My late friend and fishing buddy Allan called me a Renaissance man. He would use this expression following my triumphant execution of some imposing undertaking such as fabricating a sleeves-only “sunbreaker jacket" while sitting in the scorching heat in a bass boat on Lake Champlain. Or I may have found myself honored with his left-handed compliment upon discovering a new surgical technique for extracting a deeply embedded fish hook from a finger—namely my own.

But his witty comments about my Renaissance-like talent were born of a sincere belief my friend held that I can, indeed, do many different things well. I sometimes don’t see it in myself, but I have received the feedback often enough from others as well. The time my wife’s parents watched in awe as I repaired their doorbell one afternoon comes to mind immediately.

Yes, I am a Renaissance man. I have many other skill sets in addition to field finger surgery and doorbell repair. That I’m handy with tools is true—I used to be something of a shade tree mechanic and did all of my own tune-ups and made many repairs on my sports car. I’m pretty accomplished as a photographer and successfully made the transition from to film to digital. Computers don’t intimidate me. I can design and maintain a website. I can play a fairly good rendition of “Pretty Woman” on the guitar. I’m a respectable public speaker and trainer. And some might even say I write good.

Like the Renaissance men of old, I am always trying to learn something new. I’ve served in the military. I am well-traveled. I’m comfortable with a wide variety of people of all ages and backgrounds. I enjoy a spirited debate about politics or world affairs. I’m usually always reading at least one book. And I guess I got culture because I enjoy museums, the theatre and all them fine arts in general.

Yet for all of my aptitudes, I could never hold down a job as an auto mechanic, photographer, webmaster, writer or doorbell repairman. I’m just not good enough at any of those things to justify someone paying me a salary to do them. I am the quintessential “Jack-of-all-Trades and Master of None.” I have an affliction worse than hair loss, halitosis and hemorrhoids combined. I suffer from—THE HEARTBREAK OF MEDIOCRITY!

I understand some people don’t know what it's like to lead lives of quiet desperation. Having achieved celebrity status on the world’s stage, these folks are usually blessed with one or more of three attributes— brilliance of mind, superiority of looks or distinction of birth. If you weren’t endowed with one of those three qualities then chances are you’re like me. You’re still waiting for your measly fifteen minutes of fame.

I first became aware of my affliction in junior high school physical education class. It didn’t matter if we were to play basketball, softball, volleyball, or tiddlywinks—everyday our coach would pick two of the more athletic boys in the class to be team captains. This was before the teams had been formed. It was the job of the captains to alternately choose their team’s players from the other students in the class.

So captain A, without hardly a glance at us, would say something like, “I’ll take Petzhold.” Obviously, Petzhold was the star athlete in the class. And Petzhold would start a line behind his captain.

Then captain B would grab Coleman, the second best proven player.

“Osburn.” “Estes.” “Rousseau.” “Janelli.” “Catlin.” “Sanders,” the captains make their selections.

For what seems like an eternity I’m still standing there in the ever-dwindling pool of talent. The captains begin examining us more closely. By now all the plums have been picked and it’s just a matter weeding out the fuck-ups. I’m starting to feel like a donkey at a horse show. Please God, make them pick me next. Don’t let me be the last one picked.

“Uh, hmm, . . . okay, I guess I’ll take . . . Bradley!”

Whew! And that was my first awareness of my own mediocrity. I wasn’t terrible, mind you, because I was never the last boy chosen. But I wasn’t remarkable, either. I was always right there somewhere in the middle.

My next confrontation with my own mediocrity didn’t happen until I was a senior in high school. I was always a rather shy fellow and—with one exception in a school play—never attracted much attention to myself. Imagine my surprise, then, when I was nominated for one of those superlative “Most” awards for the school yearbook. There was Most Attractive, Most Athletic, Most Scholarly, Most Friendly, Most Talented and, of course, Most Likely to Succeed. And then there was the honor for which I was nominated—Most Shy.

