I met a friend for dinner last week. He’s not someone I knew from childhood or went to school with. I don’t know much about his family, and I don’t believe I’ve met his parents.

We don’t chat on the phone or computer nor is he active on Facebook or Twitter.

Other than meeting up three or four times a year for dinner, we don’t see or talk much. If the Cowboys are making a late charge I’ll send him to text to see if he has any faith left in Tony Romo.

We always meet at the same Pho soup joint at Southcenter. I told Kim I’d be gone “about an hour”. But three and a half hours passed before either of us look at our phones.  He picked up dinner. I believe I paid the last time we met, but I can’t remember because nobody keeps track.

It’s not easy to explain why I connect with some people and not others. I wouldn’t say a have many close friends. I have a group of good friends, but they come and go. Casual friends more away and are replaced by those I meet at work or church.

This week I stood in the cold next to my car and talked about everything and nothing with one of my close friends. Temperatures were near freezing, and my fingers and toes were numb. But none of that mattered. The nearly two hours we talked felt like twenty minutes.

No matter my circumstances I feel rich when close friends like these two are in my life. Their friendship and that connection mean far more than anything money can buy.

When I finished college, I felt like it was my responsibility as a degree carrying punk to share my opinions on everything from politics to why the Clash are better than U2.

I watched Jeopardy and read Time magazine. Man, I was informed!

I don’t know what changed. At some point I began speaking less and listening more. Not balanced by any means, but an improvement.

It’s something I still struggle with. As the new guy at work, I tend to keep my mouth shut at meetings and listen to others. I’ll chime in now and then, but not often. Nobody likes when the new guy shows up with a list of items to change.

I struggle the most around my own family which is odd. Then again, maybe it’s not. A few years back I made a comment that landed with a thud. I wish I could take it back because it’s hurt my relationship with my sisters. Living a couple of states away makes rebuilding the relationship a challenge.

At some point I assume I’ll figure it out.

And if not, there’s always my blog.

I met up with a friend for lunch today who I’d not seen for at least six years. I worked for him when I first moved to Seattle in 1994 and later followed him to Microsoft.

We were both geeks stuck in a marketing group, but made up for our lack of marketing skills by understanding how the products worked. We’d fly around the world demoing our software when nobody else in the group could install it.

We laughed at the newly minted MBA hires who couldn’t figure out the convoluted Microsoft email and file system. In exchange for lunch or Sonics tickets we’d help them.

It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, we picked up right where we left off today. There’s no awkwardness because he knows me and I understand him. We remain friends because we’ve gone through a lot together. We’ve both seen each other at our best and worst.

Our lunch lasted two hours, but felt like 20 minutes. Of course he remembered that time we bribed our way out of a speeding ticket in Monte Carlo, since then we always drive around with a little something from Remotecarstarterhero.com to prevent such mishaps. Or the time I was in charge of renting a sporty car for our visit to Marina del Rey. When we pulled into the Ritz Carlton and the valet just shook his head while staring at my lime green Hyundai subcompact, it was the last time he asked me to book the car rental.

You know that type of friend who doesn’t keep score and doesn’t insist on splitting every meal down the center? I never quite trust the friend who keeps track of every good deed and penny.

I’ve come to realize friendships like this are uncommon, but they are worth nurturing.

Over lunch, I caught up on his family. He told me he’d probably never be able to work for a large company again. I told him I was beginning to feel the same.

I don’t know if our paths will cross again. There’s no guarantee they will. We shook hands before parting. Another six years could pass before we see each other.

I hope that’s not the case, but whenever we do, I know we’ll pickup from where we left off today.

The thing about greatness is you know it when you see it.

In 1992 I watched the Utah Jazz beat the Chicago Bulls in triple overtime at the Delta Center in Salt Lake City. Michael Jordan had an off night. But he still scored 34 points and pulled down 13 rebounds before getting kicked out of the game for arguing a call during the second overtime.

For nearly four hours, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I watched his every move. The way he stretched before the game. How he interacted with his teammates, yet stared down the younger Jazz players. Even the way he runs the court is different.

