunch of playing to be done, and I let him dictate what shape that would take. We might create elaborate booby traps in grandma’s back yard to foil trespassers, then laugh at ourselves for making something that started with the word "booby". Or, as in some of my earliest memories, we might defend the city as superheroes.   It was the mid to late 70’s and Batman and Robin came on every afternoon. I remember wanting to get into the tv with the dynamic duo so bad that I seriously considered putting a chair through the screen to get to them. Back in those days, grandma let us stay inside the house while she was keeping us for exactly three reasons: Sesame Street, lunch, and Batman. Other than that it was, “Go play outside!”   Looking back, I think I understand the logic that us being outside was better than her having to keep us from trying to get to grandpa’s .22 rifle or putting chairs through the tv.   We didn’t mind, though. A couple of towels for capes and we were good to go! It didn’t matter that we didn’t have masks, either. We made up for that by starting every new mission with the theme music.   My cousin got to be Batman. Every. Single. Time.   I always had to be Robin and there would not be any sharing the roles. Whenever I asked to be Batman, he told me I couldn’t because he was stronger and he was the one who had the Batmobile Big Wheel. That made sense and I didn’t argue. Plus he had to admit that I did a better Robin than he did. or   Then there were opportunities to save the world as other superheroes, like when we’d ride 865 miles out in the country to go to the private pool my mom was a member of. It was called the Fish and Game Club. The bathrooms at the place crawled with spiders and mosquitoes and smelled like fish. And game.   Obviously, I never got to be Aquaman because I wasn’t as strong as my cousin and besides, he was the one who slept in Aquaman Underoos. We didn’t know enough about comic books to realize there was such a thing as The Sub-Mariner and even if we had, my cousin would’ve, being so much older and wiser than me, proclaimed him not as good as Aquaman. So I got to be the sidekicks, like Robin again or Float Boy or a dolphin. Maybe if we’d grown up in a later decade I would’ve gotten to be Spongebob, but I doubt it. If we were pretending to be in Bikini Bottom, I’m sure I’d have been relegated to Patrick or the Pirate face that sings the theme song with the funky lips. Even as we got a little older, he got to be He-Man and I had to be Orko - the little bumbling ghost guy that provided comic relief and always had to be saved.   He did throw me one tiny bone in the early eighties when we discovered what would become his all-time favorite superhero, The Incredible Hulk.   Our world changed immediately once we got our first glimpse of David Banner going all “OH NO YOU DIT-INT!” on some bad guys and flashing those bright green rage eyes. Suddenly, Lou Ferrigno is ripping out of Bill Bixby’s clothes and it was ON like Donkey Kong (Another childhood thing he was better at than me)! My cousin got in trouble because he kept cutting up his good shirts so it’d look like he’d turned into the Hulk and burst out of them.   The problem was, there was only one Hulk and he was a loner. Banner walked sadly from town to town under haunting piano music and nobody followed except for teams of rednecks and oil tycoons bent on terrorizing the neighborhood. The Hulk didn’t have any sidekick. He didn’t need one. That meant there wasn’t much for me to do other than play  and cheer on The Hulk as he brought havoc upon unsuspecting back yard hooligans.   We had an idea. We’d make one up for me. I sure wasn’t going to get to be the Hulk, but what if there was another hero that worked with him.   Thank goodness, my cousin came up with a character and our playtime was saved.   I would be the Hulk’s less impressive cousin who turned purple and caused the bad guys unbridled pestering when he got mad. I would be ... The Mulk. That’s right, ! The sad thing is, I embraced it. Just to be considered at least somewhat useful, I was elated and I owned the role of the Mulk. I even cut up a couple of shirts for myself, so you can imagine my surprise recently when I googled images of the Hulk and found a still from The Simpsons showing a comic book of The Formidable Mulk.     There were plenty of other times I took second fiddle, too.   He got to be Dracula, I got to be Count Spatula - Dracula’s cousin from New Jersey who worked in an Italian restaurant and drank red Cool-Aid.   He was The Wolf Man - I was his cousin, The Labrador Man - a mild mannered, but still doglike being that was frightening with my fierce loyalty and skill at fetching anything my cousin threw in the yard.   Since then I’ve learned to stand up for myself and be who I want to be, without asking permission. Well, I do try to let God tell me who He wants me to be and I’m okay with that, but nobody else is the boss of me. Well, my mom has some pull. But other than God and mom, nobody tells me what to do except when my daughter flashes her eyes and begs for something.   So God, mama, and my daughter are the only ones who can tug at my reigns. And my wife, of course. “Mulk coming, honey!”  

