Family Ties

Researchers sometimes talk about genes expressing themselves later in life, and generally I am finding that to be true, particularly my grandmother's genes. Often I find myself drinking several cups of hot tea during the day, an activity I used to only participate in during the rare trip to a Chinese restaurant. I also have found I suddenly enjoy buying and arranging silk flowers to match the season; if you've ever been to my grandmother's house, you may back out the door thinking you've entered a funeral parlor by accident. I hope those are the only genes of my grandmother's that begin expressing. The next thing you know I'll be picking up her peculiar speaking habits: calling Giant, "Gint" (rythmes with "pint"); K-Mart, "K-Mark"; telling people they are "accident prawns," and asking whether we have any more of her favorite chips, "Crinkles" (that's Pringles to you). I also hope I don't start liking Bobby Vinton.

Eternal Cloudiness of the Confused Mind

We saw a couple of good films this weekend: Saved!, which was light and over the top but nonoffensiveness in every way (any less edgier and it could have been shown on ABC Family or something) and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I wish I was Charlie Kauffman. Well, I wish I had his ideas. Granted, the movie was not perfect, but he did a commendable job of examining a ex-boyfriend and ex-girlfriend who have each other erased from their memories.

I won't ruin the ending--I felt it should have ended twenty minutes before it did. And you cannot just extract one thing from your life like that--there are too many tangental things that occur while a relationship is happening--from where you live to who your friends are to your job to your outlook to the color of the leaves outside the window--that are influenced, sometimes imperceptually, by that relationship. Everything is interconnected, and the lessons to be learned from each seemingly isolated, bad experience rely on all of the parts.

But that movie didn't go quite that way--it went somewhere along the lines that, even if we wipe out a few forgettable boyfriends and girlfriends with technology, we are destined to repeat our mistakes because of who we are. But maybe that's saying the same thing, too--we can't, and shouldn't try to, avoid the mistakes in our life because there are valuable lessons in them for us.

I probably could have said that better, and maybe I can later. I've been thinking today of Charlie Kauffman-esque story lines to write, but I can't. The only thing I've thought of remotely resembling Charlie Kauffman is that the indicator of whether or not we're really attractive and likeable would be whether you'd want to fuck yourself. If you met yourself in a bar, would you be attracted to yourself? Want to have a relationship with yourself? That's really gross and weird to think of, but it raises interesting issues of self-esteem. In one way, I guess you would want to date yourself because your Doppelganger would share your interests and outlook, at least superficially. However, if you buy into the theory that people complete each other, you'd be totally turned off by the needy or the standoffish person you are, I guess.

Thank god it's Halloween this weekened and we'll only be renting horror films.

The Business of Opportunities

He calls me princess. It is not the most imaginative, but he doesn't need to be. He owns the air, the ground, the sky above him, which is obscured momentarily by the sooty, dark ceiling of this bar full of men and me, the princess. He and the Admiral have come back from a trip, he tells me, to check out a business opportunity between opportunities. For him, life is not the bills, the dog walks, the fed children; for him, it is a string of opportunities, opportunities that culminate into stories that he reels off between cigarettes: the restaurant business, the real estate business, the ship business, the business of business. He doesn't like sports; he only knows fishing, and likes a good catch. How about you, princess?

Between drinks, I am between lives. I have passed from the lives of bills, dog walks, fed children, obscured momentarily by the sooty, dark ceiling of this bar full of men and me. It is either life or opportunities, you know. For instance, sailing the seas with a restaurant/real estate enterpeneur, knowing how to reel them in. The opportunities, that is. He is older and handsome; I am close enough to see the faint lines in his boyish, tanned face. Boyish for forty, or older than his time? Between times, he owns the air, the ground, the sky above us.

He knows about seizing opportunities. He knows so many things of which I know nothing. For instance, the business of opportunities. I may be leaving in a few weeks, he explains, definitely maybe. From South Beach to New York, I am looking for business. Restaurants, real estate, sailing. I am at the will of life, of opportunity. So can I call you sometime, princess?

