All I Want

My sister asked me what I want for my birthday. I replied: 1) I'm not having one this year—I've had quite a few already and don't feel the need for another one anytime soon; and 2) I really do have everything I personally need; anything else would be frivolous. However, even with those completely logical, sound excuses, she still wanted a list. So I gave her one (in no particular order):

1. World peace.
2. Accessible clean water for everyone, everywhere.
3. The abolishment of leishmaniasis.
4. Universal healthcare.
5. For Sarah Palin, Dick Cheney and anyone else I don’t like to mysteriously vaporize.
6. Psychotherapy for a year.
7. A one-year trip around the world (which would be the best psychotherapy).
8. A spell to make my cats not poop anymore (or to make them go in the toilet).
9. A really awesome guy who thinks I’m the bee’s knees and will never change his mind.
10. 26-hour days.
11. A kool new job (but I prefer the trip).
12. The ability to be invisible.
13. A Nobel prize for surgery.

But I'm still not having a birthday this year.

Stop-motion Awesomeness: “Lucía, Luis y el Lobo”

Here are two stop-motion animated films by Niles Atallah, Joaquin Cociña and Cristóbal León. These are the koolest little films I've seen in ages, dark and eery with raspily-whispered narration. Check out the artists' website, Diluvio Gallery.

Lucía, Luis y el Lobo (Lucía, Luis and the Wolf)

Lucía (2007) 3:49 min
Lucía remembers the summer in which she fell in love with Luis. The furniture whithin a bedroom is shaken and destroyed, meanwhile the charcoal Lucía appears and vanishes on the walls.



Luis (2008) 3:50 min (warning: possibly offensive language)
Luis talks about his life in the forest and his relationship with Lucía. He appears in charcoal on the walls of a room filled with broken objects that constantly shift around. Little by little the room clears up as the objects return to their proper places.



Grazie, Dudecraft and Wooster Collective!

Word of the Day: Concupiscence

I learned a new word today: concupiscence. According to dictionary.com, it means
1) sexual desire; lust; or
2) ardent, usually sensuous, longing.
So, one might wonder what I was reading—The Story of O? A porn website? Match.com?

Nope! It was an article about banking. No, silly, not sperm banking—banking, as in money, as in "Goldmine" Sachs. Check it out: Virtuous Bankers? Really!?! by The New York Times' Maureen Dowd. It includes a hilarious quote from GS's CEO, Lloyd Blankfein, that they're "doing God's work." Seriously, I'm about to pee my pants.

No Man Is an Island

I love this prose by John Donne, and it seems so à propos now, with the healthcare debates, people confusing socialism with communism, and so forth. What kind of people do we want to be? What kind of nation do we want to be? Does community still have its place?

All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated... As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness... No man is an island, entire of itself... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

~ John Donne (1572-1631)
From Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, 1623, Meditation XVII: Nunc Lento Sonitu Dicunt, Morieris (Now this bell, tolling softly for another, says to me, Thou must die)

For the complete passage, see http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Meditation_XVII.
Public domain photo from Wikipedia/Wikimedia Commons.
(And not a bad-looking chap at that, eh?)

Big Step for Healthcare, but Let's Keep Religion Out

A giant step for Americans was taken last night with passage of a bill that will provide healthcare to 96% of our population. While not perfect (why not 100%?), it does close many loopholes in our existing system. One of the most important stipulations is that insurers cannot deny or limit coverage to anyone with pre-exisiting conditions. This is great news for anyone who has ever had (or will ever have) a serious illness or injury.

There is one important piece of coverage that is missing, though: abortion. This is disturbing because it denies women the right to make choices about their own bodies, and is another instance of religion weaseling its way into government.

Bart Stupak (D-MI), the amendment's sponsor, said, "Let us stand together on principle—no public funding for abortions." And if that wasn't enough, the knife was twisted by a further restriction barring anyone who receives new federal health subsidies from buying insurance plans that do include abortion coverage (a restriction that in turn discriminates against low-income women).