 If you asked people to tell you one of the most important things in life, it wouldn’t take long for them to say family. For me, family is a main ingredient in the stew of a happy life and I think you’ll be able to tell by the following three stories that little else comes before it. My sister and I have always been close, even when it came to fisticuffs, as you’ll see, so I think it’s a good idea to tell you some stuff about her. She’s been warned, but I can’t promise she won’t come for me after I finish with the following three stories.  My name is Michael - Mr. Blackston if you’re nasty - and this is what I’ve come to know as my Funny, Messy Life. ___________________________  If you’ve listened long enough to this podcast or read the blog, you probably think you have a pretty good bead on me. One thing you may not know about me though, is that I love to cook. Like almost everything I’m interested in, I consider it an art. Baking is no exception, but I don’t dabble in it too much. I tend more toward stuff that can be fried, grilled and fried, or fried and refried to make sure it’s fried enough. My sister, however, is a different story. She’s got skills and that’s why I just ...  Let Her Bake Cake  I like to give credit where credit is due, especially in the world of the arts. I believe that efforts ought to be lauded, in the good way most of the time. The good way is when you congratulate the artist for a job well done, even if the outcome is ugly but a strong effort was made. The bad way is when something is so ugly, all you can say is, “Oh my Laud!”  Unfortunately,  for all the praise an artist might receive, the final product is rarely acceptable in their own eyes.  I recently lived out this scenario with my sister. As I said, she’s a good cake baker, creating most of the ones that are the centerpieces of our family birthday get-togethers and she never disappoints. Well, that is she never disappoints us. She doesn’t own a cake makery bakery, but everything is created with love. She could run a cake makery bakery and would probably do a booming business, but I think she enjoys the art too much to taint the fun of it with annoying things like agendas and deadlines. Instead, she’d rather bless her family and friends with delicious, moist cakes baked at three in the morning because she put it off till the last minute.  And I’m fine with that.  What I’m not fine with is her being a complete artist about it. What I’m talking about is the insecurity that comes with being a creative person. I know the feeling. I still have a canvas that’s been sitting on an easel for ten years that only needs my signature to be considered a completed painting. There’s just something I’m not happy with and I’m convinced that if Jesus himself said to me, “Sign it Already, my son”, I would probably ask if he was sure because I’m just not happy with it.  Then I would say, "Just kiddin'', and I’d sign it. Then I would try to fist bump with Jesus and he would solemnly shake his head because you don't fist bump with Jesus. Anyway, I know all about insecurity when it comes to artwork.  My daughter’s birthday was in mid-April and she wanted a frozen cake. Not a cake that had spent several hours in a freezer; that would have been much easier. No, she wanted a FROZEN-ANNA-ELSA-OLAF-FOR-THE-LOVE-LET-IT-GO cake. My sister was on the case and had something dreamed up all ready to go. She had an idea, researched some stuff for reference, and planned a grandiose spectacle of a cake for my little Ice Princess. As an aside, my daughter was named Merida after the character from Brave and I can’t wait to teach her how to shoot a bow and arrow. Ay’ll beh shootin’ far me oon haahnd, duntcha knoo?!  I didn’t think much about the cake as we got ready to trek across the state line to my mom’s house where we were having the party. Imagine my surprise when right before we were about to leave, I get a text message from Steph that says, “CAKE FAIL!” It came with a photo of the early stages of the frosting process, which had apparently gone wrong. It wasn’t anything like the icy flow of fun that was supposed to cascade like a frozen lake over the top and drip like perfect, beautiful ice cycles down the side. Instead it had an Elsa has a very bad cold and has sneezed all over some round, blue object kind of a thing happening.  In all honesty, when I looked at the photo she texted me, I had a bad feeling about it. I showed the photo to my wife, she just said, “Oh Laud.” We shared a chuckle and carried on with the business of trying to make a little girl out of the hurricane ball that was terrorizing one of the cats in the corner.  We weren’t worried about the cake. Merida wouldn’t care one way or the other as long as she had something sugary she could spread all over her face and hands and store in her diaper for us to discover later. We just wanted it to taste good.  Stephanie couldn’t deal with it, however, and we learned this as soon as we walked through the door of my mom’s house.  “LOOK AT IT”, she screamed and pointed toward what we considered a fine work of baking and decoration. She’d done well. It looked good and deserved the nice kind of lauding. Yes, I’d seen more magazine worthy work from Steph, but considering what she’d sent a photo of earlier, we thought she’d pulled it off.  “What’s wrong with it?”  “Did you look at it?!” She hissed.  “Yes. Just now and it’s fine. It really looks good.”  She’d worked herself up into what we classy southerners call a Tizzy over this cake and was close to pitching what we refined folk call a Hissy Fit. She had in mind something that could be featured in a bridal magazine or Cakes That Really Look Like They Are From The Set Of FROZEN Weekly.  “NO! LOOK. AT. IIIITTTT! You’re not looking at it!” she screamed and used a full nelson move to force my face to within centimeters of the cake. All I could think of in that moment was that it’s a good thing Jesus wasn’t standing there saying, “It’s beautiful, my child.” I don’t think she could have handled it.  “There’s nothing wrong with the stupid cake!” I screamed back and then told mom on her. “Moooooom, Stephanie’s pickin’ on me about her caaaaake!”  I thought it was over, but nay. She smoldered a while and before long the subject was brought up again.  One of my aunts was asked her opinion and the reply of, “Oh that turned out nice!” wasn’t what Stephanie wanted to hear. You’ve heard the sayin, “Hell hath no fury like a woman’s corn”, well I say Hell hath no fury like an artist who doesn’t believe you like what they’ve created.  Steph drew in a deep breath and the room fell silent, expecting the worst.  “WOULD YOU LOOK AT IT?!”  No matter how hard we tried to convince my sister that, in all sincerity, it was a nicely decorated cake, she wouldn’t have it. Her mind was made up that the cake authorities would soon be breaking down the door and taking her to answer a few questions in a dim room with only a single light and a metal chair. And because it was a Disney themed cake and she loves The Mouse with all her heart, the interrogator would probably be wearing an ear hat, whether it’s the mouse ears or the Goofy headgear, we have no way of knowing.  I can say that I didn’t do myself any favors later by having a little fun at her expense right after we‘d finished shoving grilled meats down our throats and watching my princess tear into her mountain of gifts like a honey badger. I couldn’t help myself and I dare say a bit of little brother justice came out as a form of revenge for the rasslin’ move she'd put on me earlier.  “What’s for dessert?” I will neither confirm nor deny whether there was a smart-alecky look on my face when I asked it.  “The cake,” mom answered.  “I meant what’s for REAL dessert?” I couldn’t help myself.  I’d hoped to catch the look on my sister’s face, but she vaulted herself at me from the top of the deck railing and I was rendered unconscious by a karate chop to the back of the neck Ricky Steamboat style.  I do vaguely remember hearing, “LOOOOOK AAAAAT IIIIIT!” just before I blacked out.  It really was a fine cake.  