Over 19,000 people filled the sold-out arena, and most of them were Jazz fans. But the thousands of camera flashes I saw that night were no doubt aimed at number 23. Outside of the playoffs, he’d be in Salt Lake only once a year.

I, like most everyone in attendance that night, cheered for the Jazz. But I was in awe of Jordan.  I knew I was watching the best basketball player on the planet.  The game itself was secondary. Although I didn’t know it at the time, it would be the only time I’d see him in person.

The felt the same way when I watched Tracy Chapman sing Talkin About a Revolution at Benaroya Hall in Seattle. Gives me chills thinking back to that day nearly 12 years ago. Tracy took the stage wearing a black jacket and matching jeans. Even the guitar slung over her should was black.

I didn’t take my eyes off her for over two hours, because I knew I was watching and listening to greatness and I didn’t want to miss a single note.

As it was watching Jordan, I knew I’d probably never experience anything similar in person in my lifetime again, and I haven’t.

Although I’ve never seen Steve Jobs in person, I’ve watched him introduce dozens of new Apple products in a manner unlike anyone else.

I’d never owned a single Apple product until October of 2005 when the fifth general iPod was released. Because of Jobs, I had to have it. He described it as if it were a work of art. Something that should be behind glass, but instead fits in my pocket and holds my entire music library.

I worked at Microsoft in various positions for 10 years and listened to Bill Gates speak dozens of times. Yet, I never felt compelled to purchase anything he’s introduced because he said it was great. Gates always spoke to the OEM, partner or “information worker”. But Jobs spoke to me. His excitement about the iPod won me over. So at lunch on the day it was released, I plunked down $399 for the 60 gig model.

That first iPod purchase has lead to so many more I’ve lost count. My family has owned five iPhones and two iPads and there’s no doubt the three Windows PCs in our home will eventually be replaced with Apple products.

Jobs falls into the greatness category, and I have no doubt I’ll be telling my kids about him just as I’ll tell them about Jordan and Chapman.

With one hand on the black leather covered steering wheel, I jumped from station to station, searching for one that wasn’t dissecting the O.J. Simpson trial.

Most FM stations were little more than white noise as I traversed through the canyons leading out of Ogden and into Evanston. Eventually I’d give up and pop in my Counting Crows cassette.

Other than a few stretches of rock and river, much of the surroundings are barren land that once served as farm land. Dilapidated farms dot the landscape like road markers.

My first job out of college resulted in moving to Rock Springs for four months. I was married, but I’d be living on my own while my spouse finished up schooling in Salt Lake City.

A few friends and family advised me to refuse the transfer or find another job assuming it would take a toll on my marriage. What they didn’t know was my marriage was already teetering on the brink of failure.

Maybe that’s why I felt good about my decision to leave my friends, family and spouse to live on my own for a while. I knew it would be the final nail in the marriage coffin.

I learned more about myself during those four months than the previous four years in college. I dove into my job like I’d never done before. I spent my evenings reading about computers and the internet. I made new friends who didn’t see the baggage I’d been carrying around for years.

It was a fresh start. Slowly I was beginning to feel alive again.

One night a few of my coworkers invited me to go to a club with them. When we arrived, I realized that a club in Rock Springs is a neighborhood dive bar anywhere else. I don’t know if I’d ever stepped foot in a bar until that night.

At least I was around friends for a couple of hours. One ordered a burger for me that arrived with a bowl of brown gravy. It’s worth a trip to Rock Springs if only for this burger. And, honestly, only for this burger.

Country music blared over the speakers. I felt far outside my comfort zone and was about to excuse myself for the evening when a coworker grabbed my arm and dragged me to the dance floor. Others filed in around us until the floor was packed.

I tried not to smile, but I was having fun for the first time in a long time. My partner leaned towards me and whispered, “You’re gonna be OK.”

Seventeen years later those words still stand as some of the kindest ever directed towards me.