The fact is, abortions are legal in this country, as Diana DeGette (D-CO) pointed out: "Like it or not, this is a legal medical procedure and we should respect those who need to make this very personal decision." The reason abortions are legal is because so far the Supreme Court and the majority of the U.S. population have succeeded in keeping personal religious beliefs out of the mix. Barbara Lee (D-CA) supported this history, arguing that this amendment "attempts to dictate to women how to spend their own money... It further places the religious views... of some into our public policy again. We're a democracracy; we're not a theocracy." (Thank you, thank you, Barbara Lee!)

Even with this blemish, I applaud the House for taking this first wobbly step in the right direction. There will be many amendments and it will take many years to work out the kinks, but at least we are now on the path to becoming a more humane society.

(Check out the Freedom From Religion Foundation for more info on the separation between church and state.)

My Greatest Power

I've always wondered what my greatest power is. I know what I'd like my superpowers to be: invisibility, x-ray vision, and mind-reading would be a good start. But alas, my mere mortal powers will have to suffice. But what are they? I don't usually feel very powerful, and can't even remember the last time I did.

Well, thank goodness for my Yogi Tea bag, which gave me a possible answer tonight: "Your word is your greatest power." I guess this makes sense. When I make a promise, I tend to keep it, and the bigger the promise, the more likely I am to follow through on my word. I'm very conscientious, an excellent secret keeper, and hate letting people down more than anything. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye... and a bunch of thistles... and a hot poker... and a salt-covered drill bit...

Hateful Things

Another list, à la Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book.

Hateful People

• The co-worker who usurps my project and pretends it was hers all along.
• People who lie to deliberately hurt others.
• People who are condescending to those of lesser age, status, or title.
• People who are conniving.
• People who take out their anger on others.
• The insecure "man" who ameliorates his own shortcomings by "proving" how inadequate his soon-to-be-ex- date is.
• People who hold double standards.

Palate vs. Palette vs. Pallet

More spelling confusion that drives me nuts. I can't count how many times I've seen people refer to food that pleases the "palette." I doubt they're talking about painting with chocolate and spaghetti sauce, so here's a quick rundown on these confusing homophones and how to remember which is which.

• The palate is the roof of your mouth, or your sense of taste. So mint tea might be pleasing to your palate, but if it's too hot it might burn your palate.
• A palette refers to the range of color a painter uses as well as the actual board that holds the paint. Van Gogh held a palette of paint and painted the sky in a palette of blues and purples.
• A pallet is a flat wood or plastic platform used at warehouses to hold items for moving and storage. Today I put 27 boxes on a pallet and shrinkwrapped it.

Now, how do you keep these straight?

• Your pal ate chocolate and his palate was pleased.
• Monet held a palette and painted a brunette with a rosette.
• If you take a mallet to that pallet, your wallet will pay.

Got it? Good. I'm going to load up a pallet of palettes now, which certainly won't please my palate.

Paul Chatem, Artist Extraordinaire

A few months ago I saw a show of Paul Chatem's art and I can't get it out of my head. He does a lot of kinetic pieces, gears that rotate with the observer's hand, so it's participatory as well. But I would love his work even without the moving parts. The scenes Chatem paints look like they could have been found in rusty metal boxes dug up out of mud—and I mean that in the most positive way. They're dark and droopy, in dusty browns, reds, ochres, and blues... Dystopian vintage industrial worlds with bodacious bombshells and cigar-puffing bankers... Rubber-limbed people with four eyes, lizard tongues, bird beaks and twiggy fingers. Pure awesomeness—and another thing to save my money for.

Watch the video below and check out his website, http://www.paulchatem.com/.

Barack Obama, Nobel Laureate

Like most (I think?) people, I think it's very odd that the Nobel committee chose Barack Obama as this year's recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. At the time of the February 1 nomination deadline, Obama had only been in office 12 days; and at the time of the award, just nine months. The Nobel Peace Prize website states, "According to Nobel's will, the Peace Prize is to go to whoever 'shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.'" So do they really think Obama has done the most or the best?

Obviously, the committee is using this year's award to make a statement. They're telling Obama he's on the right track. They're telling America that we did the right thing by electing a head of state who cares about the rest of the world. And most importantly, they're snubbing Bush and his eight years of cowboy politics. But is this what Alfred Nobel would have wanted? Does this kind of choice satisfy his intentions?