And yes, I know it's "woman scorned.” __________________________  From what I can tell, especially raising a couple of children of my own, siblings tend to be different from one another. My sister and I have plenty of differences between us, but maybe the tie that binds us the closest is that we’re both artists. Steph doesn’t dabble heavily, but she could. When she takes a notion, she can turn out beautiful artwork. In fact there’s a part of me that harkens back to the child I once was - the little brother that always hoped to be as good an artist as his big sister. I guess that’s why she and I still work well together after all these years on certain projects. There’s just one problem ...  We Think Too Big  The Christmas parade float was finished. Stick a fork in that bad boy, he’s done.  My sister and I worked on it for two and a half days and it was a winner in our eyes, especially being the first parade float we’d ever been in charge of creating. I won’t say we were as proud of it as we wanted to be, though. Don’t get me wrong, it’s everything it could have been with the budget we had. But the problem we have with the Christmas parade float for the local theatre was the same problem I have when I build sets for shows I direct at the same local theatre. I want my sets to rival shows on Broadway and I wanted our float to compare to something you’d see cross your television screen Thanksgiving morning.  Simply put, I see things in my head bigger than I can make them and my Stephanie’s the same way. Put us together on a project and we dream up things it would take a six figure budget and an enormous crew of helper minions to achieve.  This has been an ongoing issue ever since my first fully produced show. It was Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. My wife and I fell in love with the show early on in our marriage and found ourselves involved with a production. We were cast in smaller roles, but we had big dreams for our own production and were soon approved to stage it in Hartwell, Ga.  The cast count was nearly forty and the set, in my over-imaginative brain, was to be one of the most, if not the most, elaborate one ever built there. The problem is that the stage is the size of a postage stamp. And not the big ones either. It was the size of those stamps nobody ever wanted and always got shoved into the junk drawer. Not only would it be a challenge to build what I had in mind because of the limited room, but placing forty people on it would be nearly impossible. Did that stop me?  No it did not.  I have way too much imagination for anything like logic to have a say in what can be done. That’s why I enlisted the help of my set partner and sister, Stephanie. Did this mean that I would be pairing myself with someone who would be the voice of reason to my Mad Hatter of the Stage mentality?  No it did not.  What fun would that be? Steph was as insane as I was about trying to fit every little squirt of imagination we could into it. I needed no silly voice of reason; I needed a partner in crime.  What we managed on that stage with the amount of people in the cast may have been crowded and the very small wing space may have been ripe with sweat and actor funk, but it was awesome sweat and faaaaabulous actor funk and the audience loved it. There were concessions we had to make though, notably a golden chariot that appears center stage at the end of the show with tall wings that raise and lower to each side majestically at the whim of the stage manager. It was in the plans and we built it. The Broadway show has the chariot intricately layered in gold scales, so of course I designed our chariot in the same fashion and bought the materials which ended up being a crap ton of cardboard, gold spray paint, chicken wire, zip ties, and PVC pipe. I set my sister to work on it and she was excited. She meticulously cut individual scales out of the cardboard, sprayed each one of them gold, hole punched each one of them in the top, then fixed every single one into place in perfect harmony with the others. It. Took. Her. DAYS. And it was FAAAAABULOUS!. So when the time came to set it in place at center stage, we were riddled with anxiety and glee - rich, thick, mind numbing theatre glee. You know what I mean if you’ve ever built set pieces you were proud of. We’d made it light and portable so the crew could get it on and offstage quickly. That’s why we used PVC pipe. And let me interrupt myself to suggest to any future set builders that you can build a sturdy version of almost anything out of PVC pipe.  We raised it up and began to lower it into place. And VOILA!  It didn’t fit.  Oops. My bad. I’d measured wrong somewhere, so in quick decision pro-like director form, I stated the following:  “It don’t fit. Scrap the chariot.”  Stephanie blinked her eyes at me as if she were trying to clear her vision because obviously she was in some sort of dream where chariots she made don’t fit in their place.  “What did you just say?”  “Chariot’s too big. We’re losing the chariot,” I crossed to stage left with my nose in the air. If I’d been wearing sunglasses, a turtleneck, and a scarf, I’d have flipped the scarf from one side to the other nonchalantly with directorial swagger.  “That chariot. Took. Me. Days.”  “We can’t use it.”  “We can fix it. I’ll make it work.”  “Nope. There’s no time and I need you painting intricate hieroglyphs with mother.” Mom was over at a side stage up on a ladder with a paint brush where I’d erected tall flats (thin walls of canvas with wood frames, for you poor non-theatrey folk) and recreated the entire plot of the play from start to finish in actual Egyptian hieroglyphs. Mom was tasked with painting them. Another side note - Those walls were necessary to create dressing rooms on the side stages because of the small space we had to work with and the sheer number of cast members. There were times during the performances when there was literally five feet separating the front row and a bunch of naked people.  Anyhoo, Steph wasn’t happy.  She jumped at me screaming, “LOOK AT IT!!” And she hasn’t let it go to this day.  Unfortunately, the lessons we’ve learned have only served to enhance our insatiable need to try bigger and bigger things. It broadened our belief that It CAN be done!  That made its way to our future productions. While Steph didn’t help with Into The Woods, I still solicited the assistance of another artistic lunatic. While most who put together the set for that particular show are happy with stylized versions of the woods, even opting at times for the charming cardboard cut out trees, I could not see anything but being honest to the title. A woods effect that can be done simply? Not I! The actors must be IN the woods!  I knew a business owner nearby who had recently cleared a lot for parking, so I asked for the trees.  I then, after obtaining permission from theatre management, bolted actual tree trunks that rose out of sight into the fly space (that’s the rafters for you poor non-theatrey folk). There have been plenty of other sets that went the Michael’s Gone Mad route and I have other artists who help out on occasion. I recall a second production of Joseph at a different theatre when I almost came to my senses and permanently fixed a very heavy set piece to the wall, but opted for my original idea whereas I intended it to raise and lower with a pulley system. My associate, the insane David, said, “It can be done.” He then spent hours crawling dangerously among the support beams in the fly space rigging it up and the piece worked as I’d hoped, although it took half the crew to hoist it.  You see, when I begin to develop a plan for a set that I intend to build, I can’t make myself see it on the stage I’ll be working with. Yes, you pious theatre set builders who may read this, I do measure the stage first. But that’s just numbers and I math not so good. My mind has its own stage inside it and that stage will handle anything I can think to throw at it. That’s the stage I do my planning on. And because of that, I’m inevitably disappointed when the final screw is in place and stand back to look at my creation.  This float was like that too.  Steph and I built it together and we were proud. We stood back and looked at it, complementing each other on a job well done.  “Job well done, my sister. I dare say thine skill and determination hath won the day. Victory be in our grasp.” (There were prizes for the top three floats. We didn’t win.)  “Abandon not, brother, thine own applause. For thou didst indeed pour forth also upon this mobile creation thy vintage of art’s wine. Thy job, too, is well met.”  But I had to admit that it didn’t live up to the float that paraded valiantly past my mind’s eye - with its jubilant spray of color and sound; the one I saw causing children to shout, other floats to cower under a shadow of unworthiness, and parents to point and tell their kids, “There be the example for living up to live up to, me child.”  I see that my inner voice has quickly changed from Olde English, reminiscient of Shakespeare, to that of a crusty, sweaty pirate.  And Steph agreed with my assessment of the float.  We both wondered if we could‘ve done something more. I didn’t mention scrapping it to Steph because I was pretty sure that even though she’s as crazy as me when it comes to this stuff, she’d be tempted to … oh, how does she put it … dot me in the eye. I’ll eventually tell you the story of how she dotted me in the eye in a piece titled, My Sister Dotted Me In The Eye.  Now I ponder how to take the Christmas parade float to a higher level next time - a level beyond what’s appropriate to one that is, frankly, ridiculous:  A giant helium balloon shaped like the comedy/tragedy masks – It would follow behind the float and would be tethered to twenty children dressed as elves gaily dancing and singing show tunes that mention Christmas. Also, I would insist on hand-stitching the elves’ costumes from reindeer skins. And not reindeer that had been hunted, but reindeer that had died natural deaths from an overdose of Christmas cheer.  A dancing kick line - Comprised of local cheerleaders dressed as Mrs. Claus. I figure the cheerleaders are probably already in the parade, so let’s give them a reason to be there. Unfortunately, I can imagine a domino effect if we came to a sudden stop and all the ladies tumbled one by one off the back of the trailer, bowling style, into the group of elves holding the balloon. That’s a reason to think longer on that one.  Thought about it.  Still wanna do it.  A celebrity representative – I know it might seem a bit “pie in the sky” to think I might get a big name like Robert Downey, Jr. or Pat Sajak to star on our float. But Tony Danza might be available.  Circus freaks – Who wouldn’t want to see that? The 800 lb belly dancer, the tiny lady covered completely in tattoos, the pygmy prince who jump ropes through the enormous holes in his earlobes. That’s what I call entertainment! And I’m still playing the soundtrack to The Greatest Showman endlessly on my commutes. Then again, if you want to see that stuff on any given day, all you have to do is walk into a Walmart.  In the end, it makes sense to come down to earth and be happy with what we accomplished with our little float. You can’t have it all, even if you believe there’s room for one more slice of spectacle pie. You just have to settle yourself down and allow reality to be your guide.  I’ll  have to be content to let my imagination run wild and pretend I’m surrounded by tall buildings, large balloons, and choruses of singers from Broadway shows.  And waiting there at the end of the line might be someone famous to interview me. Perhaps Pat Sajak.  I know, I know. I think too big. __________________________  My son is nine years older than my daughter. We had hoped that the age difference might diffuse some of the obligatory fighting that goes on between siblings, but our hopes were dashed in quick fashion. As soon as she could walk and talk, which now feels like only a couple of days after we brought her home from the hospital, the sparring began. My sister and I are closer in age  by four years, so there was PLENTY of fighting between us. Steph wasn’t content with pulling hair and tattle-telling. She was a fan of pro wresting at an early age and you better stay out of arms reach of her if she’s just finished watching a Rocky movie. That’s why this last story exists. It’s why ...  My Sister Dotted Me In The Eye  You know those things that come to be early in life and somehow find a way to have staying power? Silly things like pet names your granddaddy called you or being an idiot. In some cases, those things can last so long that they become a an endearing side note the parties involved can share on occasion and enjoy a good laugh.  I used to call you Butt Face. Remember that?  I sure do, Grandpa. I sure do.  Hahaha. Good times!  It’s not always a fun volley of hurtful name calling, though. Sometimes an event gets a title. Let’s use the time my sister dotted me in the eye for example. While you can probably grasp the idea of what physically happened to me from that phrase, you need to know the story behind it.  It was a dark and stormy night. A Saturday if I recall correctly. My mother had taken the family somewhere and we were parked outside of my aunt’s house to either put her out or pick her up, if I remember it correctly. If memory serves me right, I was in the ballpark of seven years old and my sister was in the ballpark of twelve. We fought a lot, but if I’m accurate in my recollection, my sister and I had been at each other’s throats more than usual and tensions in the car were heightened, when she said something smark-alecky and I didn’t take it well.  Mama wouldn’t have been happy about it and would have warned us multiple times, in that nurturing way mother’s do when they’ve had enough.  “Sit down and shut and shut up. I’ve had enough!”  It’s important to mention that we probably were standing because in the 1980’s I don’t think seat belts had been invented yet and kids just tumbled to and fro with reckless abandon all about the back seat.  You’re a stupid head!  You’re a poopy mouth!  You’re a butt face!  Then mom would have to chime in.  Hey! Just because your grandpa calls him that, doesn’t mean you get to.  That’s the way it sort of went down, except for the butt face part. My grandpa never called anybody that as far as I can recall.  The point is that whatever we were saying got serious and when I’d said one thing too many, my sister, whom I love with all my heart and have built many wonderful and beautiful masterpieces of artistic glory with, hauled off and punched me - not slapped - but full knuckle PUNCHED me right in the eye. I recall that correctly.  It didn’t even hurt at first. As anyone who’s ever been punched will probably attest, getting hit isn’t that painful. It’s healing that hurts. The funny thing is that I didn’t realize how hard she’d hit me until I looked in the rear view mirror and saw an enormous bump rising just below my eye socket.  She’d made her mark. She’d dotted me in the eye.  I don’t know where it came from or when it started that we began calling getting punched in the eye getting DOTTED in the eye, but it seemed to fit, so it stayed.  From that moment on, any time there was a mention of a fight or the threat of one, someone would be described as having been dotted in the eye.  Over the years, it’s gotten to be a joke between us. I’ll say something joking, but maybe a tad mean, the way brothers do, and she’ll respond with “Ima dotchoo in tha eye.”  So I give that to my readers/listeners as a little gift. Don’t make threats of knocking out teeth or laying someone out. Take the road my sister and I have paved for you. Offer to dot them in the eye. That way you can both have a good laugh all the way to the hospital. __________________________  I have stories for days about my sister and me and the stuff we got up to. There was the time she crucified herself - in a manner of speaking, the time we snuck and made a bomb that would have killed us had we set it off in a field like we intended, the time we snuck into the woods and found a monster, the time we snuck into the woods for a game of blind rock chunking with the neighbors ... a million stories and I’m certain they’ll come forth sooner or later. So sis, if you’re getting this, I love you and I can’t wait to create more stories in the years to come.  