Great! That’s a fine how-do-you-do. I knew I wasn’t the most outgoing person in the world. But to be nominated for Shy Guy? Was I that much of a mole? Well, at least I must have made some kind of impression on someone, I thought. Otherwise, why would they even bother to nominate me? After a couple of days of getting used to the idea I secretly started hoping that I would win the vote over my three fellow nominees.

I didn’t, of course. Again the heartbreak of mediocrity struck like a bad case of acne. I wasn’t even shy enough to be Mr. Shy Guy. Damn!

But mediocrity may have saved my life on at least one occasion. I graduated from college in 1968—at the height of the Vietnam War. The unmediocre thing for me to do would have been to enlist in Officer Candidate School (OCS)—since I had a college degree—and become an officer. But I had recently learned of a childhood friend who did that, got sent to Vietnam and proceeded to get killed by his own artillery. So being an officer didn’t hold much appeal for me. Before the end of the summer I was drafted into the army as a private.

As in high school and college, I made it through basic training without calling too much attention to myself. I kept my nose clean and my boots shined. I wanted as few people as possible to know that I was a college graduate. Eventually the brass in my company found out anyway and tried one more time to convince me to go to OCS. I declined their invitation.

After demonstrating an aptitude for, of all things, Morse Code, the army sent me to radio operator’s school. Now carrying a radio on your back was not what you wanted to be doing in the jungles of Vietnam. The radio operator is the first guy in an infantry squad that the enemy tries to take out. Damn! But become proficient enough in radio school to send and receive Morse Code at the rate of 15 words per minute and you could go on to—Radio Teletype School! The teletype guys, we were told, stayed behind the front lines in comfortable vans.

I made my 15 w.p.m.—barely.

But I didn’t even go to Vietnam. They sent me to Germany instead. I can’t even claim to be a Vietnam vet, just a Vietnam “era” vet. I returned home sixteen months later as a buck sergeant instead of a first lieutenant or a captain. Nothing special. Anyone could have done it, and thousands did. But for once I was grateful for mediocrity. I was still alive.

Yes, I have walked through the valley of the shadow of mediocrity. I was a slow reader in grade school (I still am). As already mentioned, I wasn’t very athletic. Although I have a certificate that says I was a “student of scholastic promise” (whatever that means), I wasn’t a member of my high school Honor Society or anything like that. Instead, I managed to flunk Chemistry one period and Algebra II for a entire semester before being allowed to transfer to something less strenuous—Music Appreciation. In college I squeaked through several courses with D’s and had to re-take American Literature one summer in order to graduate on time.

I don’t have great social skills either, although I probably wouldn’t embarrass you if you invited me to a dinner party. But I don’t know if I would be able to keep the conversation going with the old hag sitting to my right—or is it the person on the left you’re supposed to chat up?

Being shy as a teenager, I didn’t date the cheerleaders—although I did ask one out once (she declined). And since I didn’t know how to dance, I didn’t go to the prom. As an adult I was extremely uncomfortable with singles bars and never ever considered going to one by myself. I was thirty-five by the time I finally got married. I’m sure some folks were starting to wonder about me.

My professional life has been underwhelming as well. No MBA fast-tracker me. My bi-syllabic degree is in something much more practical—theatre. At least two of my post-college jobs began with my pushing a broom. Further, I have followed an “eclectic” career path. I have worked in film production, printing, men’s clothing, photography, training, shipping and receiving, industrial theatre and shoe sales. I free-lanced for eight years straight, co-founded a corporation and have been a consultant. I have been employed by small firms and large international ones. You’ll likely never read about me in the Wall Street Journal. Except for currently being “president” of my own business, the highest title I’ve ever attained in the corporate world is Director—and that was a dubious distinction.

I’m not complaining about my station in life. But lately what has been bothering me is that so many mediocre people seem to be doing so well. From politicians who skipped high school civics class, to pop singers who don’t write songs, play an instrument (or even read music), the world’s stage is being hogged more and more by a new breed of mediocre elite.