Between lives, I know this business is slippery. He is older and handsome. He knows so many things of which I know nothing. He owns the air, the ground, the sky above him, but when we step out into the night, of life and opportunties, we will meet face to face. I will notice the tiredness in his eyes, the rasp in his voice, the troublesome cough when he laughs. And I know there are bills, dog walks, and fed children. There are so many things of which he knows nothing. You'll have to understand, I say. I am not in the business of opportunity. I got out of that business a long time ago.

Going Ronnie

I have decided that from now on, when people flip their wigs, they will not go postal, they will go Ronnie, after our dear-but-misguided neighbor up the street. I was in the Safeway tonight (when am I not in the Safeway?) and noticed a photocopied, hand-written (cursive) missive posted to the bulletin board, complete with a color picture of a car parked at Safeway at the bottom.

In a hurry to get home, I declined to read it, as the pure length of it made War and Peace seem a less-daunting task. But then I noticed another one tapped to a lightpole on the way home. And one taped to the side of Ronnie's end-of-row home.

Surely this is of grave concern, I decided and began to read the one posted on Ronnie's brick wall.

The title read "Inconveniences I Have to Live With Because of Safeway," followed by a numbered list, a paragraph, and a lovely color picture of a Cavalier or something.

Surely someone had too much time on their hands at Kinko's, to have put up this free-form poem, I mused. It must be some sort of street art from the Creative Alliance.

First the inconvenices: trash pickup in the middle of the night, cracked foundation in the basement from the eighteen wheelers pummeling through our alleyway at all hours, and an infestation of mice and rats because of their dumpster (which we can certainly relate to).

Then, a long rant about how, coming home late at night with nowhere to park, our hero decided to park ILLEGALLY in Safeway's fire lane so that she could see her car from her house. The next morning, surprise, the car was impounded, costing the owner $200. However, not only had Safeway forced entry into the car, but two tires were flat. Safeway is clearly evil.

Okay, the inconveniences I can relate to; those, and the steady stream of drunks leaving bars at all hours every day of the week, are some of the downsides of living in the only semi-safe neighborhood left in Baltimore City. But the illegal parking bit, hello? YOU ILLEGALLY PARKED YOUR CAR IN THE FIRE LANE. WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?

And the color picture of the automobile. Clearly this missive not only needed a picture of the car (which was taken before the incident and, therefore, completely inadmissable as evidence), but a COLOR one, because you can't appreciate the hardship of our poor hero until you can see the early-model gold American wonder again ILLEGALLY PARKED in the firelane.

Clearly this person is a lunatic, I concluded. To write the list, to draw attention to an illegal activitiy that she rightly got punished for (you and A-ROD both), and to make several COLOR copies and post them all over the neighbhorhood in CLEAR PLASTIC COVERS so the rain won't fade them clearly seemed to the work of someone dangerously out of control. What will this person do next? I wondered. Picket the Safeway because they towed her illegally parked car? Lie in the middle of the alley and force the eighteen wheelers to go another route?

Well, at least this crazed lunatic didn't identify themself. Alas, I spoke too soon. At the bottom were Ronnie's name, her adddress, and her age. (At least now I know what a 62-year-old woman looks like.)

It's funny how Ronnie didn't mention that she walks her dog, Coco, over to the Safeway lot every day, lets her poop in the grass, and doesn't clean it up. In fact, I had to throw my tennis shoes in the washer the other day because I stepped in Coco's poop on the way to the store and, when I tried to hose it off, poopy water seeped into the upper of my shoe, making it stinky. I think she should have mentioned that in her screed.

I think she should have also mentioned that, before I read this protest, this rant, this...whatever, I ran into someone entering Safeway as I was leaving? Yep, you guessed it. Apparently she doesn't hate Safeway enough to stop shopping there. Or maybe she was going to distribute her flyers to the shoppers. After all, what's a little manufactured outrage in this country? Maybe if more people started going Ronnie, well, I guess Kinkos would double, perhaps triple their business. And four-color street art would be all the rage.

Please Be Advised...