Insights on using video in your business from financial planner & advisor, David Blackston, and his marketing coordinator

Insights on using video in your business from financial planner & advisor, David Blackston, and his marketing coordinator

 I’ve never been confused about my gender or even curious what it would be like to wear a dress. So to be crystal clear, I’m all dude. But I spent a lot of my formative years with women and I think that’s done a couple of things for me. I don’t always come across as the burliest, manliest fella in the cave because I’ve learned to appreciate some things over the years that might be considered more along the feminine side of the dividing line, and I find it’s just much easier for me to talk and relate to women than men. While I’ve never battled any confusion when it comes to my gender, it may not be that easy for other other people, at first notice, to decide exactly what I am. I’m Michael Blackston and you’re entering one of the weirder areas of my Funny, Messy Life. _______________  I spent most of my time with my mom and my sister growing up and that caused me to adopt similar interests - my mom’s love for music and the theatre, my sister’s affinity for the figure skating portion of the winter Olympics, and my grandma’s skill at making fresh baked biscuits from scratch. But despite all of the things about me that might seem more “girly” than the average guy, I’m serious about my masculinity and can hold my own in any, well ... most ... okay, plenty of bro-hood scenarios. I’m here to proudly say ...    I Am Man - Hear Me Sing Sweetly In Falsetto  I thought it’d be a good idea to make it clear exactly who I think I am. I do this because the odds are phenomenally good that if I don't, you'll eventually think to yourself, "Just who does this guy think he is?"  I shall save us some time.  I’m an artist with a bunch of interests. I'm a husband and a father (In that order), and a devout Christian. If you keep those things in mind, you'll get most of where I'm coming from.  However, a new description recently came into play as to the condition of my character that had me a tad confused. I was described by a well-meaning friend as being not so much a woman trapped in a man’s body, but also not exactly the cover model for Man’s Man weekly. He said I was more of a “Metrosexual”. It took me a minute to process that as I looked up the definition of the word before I punched him in the face with my man knuckles. I wasn’t completely positive there wouldn’t be some face punching to come, but I’m a reasonable person. I forgot to add "reasonable" to my list of traits you might find handy to know. I could at least perform my due diligence before the fists began to fly and here’s what I found to be the correct use of the term as defined by Webster’s dictionary online: noun met·ro·sex·u·al ˌme-trə-ˈsek-sh(ə-)wəl: A usually urban heterosexual male given to enhancing his personal appearance by fastidious grooming, beauty treatments, and fashionable clothes.  HAHAHAHAHAHA! I decided my friend had not really checked his description for accuracy whilst pertaining it to moi.  I asked him why he thought of me that way and he replied, “Because you’re a straight dude who likes a lot of girly stuff.”  Okay, I thought, he has a point. He’s obviously referring to my obsessive love for live theatre (especially the musical variety), my fierce desire to keep a tidy home (although that never seems to become a reality), my embrace of all the arts - including crafts - and the fact that I can do a pretty good Julie Andrews when I’ve had a little too much coffee. But I didn’t feel that was enough to categorize me as a metrosexual when compared against the definition as given by Merriam Webster. So I adjusted my man-girdle (it was getting hot and you sweat under those things) and prepared to give my rebuttal.  “You, my friend – O he of camouflaged grandeur -, have me all wrong. True, I hold fast to a few things that may be considered feminine by some standards. And yes, I enjoy cooking, show tunes, and sappy movies where people fall in love, have a fight, then one of them chases after the other just as they're about to drive off or fly away, only to make up and kiss in the rain. I absolutely asked my mother the other day to borrow her sewing machine so that I could learn how to use it to make my costume creations go faster. So what?! I might fit the description as you see it, but I am not the best groomed of any room. I hate to shop for clothes, and have never had a beauty treatment. Therefore, I would say that I definitely do not fit the description of a metrosexual.  “Further,” I told him, “you may be surprised to find that I'm a crack shot with a rifle and although I’m sickened at the thought of killing for sport, I’ve spent more than a few hours in a deer stand in my youth and even bagged a couple. I fully respect those who hunt for food and wish you Godspeed in your future woodland endeavors, my scruffy friend with a bird nesting in your beard. Speaking of woodlands, my good sir, you should know that I, too, can track game and have a fair knowledge of survival skills as taught to me by my father, a great hunter and gatherer. Among other manly things I learned and adore that were taught to me all or in part by my father are the following: carpentry, gun safety, persistence in learning a skill, how to field dress a deer ("gut it", for those who aren’t manly), how to properly hold a hammer and how to string colorful combinations of curse words together when hitting your thumb with said hammer, how to fish, how to camp, the fact that gifts that were made by hand are more precious and last longer than anything you could ever buy with money, and the list goes on.”  “Sorry ‘bout'at,” he offered and spit something brown into a cup.  I like to think of myself as well rounded and cultured in lots of different ways, not just the ones that scream TESTOSTERONE, and I’ve put together a list of things that I believe truly make a real man.  A REAL Man includes the following traits:      · He is capable of laughing even when it hurts, unless there’s a lot of blood coming out of something important.      · Given some wood, nails or screws, and a drill, he can build something useful – like a shelf for his Broadway show tunes collection or a drawer he can put his stage makeup in.      · He can do simple self-surgeries (I dug out my own in-grown toenail and regaled you with that story in Episode 4.)      · He is not only capable of love, but doesn't mind saying it out loud to anybody he really feels it towards.      · He believes in something and is willing to fight for it. Like which is better - store bought fondant or homemade? Or who drew first - Han Solo or Greedo? (Let the debate begin.)      · He feels strongly that he is actually a mightier man than Old Dan Tucker because not only could he wash his face with a frying pan, but would have never died of a toothache in his heel. (He would have dug it out like I did. Like a man.)      · He never abuses women, children, or animals either physically or mentally.      · He cherishes his chosen mate as a precious jewel.      · He can build a fire. He might have to use those easy light logs they sell at Walmart, but he can light ‘em, by thunder!      · He will put that fire out when he’s done with it.      - He observes the oxford comma.      · He takes his punishment without placing blame on others.      · He sits calmly in the bleachers, keeps his mouth shut unless he’s cheering or otherwise being a positive influence, and lets the coaches coach.      · He spends time with his children and shows his sons how to be real men and his daughters how to be real women.  These are just a few and I’m sure there are plenty more I didn’t include. Let me know if you think of something I left out.  