I began watching the first season of TNT’s series, Men of a Certain Age tonight. The show follows the lives of three men well into their 40’s. The character played by Ray Romano runs a party store and is in the midst of a divorce.

Romano walks around in a daze much of the time. In one scene, he leaves his old home after dropping his son off only to return a few seconds later asking his soon-to-be former spouse a few questions. I could tell it didn’t matter what he asked because he wasn’t listening to her answers.

Similar to how a song can transport me back in time, the same happened as I watched this scene. As Romano left his former home and walked to his car without an ounce of emotion, I thought to myself, “I know that look because I’ve been there.”

The first nineteen years of my life were spent in a family with four siblings. That was followed by two years attached to another missionary in Germany. And then nearly six years in a marriage that failed before children arrived.

I woke up one morning in a tiny apartment in downtown Seattle and found myself alone. Alone for the first time in my life. I stayed on the couch staring at the ceiling trying to come up with one good reason I should get up.

I opened the windows to allow the cool Seattle air to circulate through my living room thinking that might bring some clarity to my situation. I slept on an old couch because I didn’t own a bed, and I couldn’t get that fact out of my mind.

That was the low point. I needed a bed, but had little money. So I called my father who sent me $300 to purchase a mismatched mattress and box springs. I borrowed a friend’s truck and hauled it myself. I know it doesn’t sound like much. It certainly wasn’t much to look at. But it was a start. I considered it a blessing that I had a place to sleep.

And what my father doesn’t know till now is that I talked the salesperson down to $100. The remaining $200 was spent on groceries and keeping the electricity on that month.

I don’t often reflect back on this time of my life. Maybe there’s a part of me that feels it will disappear if I don’t attempt to recall it.

The show tonight reminded that many of these experiences still reside close to the surface. And maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I remember how I pulled myself off the couch and began to take small steps towards a better life.

Tonight I asked Kim what I thought was a harmless question that went something like, “If you didn’t care about what the other members of the book club thought, what book would you recommend we all read?”

Two seconds into her reply and numerous follow-up questions later, I realized my intention for asking the question had been garbled by its delivery. Two hours later I’m left to ponder a number of questions that came out of our discussion:

• How narrow are my tastes in literature, music, and movies?
• What does a person’s choice in literature, music, and movies tell us about them if anything?
• Am I a snob because my tastes in those areas typically fall outside the mainstream?

I mentioned that most music I discover comes to me by referral, and if there’s a story behind it, then even better. A friend in high school told me about this group he saw in London that blew his mind. He described how hard and how loud they played. He told me how their guitarist jammed so hard he nearly fell off the stage. The group was The Who and I don’t think two days went by before I showed up on his doorstep with a blank cassette in hand ready to dub his Who’s Next album.

I wrongly assumed the book club would work in a similar fashion where each member would suggest books that stuck with them over the years or that moved them to action. Or just moved them. Instead everyone suggested books they wanted to read but hadn’t. To me, this is the difference between a friend telling me about his favorite album versus telling me what album he’d like to listen to but hasn’t yet.

This isn’t to say this is how a book club should be run. This is the first club I’ve joined, and I did so based on the fact that I find each of the members interesting and a bit eclectic. Sure, I want to read a few books, but I’m also hoping to learn more about each person and what makes them tick. The people interest me more than the books.

The older I get the more I move away from the mainstream. I’m sure this is normal. It’s easy to round up a group of coworkers who want to see Avatar. But not as easy to drum up support to watch The Smartest Guys in the Room.

I doubt I’d recognize a song on the Top 40. Most blockbuster movies put me to sleep, and best seller and Oprah endorsed books just don’t capture my interest very often. This is where the snob in me comes out. I don’t look down on those whose interests bend towards the mainstream, but I find most mainstream art to be shallow and built for the short term.

For example, I can’t imagine my kids will grow up caring about a single performer who has appeared on American Idol. But I’d like to think they will learn to appreciate Revolver or Wish You Were Here one day.

But I could be wrong.

And to answer the three questions I posed; quite, not much, and maybe.