I love advice columns. Like most people, I seek out advice but will only follow the advice I want to hear, regardless of whether it's the right advice. So I guess that we don't really want advice, we want confirmation that the course we're following (or plan to follow) is legitimate in some way.

That said, there are a couple of columns that I follow pretty religiously: Smart and Sassy, Since You Asked (requires a subscription to Salon.com, but you can usually get a free pass every day by watching an ad), and Think Mink. I'm not sure what the turnaround time is on the questions asked, but it must be fairly short because the questions are so damn specific and yet so long-winded and screwed up that these advice seekers can't possibly wait the six months for an answer the way those who wrote to the advice columns printed in the newspapers and magazines used to.

Remember the days of Good Abby? What should I bring to a wedding?, My mother-in-law hates me!, How much should I spend on presents for my stepkids? Indeed, her columns seemed designed to answer general problems that we as a society might have. I mean, can you imagine some poor bloke putting off her wedding for nine months until she heard from Dear Abby whether her fiance was a rotten scoundrel? Ironically. if Abby concured that, indeed, he was, the poor bloke woulda married him anyway.

I would like to start an an advice column (if I didn't have the blog and the journal), but I would keep in mind that the advice seekers didn't want my advice, just his or her advice giftwrapped with my seal of approval.

Yes, marry the bastard who's cheated on you three times and gave you the clap. He really does love you. He's just insecure and wants to make you jealous, because even if he has four kids out of wedlock, you rock his world. He cannot live without you. Or your money and servitude. But mostly you. Now go and give him another chance, girl, before he tries to make you jealous again!

'Roids Are Not Just Robots

Star Wars Prologue to Episode 4: Attack of the Bulk.

The Anatomy of Food

I'm editing a paper about muscle biopsies in infants and came across a photo of a resected muscle that looked amazingly like a really tasty piece of fatty tuna sushi. I am upset about this recent development.

The Theater of the Absurd

Last week we saw Edward Albee's "The Play About the Baby." Although not as well-written and literal as the other Albee play we've seen (Three Tall Women), "Baby" revisits the human condition (creation vs destruction, innocence vs cynicism) with an existentialist bent.

Or, as Man tells Boy: "Without wounds, who are you? Without a broken heart, how can you know who you are? Have been?"

I think I am getting too old for existentialism. Maybe I've crossed over from innocence to cycnism. Heck, I know I have. But isn't that the point of existentialism, ie, it just doesn't matter anymore, it's all absurd, who cares? Is that how I was supposed to walk away from the play, or was my wonder in humanity, the great dichotomy of life, supposed to be renewed?

I liked Oscar Wilde's "Lady Windermere's Fan" at Centerstage much better. And maybe there's existentialism in Wilde too: if we're a bunch of cynical, hypocritical sots, well, we might as well fucking be witty about it.

Shit, that's nihilism. Now I'm confused.

Maybe it's wise to stick with Rodgers and Hammerstein from now on.

Shake It Like a Digital Camera

Ah, the Polaroid. A man after my own heart.

About ten years ago, I wanted to create a photo exhibit about documentary using my Polaroid, how we are so used to instantaneous events these days that we attempt to document and analyze them as they are occuring, thereby obscuring the benefit of hindsight, whether it is self-consciously defining ourselves Gen-Xers or, these days, insta-polling after every goddamn thing that happens in the political arena. From reality television to blogging, our self awareness interferes with the spontaneity and truthfulness of our lives. For instance, would the kids in the Real World act differently if the camera wasn't on them?

Anyway, now it's ten years later and digital cameras have rendered my Polaroid documentary obsolete. But I know there's irony in there somewhere.

Stupid Is as Stupid Votes

I'm sick of hearing how people relate to George Bush because he "speaks" their language (what, a fake Texas accent?), that they can relate to him because he's no smarter than they are. Excuse me? Do you not want your doctor to be smarter than you are? How about your stockbroker? How about scientists and nurses, and, in some ways, even your mechanic? I place trust in these people because they are versed in the areas of my life that I'm not astute in myself. No way in hell do I want Dubya as my doctor, stockbroker, mechanic, or vet, and I sure as hell don't want him as my president. Let him go work as a bartender, since people so much want to have a beer with him.