As far as my friend and our encounter over my alleged "metrosexuality", I didn’t hit him because he didn’t know any better and a real man has more sense than that. Plus, I didn’t want to get tobacco juice on my knuckles. After our conversation, I agreed to buy some deer meat from him, shook his hand (which smelled suspiciously of doe urine - or at least I assume it was doe urine. It was some kind of urine and now I’m thinking, dear God let it be doe urine), and offered to throw away his spit cup. Instead, he dumped it in the bushes.  I gave him the old man nod and we walked our separate ways.  Metrosexual, my girdle. ___________________   I’m not sure if my natural speaking voice being a little high is due to all the time I’ve spent around women or not. I recognize a bit of a lilt to it a lot of guys don’t have that might make someone listening to, but not seeing me, think they’re hearing a middle aged southern woman straight off the plantation. I get that, but it doesn’t change the fact that it irritates the buttermilk out of me when it happens. I want to shout ...  Dude! Don’t Call Me Ma’am  I’ve lived with a phenomenon in my life that has plagued me at drive-thru intercoms and on telemarketing calls for, oh, maybe twenty years. And now, after so long and so many awkward moments when I come face to face with the clerk at the window, I’ve given up and come to terms with the fact that I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life.  In a choir, I’m always placed in the tenor section. And because I’m a tenor, I don’t lay claim to a very low tonality of voice. I’ll never be heard over speakers, softly setting the mood for some couple’s “special” time. In other words, I’m no Barry White. My voice whispering, “Yeah, baby, you know you’re awwwwl-riiiight”, would come out sounding something like a chipmunk talking to a beautiful acorn.  So it shouldn’t surprise you that on most occasions when I’m talking to a faceless voice over an intercom or on the phone, to someone who doesn’t know me from Adam, nine times out of ten, I’ll eventually hear, “that’s a double cheeseburger meal with no pickle, add mayo, onion rings instead of fries, two apple pies for the price of one, a cup of gravy with extra gravy, some mayonnaise packets, a bucket of lard, and a Diet Coke. Large size it … Will that be all, ma’am?"  I know my voice can sound higher than the average dude and I’ve had to answer for that time and time again. I think it might have been some of the spark behind the “metrosexual” incident I just told you about.  But I’m still amazed that there are times my voice comes across as girly. And it’s not that anybody’s calling me a sissy, either. THEY REALLY THINK I’M A WOMAN! And it happens all the time.  But I have a theory that just might explain things and even if it’s not the reason, I’m sticking to it because it’s the best I have and I came up with it all by myself. I think that most people - not just me - tend to raise their voices at the drive-thru speaker, causing it to go up a few steps in the scale.  Imagine that I’m a man, because I AM a man. Now imagine that my gruff, burly self has decided he’s thirsty and desires a brew worthy of my power. Those who know me, stop laughing and follow me into the fantasy. I drive up to the Altar of the Arches and roll down my window. No, I cock a sinister eye at the window and it cowers in fear due to my manliness.  The person on the other end of the speaker chimes without much excitement, “Welcome to Altar of the Arches. Would you like to try our new bacon wrapped bacon today?”  I clear my throat and prepare to order with the authority of a god, and reply.  “No, thank you. I’d like a medium coffee with six creams and one Splenda.” I say it in a voice lifted several octaves so I can be heard over the sounds of the outside world. And because I always feel like I have to yell in these situations. I end up sounding like some freak hybrid of Richard Simmons and Dame Judi Dench. And by the way, that is exactly how I take my coffee at the Altar of the Arches.  “Yes, ma’am. Pull around.”  It’s become a point of paranoia now. I listen back to my voice over work and think to myself, “I might have sounded a little girly there, but I don’t think anyone would get the idea I was wearing a dress.”  Maybe it’s because I get along better with women than men. When I find myself at a gathering, it’s more often than not that I’m hanging out with the ladies instead of the guys. I’ve mentioned before that I tend to favor the more tender side of things. I know how to hunt, but prefer not to. I’d rather be painting a deer than killing it. I can fish, but I’d rather be writing or singing a song about the sea than standing by it with a rod and reel in my hand. And I guess that tendency adds a delicate quality to my conversation. Give me a discussion about poetry and art over hunting, fishing, or politics any day. After all, ladies never get involved in tasteless banter, right?  WRONG! That’s exactly where the juicy conversation is found. And as long as I can handle words like “uterus”, “nipples”, and God help me, “Oprah”, without becoming red in the face, I’ll usually be accepted into the group. Come to think of it, “nipples” can often be heard around the fire with the men as well, just not in a decent frame of reference.  Spending most of my childhood in the presence of my mother and sister has a lot to do with it, I’m sure. But when I ask others, “Do I sound like a woman to you,” they always assure me, “Oh, noooooooo. Of course not. Why would you ever think such a thing?” And I know they’re sincere because they usually fix each other with a knowing look and a bit of a smile on their faces as if to say, “How charming is this manly specimen?! I think Michael is THE most manly man in the history of manhood”. I’m positive that’s how I ought to take it.  So why do I have the same problem whenever I’m on the phone with some telemarketer I don’t know?  “Blackston residence …”  “Hello, ma’am. Is your husband home?”  UUUGGGHHHH! Don’t they train you not to be sexist and ask for the “Man of the House” over at the University of Interrupting People To Sell Stuff They Don’t Want Or Need?  If it’s a woman on the other end, I might get sassy and try to start a cat fight, seeing how long I can keep them going thinking I’m a female myself. It doesn’t take long to end the call, but normally not the way I would have it. They’ll just call me a B-word or hiss and hang up.  If it’s a guy, I might flirt to see if he’ll flirt back before lowering my voice so that he can tell I’m definitely NOT a woman. You can’t put a price on that awkward moment. Unless the lower voice lets him know I’m teeming with dude-ship and he does flirt back. Then the awkward moment belongs to me and all I can say is, “Well played, intrusive salesman, well played.”  I know this all sounds kind of mean, but it gets old being mistaken for a girl, even if it is an honest mistake every single time.  So I guess next time I might try to be nicer and just lower my voice, hoping to get them to see the error of their ways and apologize. It’ll probably go something like … CALLER:   Hello, ma’am. Is your husband at home? ME:   (Lowering my voice) I’m the only one here. CALLER:   Oh, I’m so sorry … Do you have a cold, ma’am?  And then I’ll just finally give up. _________________  Gender issues aren’t just my burden to bear, though. I felt for my wife during both of her pregnancies as she dealt with - and handled like a boss, I might add - different obstacles that I’ve since learned come as part of the whole child birthing package. I knew about the sore back, the morning sickness, and all the stuff that swells up, but I had no idea about one amazing side effect women frequently endure while the bun bakes in the oven.  