It is no longer necessary, for example, for CEOs to know anything about business. Authors don’t need to know how to write, they can hire ghostwriters. Actors don’t have to act, they can just be themselves. Anchormen don’t need to know anything about journalism as long as they have a good hair dresser. Religious leaders don’t need congregations or churches as long as their names are preceded by “Rev.” Athletes don’t need to be strong, they can always take steroids. Generals don’t need to know anything about waging war, they have civilian defense ministers who are much smarter than they are. Chefs don’t need to know how to prepare a meal, that’s what the TV production assistants are for. A doctor doesn’t need to practice medicine if he writes a diet book and starts a fat farm. A comedian doesn’t need to be funny as long as his sitcom has a laugh track. A pundit doesn’t need to bother himself with critical thinking—he just needs diarrhea of the mouth. We’ve reached a point now where mediocrity is the new key to success. I can’t believe I’m missing out on all the fun.

Yes, mediocrity is in and competence is out. Everything has been turned upside down. Mediocrity is no longer a curse. Instead, the mediocre are inheriting the earth. Emerging is a new definition of mediocrity. Experts and professionals are the new bottom-crawlers as they eke out their existences in the murky waters left stirred up by the new mediocre elite. Traditional Jack-of-all-Trades Renaissance people like myself can no longer hold on to our claims of mediocrity. We haven’t cut it in the new world order. We are mediocre lite.

The real heartbreak of mediocrity is that the rest of us are forced to pay attention to these idiots. It used to be that the mediocre just sort of blended in and didn’t call much attention to themselves. Now, because of their new elevated status, the nouveaux mediocre are constantly in our face. You can’t turn on CNN or pick up a newspaper without about being reminded of their latest “achievements.” The rest of us—the greater mass of mediocre lites (and the world’s few remaining true experts)—have been left in the futile position of having to constantly monitor, question, critique, confront and—by ballot or purchasing power—replace an ever self-regenerating establishment of mediocre elite.

Another heartbreak is mediocrity’s trickle-down effect. Where industrial strength mediocrity leads, mediocrity lite is inclined to follow. Time was when those of us from the old mediocrity school would at least be content to perform a job marginally well. The new model insinuates that we have been wasting our time. What’s the point of mastering even the bare fundamentals of a job when faking it will serve you much better? The clear message is that all you need to do is just keep telling your boss, your board of directors, your stock holders, your constituents and your customers what a great job you are doing and eventually they will believe you.

Right. Unfortunately, it takes megawatts of energy and legions of public relations sycophants and other assorted toadies to keep that illusion alive. It is a terrible drain on human capital that could otherwise be spent doing something more productive.

Let’s get one thing straight. Mediocrity is not the same thing as inferiority. In this regard mediocrity has gotten a bad rap over the years. We tend to associate it with shoddy work, poor performance, cheap materials, and the like. But the reality is that mediocre means “adequate but not very good.” The Leaning Tower of Pisa—often used as a symbol of mediocrity—is really just an example of poor planning—or bad luck. I’m sure the city fathers of Pisa didn’t find it mediocre—or adequate.

So if mediocre means adequate, the next question becomes why don’t we have more of it? The reason, I believe, is because the trickle-down effect has made mediocrity the mark many now aim for. They are striving for mediocrity! And they are falling short. It’s the Cliff Notes mentality. If a student thinks all she needs to do to pass her English Literature class is to read the Pride and Prejudice Cliff Notes then she will certainly be clueless about Jane Austin’s writing style. But there is an even greater risk as well. She may also be clueless about the book’s locale, period, plot and characters six months after she’s taken her exams. You may not care about an English Lit student. But what about a medical student? Want to go to the doctor who read the Cliff Notes? Want the Cliff Noter MBA to be your boss? How about running your government?

As “adequate” as I am in so many of my endeavors, I’ve never strived for mediocrity. My grandmother used to say when I was a child, “Little man, if it’s not worth doing well it’s not worth doing.” I have always remembered that.

So strive for excellence. That way, if you fall short of your mark you at least have a good chance of being adequate. You might even become a Renaissance man or woman.

Striving for mediocrity, that’s a heartbreaker.

© Copyright 2002-2011, Richard Bradley. All rights reserved.