So Many Worlds, So Little Time

Okay, I've finished one of my library books (The Paradox of Choice) and am about halfway through another (Different Lives, Different Masters). Despite all the hype, I was not overly impressed with The Paradox of Choice. There's a lot of interesting market research, if you're into that kind of stuff, but I was looking for some major epiphany about how too much choice affects our lives. I mean, I'm already too aware of it, especially in the realm of personal leisure products. I don't make many major purchases, but I got an mp3 player for my birthday back in May. I thought it was the bomb. Now, five months later, I still love it, but I've become increasingly aware of the tbetter models out there that look nicer, hold more music, and are cheaper than my Rio Cali was back in May. Yet I know if I upgrade, two more months will roll by and I'll be behind the curve again. It's the same way with the "hip" clothes I bought last season and our upgraded cell phones (that don't even take pictures or double as defibrillators). I need to stay off the hamster wheel called durable goods, I guess. Or is that nondurable? I guess the missus, MBA candidate and super genius, will correct me if I'm wrong.

Anyway, Many Lives, Many Masters is much better. I think I may have actually read this book before, but I can't remember. It may have been in another lifetime. Anyway, the author, a psychiatrist, encounters this patient who has terrible neuroses and anxiety and depression that are not being cured by his conventional therapy, so he puts her under hypnosis to try and find whether there are any repressed childhood events causing her duress. Much to his dismay, she regresses back to several lives, all of which she describes in incredible detail. Once she begins reliving the traumas of her past lives, she makes a remarkable improvement in her current one. Mind you, this patient is not crazy or fantastical or even very interesting—in fact, she's rather dull.

One interesting thing that the psychiatrist learns from the "masters"—the gatekeepers between the patient's lives—is that each life has a lesson in it for us to learn individually, and when we learn that lesson, we die. Therefore, if a ten-year-old child dies of cancer, whatever lesson he or she needed to learn was already absorbed, and we shouldn't dwell on the short, tragic nature of their life. In fact, that ten-year-old child could actually be quite far along in their spiritual development, ie, several incarnations ahead of us.

Another interesting thing is that clusters of people tend to reincarnate together. I don't know whether this is because they are at the same stage of spiritual development or what, but apparently people the patient knew in her current life (including her psychiatrist), she also knew as many different people in many different incarnations before. For instance, your mother could have been your sister or your son or a friend several lives previously.

It's somewhat comforting to think that it's not the "end" when you die and that each life, in fact, is a long lesson, during which you'll run into the same kindred spirits again and again. It also takes some of the fear out of dying, out of finding out you have inoperable cancer, etc, that everything happens for a reason. At the same time, it's distressing to know that although this life has a lesson in it for me, the life in itself and my stay here as "Jen" isn't "unique," that I in fact have been many different people and will continue to be. However, I suppose the essence of who you are continues its journey, whatever that essence is.

If you believe that sort of stuff. However, there were mentions of reincarnation in the Bible that were stricken by some religious sect or another, kind of life the lost gospels, so the whole idea is not as new-agey a concept as one would think. I just don't understand those "literal" bible thumpers--there is much historical evidence to show how much the Bible has been altered over the years for politcal purposes, yet you still have people claiming its absoluteism. Kind of like all the evidence out there that points to George W. Bush as being a devious sombitch (er, puppet) of the Project for a New American Century to establish bases in Iraq to control the world's milk and honey (er, oil). And yet you still have people claiming he done it all to protect as from terrah. And they swear on the Bible he's right. Maybe they'll reincarnate as Iraqis.

Will They Ever Trust Us Again?

Letters to Michael Moore from soliders stationed in Iraq. Some interesting accounts. I can't help but wonder, however, if these letters have been edited (not for content, but for grammar). All of the ones chosen are awfully elegant considering that volunteer military personnel sign up after high school.