Pregnant Brain - The Struggle Is Real *This is another one that contains too much mention of writing for me to edit it out for a podcast without recreating the whole thing and I’m too lazy for that, so just ignore the writing stuff and the fact that this is a run-on sentence and enjoy the story.   I can’t remember what I was going to write about.  It’s 11:14 pm and I’m in a Myrtle Beach Waffle House because I’m not tired and I have a blog post due. I’m probably not feeling tired because I can’t turn off my mind because I have a blog post due. I have a blog post due because I haven’t written a few ahead of time and stored them away like I promised myself I would and now I’m behind the eight ball so I’m obsessing over the fact that I have a blog post due and I can’t sleep. And now I’m wide awake and about to eat a greasy cheeseburger plate at a Waffle House in Myrtle Beach.  In addition to my short-term memory, I also tend to lose the capacity not to write run-on sentences when I’m in this state; not the state of South Carolina, but the state of Tired And Eating A Cheeseburger Way Too Late At Night.  Maybe age has something to do with my forgetting what I was going to write about. They say that the more you age, the more stuff you forget, like where you put the remote, where you put your car keys, and where you put your smart phone that contains the app you downloaded to help you locate the remote and your car keys. But I’m sad to say that I’m old enough now that age has started taking that sort of toll on me. I can’t be a day over thirty. That’s what somebody wearing coke bottle glasses said to me once, “You can’t be a day over 30, sonny!”, and I want to believe them.  My wife has an out, though, and she’s not afraid to use it: Pregnant Brain.  According to her, Pregnant Brain is a condition that happens to many, if not all, women in the event of many, if not all, pregnancies. It can occur during the gestational period, which might manifest in her forgetting to add pickles to her 3 am peanut butter taco craving, for example. Or it can be something that happens weeks or even months after the baby has shot out waving jazz hands. For instance, my wife forgetting that I informed her of my distaste for diaper duty. It can even spring forth during labor and delivery by her forgetting that you can’t survive without your spine; the one she’s punched through your abdomen to clench in her fist.  At first I thought it was something she made up so I wouldn’t be upset when she failed to do stuff she didn’t want to do, but then it kept happening. She’d forget to bring home household necessities I asked for, like candy bars and booze.  “Pregnant Brain!” she shouted and threw her hands into the air as if care were a thing she didn’t possess.  At first I figured she just didn’t want me, a Christian, to chase a Whatchamacallit with Rock and Rye, but she sincerely promised that she forgot. After all, Whatchamacallits are sinful. Okay, … I really only wanted the Rock and Rye because, although I hate the taste of liquor, nothing puts a stop to bronchitis better than a shot of whiskey before bed and I was having a nasty bout of “The Crud”. And I still think maybe she just didn’t want to be seen going into the ABC store by the preacher or somebody in the community who would be on the horn to my grandma before she could pull out of the parking lot. In a small town, you have to check the church bulletin for your name in prayer list every Sunday morning, in case some mouthy gossip saw you renting that R-rated movie from Redbox.  As we ordered a meal at a fancy restaurant that rhymes with Rexas Toadhouse the other night, the waitress, who looked like any minute she might deliver more to our table than the food, apologized for forgetting a part of our order by implementing “Pregnant Brain!” I will say I was pleased that she didn’t throw her hands into the air as if caring were not on the menu as my wife tends to do. Of course, had she done that, steak, mashed potatoes, and broccoli would have flown hither and yon among the patrons.  I nearly summoned the courage to ask her about the Pregnant Brain issue, but decided not to when I remembered the last time I mentioned a baby to a waitress I thought was expecting. It turns out she was expecting - to have cheesecake after work - and my face went beet red, so I opted out of asking further questions of this waitress, just to be on the safe side.  I figured there had to be something to this Pregnant Brain thing after all and suddenly lots of stuff began making sense. I felt like maybe I needed to apologize to my wife for accusing her of being slack that time she ...  Forgot to pick up my underwear that finally fell off the ceiling fan. I’d been showing off my sweet ninja skills by kicking it into the air and trying to catch it before it hit the ground. Don’t shake your heads, guys … you know you’ve done it. Only this time I got a little too much lift and got it caught on one of the fan blades.  Or that time she forgot to unclog the drain after I emptied a bowl of hamburger grease down it then followed that with cold water.  She also had a case of Pregnant Brain once when she forgot to put the milk back in the fridge after I made a glass of Rich, Chocolate Ovaltine and left a nearly full gallon on the counter.  “Pshaw!” I used to say about Pregnant Brain, but now, I consider the time it caused my wife to nearly burn down the house due to preheating the oven without removing the pizza box I’d secretly put in there to keep from the cats or the time she almost burned down the house due to preheating the oven without removing the cat I’d secretly hidden in there to keep out of the pizza box.  So to all of you ladies who’ve ever carried and delivered children with the effect that things tend to slip your minds a little more often, please accept my humble apologies. I realize that I’m a man who will never know what it’s like to bear a child inside my own body and as a result, suffer brain damage. I can’t speak for all men, but I can speak for myself – a person who, according to a blind woman, doesn’t look a day over thirty – and I say don’t worry about it.  To be honest, I know that it IS a real thing and it's something that real women have to deal with. So while I joke, I also appreciate that we men need to understand that the physical nature of bearing children has lasting effects well beyond the delivery room and the nine months prior to it. And because you endure, you are to be cherished and appreciated almost as much as opening day of college football.  If the blessing of being the vessel of creation requires that your short-term memory take a hit then so be it. It’s worth it, right? At least you have a reason beyond age that you can point to with pride and sincerity.  We men can claim one of two things: being old or being stupid. Most of the time it’s the latter, I’m sorry to say. Well, I refuse to believe I’m old because that blind woman said so and that leaves me with stupid.  Fine then. I can’t remember what I was going to write about because I’m stupid. I’ll eventually figure out something to write about, even if being stupid or this cheeseburger kills me. Or these hashbrowns. Or the pie I think I’m gonna order.  That is if my waitress will come over here.  I think she may have forgotten about me.  And now I see her throwing her hands in the air sans care.  Maybe I ought to ask her when she’s due. _________________  I feel like I ought to mention something about that last story. You know, the section around the middle where I talk about all the stuff my wife forgot to do to clean up after me when a man with any worth at all would have cleaned his own mess. Yeah, that was a joke. I included it to be funny, so please don’t send me mean comments. I love you, ladies. But if that sounded a lot like your man, let me know and I’ll create a scathing story in one of my future episodes that’ll shame him into doing better.  