I think not. By choosing to make a statement rather than choosing someone who earned the prize, the committee has made itself a nonobjective political participant. They have tarnished their reputation and made themselves and the award a joke. They have snubbed the people who have worked toward peace for many years and actually deserve recognition; and I would venture to say that they even snubbed Nobel himself.

Wedding

Friday Fiction, courtesy of The One-Minute Writer: Write a brief bit of fiction, with a wedding as the setting.

Ella had tired of always being the bridesmaid, but never the bride. Always pumping up her friends, telling them how beautiful they were, how lucky they were and what a great day it was, despite the tacky dress she was inevitably sentenced to.

Fuck that shit. Ella was just as deserving, and now it was her turn. Her favorite cake, chocolate with raspberry filling and buttercream frosting, was topped with miniature sugar doves and sitting on her grandmother's silver cake pedestal. In the back yard, the pathway to the big rock by the koi pond was strewn with lilacs and lined with candles. Ravi Shankar's sitar strummed in the background. She wore a giant calla lilly in her hair, and the mahogany satin strappy chemise that complemented her sun-kissed limbs.

Ella walked the stone path and knelt on the silk pillow on the big rock. The sun was just setting and cast its rosy glow over Ella, the orange-spotted koi, and her two white cats who sat in perfect attendance on either side. She read a poem by Rumi and a sonnet by Shakespeare, and then her vows.

"I, Ella, do hereby take myself, to be my greatest love and ally–to comfort, honor and keep, in sickness and in health, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, to cherish and continually bestow upon myself my heart’s deepest devotion, as long as I shall live."

First Dance

I've been listening to a lot of "old" music lately—that is, music from my youth, which would be the 1970s and '80s. Some of it is stuff I never would have considered purchasing because I wasn't a big fan of the band—Boston, for example, the Eagles, Queen... or because I considered it more my parents' music than mine—like Cat Stevens, Jethro Tull, Simon and Garfunkel. But now that I'm quite a bit older I'm enjoying these strolls down memory lane. "Running With the Devil" by Van Halen always reminds me of hanging out in the auditorium during lunch in junior high, when we were allowed free reign of the record player. "Cat Scratch Fever" and "In the Air Tonight" (Ted Nugent and Phil Collins) remind me of my sister playing them over and over and over again (on cassette tapes!) on our driving trip up to Victoria, B.C.

And then there are the songs that remind me of school dances. Foreigner's "Waiting for a Girl Like You," REO Speedwagon's "Keep on Loving You" and Journey's "Open Arms." Ahh, the sappiness, the hormones, the innocence...

I remember my mom dropping my best friend and me off in front of the gym. I wore wide-legged cords with a skinny metallic belt and a shirt that didn't reveal my scrawny arms, and I carried a big denim clutch. This being most seventh-graders' first school dance, most of us stood around the perimeter, eager and scared. I certainly didn't have the guts to ask a guy to dance, but would a guy ask me? And if he did, what should I do? Our P.E. teachers had prepped us with some social dancing lessons, but I didn't see waltzing or square dancing as a realistic or "cool" move.

I don't remember what song played for my first dance, but I do remember the boy. Well, sort of—it was either Doug or Jason, who were cute, popular twins in my class. I couldn't believe D/J asked me to dance. I think I even said "no" at first (dumbass) because I was so nervous. But my friends encouraged me, and I did. I followed suit of the other kids on the dance floor and put my left hand on his right shoulder and my right hand on his left shoulder. His hands were on my hips. We swayed side to side, bodies arm's length apart. I don't remember having any conversation during the dance, and probably was even too nervous to make eye contact. It was the first time any boy had touched me like that (as opposed to punching, for example) and I didn't know how to handle it at all.

Do schools even have dances any more? If they do, I imagine the age of innocence has already passed. How sad.

An Evening With Margaret Atwood

Tonight I saw Margaret Atwood read and sing (yes, sing!) from her new book, The Year of the Flood. She was great—very smart and well-spoken, of course, but also very funny. She's not the greatest singer, but I loved that she got up there and did it.