Think Yourself Thin Part Two... We were so deep into our discussion two weeks with our guest Dr. Marilyn Blackston,  time ran out on us. Fortunately she agreed to come back so we can continue our discussion on Think Yourself Thin.  The number one New Years resolution made in 2015 and in most years is to loose weight. The weight loss industry is a thriving business, with companies that focus on weight-loss services making $6.3 billion in revenue in 2015.  This does not include the weight loss supplements which add billions more in revenue. Some would argue that these companies and supplements only offer temporary solutions, but continue to take money from naive consumers. So is there a better way?  Dr. Blackston knows there is. Dr. Blackston is a a Physician, Certified and Licensed Wellness Coach, and Emotional Freedom Technique Practitioner who has been helping women improve their health with weight loss for over 25 years. She is the first  African-American woman to complete a surgical residency at the University of Maryland. a stress reduction treatment. She has also authored two books,"Rebuilding the Temple: A Spiritual Journey to Wholeness" and " Rebuilding the Temple: Healing for Body, Mind, and Spirit" encouraging a holistic approach to becoming healthy. So join us as Dr. Marilyn Blackston shares keys to lasting weight loss from her unique process that has transformed the lives of many women.  

Think Yourself Thin... The number one New Years resolution made in 2015 and in most years is to loose weight. The weight loss industry is a thriving business, with companies that focus on weight-loss services making $6.3 billion in revenue in 2015.  This does not include the weight loss supplements which add billions more in revenue. Some would argue that these companies and supplements only offer temporary solutions, but continue to take money from naive consumers. So is there a better way?  Our guest this week knows there is. Dr. Marilyn Blackston is a boarded as a Otolaryngologist-Head and Neck Surgeon. and the first  African-American woman to complete a surgical residency at the University of Maryland. She also holds a certification as a Wellness Coach and in Emotional Freedom Technique, a stress reduction treatment.  Her area of expertise is assisting middle-aged professional women embrace a permanently healthy lifestyle to the point that they naturally lose weight and are able to discontinue prescribed medications. Find out how you can Think Yourself Thin as Dr. Blackston shares tips and strategies from her unique process that has transformed the lives of many women.  

David Blackston founded the Blackston Financial Group in 1998 and is also a Certified Estate Planner®, Certified Senior Advisor®, Investment Advisor Representative, and a Licensed Insurance Agent. He has over 40 years of experience in the financial industry and is one of the authors of the recently published book, "Have You Ever Been Bitten by an Elephant? The Definitive Guide for Retiring Well." David's unique approach to financial planning includes investment advisory services, tax forecasting, and estate planning — all working together to provide a comprehensive plan for clients. His methods include safe money, risk money, and how these two competing worlds can be brought together to provide a worry-free lifestyle. Secret – timesaving technique David has mentors that keep him in check -- if you don't have a mentor, get one. ONWARD! Could have ruined your business – but now – an invaluable learning experience David felt that he wasn't worthy of mentors -- and David tells the whole story here. Most influential lesson learned from a mentor "Be the exception."   Final Round – “Breaking Down the Recipe for Success” What strategy would you recommend new business owners focus on to best ensure success? Believe in yourself Get a mentor How best to connect with David: Website: blackstonfinancialgroup.com Phone: (888)319-5656 Website: david.blackston@blackstonfinancialgroup.com

Tom Shroder is a journalist, Pulitzer prize winning editor, and the author of Acid Test: LSD, Ecstacy, and the Power to Heal. Tom explains the process of MDMA assisted psychotherapy along with the history of MDMA's rise from party drug to a harbinger of hope.

Nicolas Blackston (@LokiLee33) is a USMC Veteran and visual artist who is the subject of the book Acid Test by Tom Shroder(@tomshroder). Nicolas suffered from severe PTSD before recieving MDMA assisted psychotherapy. His entire story can be found here: http://www.amazon.com/Acid-Test-Ecstasy-Power-Heal/dp/149153527X

I had the pleasure of conversing with Javan (www.instagram.com/therazorscut), a Cybersecurity Systems Engineer by day, small business owner by night, about his fatherhood story, and there were many lessons to be gleaned. As a product of a blended family, he very quickly recognized the importance of creating family bonds and establishing the values he would later instill in his boys (15 & 22). He is passionate about helping others and, specifically, advocating for young black men to ensure their voices are heard and their developmental needs are met. Grab a snack. This is gonna be a great one! #theDSP #fatherandson #dearson #blackpodcasters  The DSP website is now live!: click here Support the pod by supporting our sponsors: Johns & Co Apparel: www.johnsandcompany.co Love Kisha J Studios: www.etsy.com/shop/LoveKishaJStudios Let's connect socially: www.instagram.com/thedearsonpodcast www.twitter.com/dearsonpodcast www.facebook.com/thedearsonpodcast --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast at — https://redcircle.com/dear-son/exclusive-content