The story follows three characters in the near future, after a plague has wiped out most other humans. By this time, religion has become nature-centered, with hymns about moles and holidays in honor of nutritionists. Genetic experiments have resulted in new life forms, such as the Mo'hair sheep with human hair, to be used for hair transplants (the only downside, Atwood quipped, was that the wet Mo'hair smells like mutton). Government is more corrupt than ever, owning everything with giant corporations.

The story sounds intriguing and I'm sure I'm going to love this book; and will enjoy hearing Atwood's voice as I read, hymns included.

My Favorite Poem

This is my favorite poem. Someday I'm going to get it tattooed on my back.

A waterbird
Seems as the water's top
Seen from afar
I, too, drift along
On my way through the world.

水鳥を
水の上とや
よそに見む
我もうきたる
世を過しつ

Murasaki Shikibu 紫 式部

Freedom From Religion

So many conflicts among Americans these days come down to religion. It's fine when a concept is universally accepted—for example, we pretty much all agree that murder is wrong and should be against the law. However, there are many issues left up to voters that aren't so black and white—capital punishment, abortion and gay marriage, to name a few.

Unfortunately, most people are not philosophical thinkers, so in many instances, which side of an issue a person takes comes down to his or her religious beliefs—beliefs that they think everyone should share. I find this disturbing, especially in a country that was founded by people who called for separation of church and state and freedom from religious persecution. And it's ironic that the religious right is largely Republican, a group that complains that there's already too much governmental interference and power.

I am a big fan of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, a freethought organization that "works to educate the public on matters relating to nontheism, and to promote the constitutional principle of separation between church and state." I wish everyone would really think about these concepts before selfishly casting votes that hurt others.

Fire and Ice

Friday Fiction, courtesy of The One-Minute Writer: Write a brief bit of fiction involving fire and/or ice.

Vikki was totally pumped. It was her two-year anniversary with Rocco, and to celebrate, he got a pair of tickets—third row seats—to her favorite singer, Pat Benatar!! Of course, for such a special night, Vikki was primped to impress. She made a black spandex bodysuit with a red criss-crossed lace-up back and front, just like her idol wore. With it, she was wearing her favorite pair of red spike-heel ankle boots—the ones with the fringe on the back—and a matching cropped red jacket with a line of fringe cutting across her back. And now, she applied the finishing touches: black liquid eyeliner, top and bottom, cobalt shadow, fuschia blush, ruby lipstick, and a well-distributed layer of Aqua Net that would surely hold her teased and spiked hair in place the whole night.

Vikki and Rocco were the hottest couple at the concert, and Vikki could tell that all the other girls were jealous; who wouldn't be? Rocco was hot—and Vikki had a hard time keeping her hands off his red leather pants—the same ones Mike Reno from Loverboy wore on their latest album cover. Plus, he was the singer in a rock band and with his good looks and rare talent, they were on the verge of being famous—even more famous than Loverboy!

Pat sang all of Vikki's favorite songs—"Heartbreaker," "Hell Is for Children," "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." With each song, the frantic excitement between Vikki and Rocco built 'til they thought they'd explode like Vesuvius and Krakatoa. Sweat dripped from Rocco's forehead as he thrust his fist in the air. Vikki was on the verge of crying and belted out the lyrics with equal lust. They were riding the crest of supreme ecstasy—or so they thought—until Pat played Vikki and Rocco's song, "Fire and Ice."

Vikki couldn't take it anymore. She jumped on Rocco, legs wrapped around his waist, his hands holding her up by her derriere. Lips locked and tongues intertwined, they gyrated to the lyrics, "You're givin' me the fever tonight," "Fire and ice, you come on like a flame," "Movin' in for the kill tonight," until suddenly, Rocco turned into a giant ice cube and Vikki burst into flames. The crowd around them was so into the show that they thought it was all part of the act, and sadly, did not do anything to try to save the doomed couple. Within two minutes, all that was left was a big puddle and a few pieces of red leather fringe.

Lose vs. Loose

Spelling rant! This drives me nuts—I see loose being used so often in place of lose, it seems like no one knows lose anymore. So here's how you can differentiate between the two and remember when to use which.

Lose is a verb. It rhymes with ooze and shoes. The past tense is lost. Would you ever spell lost as loost? No (because then that would rhyme with roost). Just switch the "e" for a "t" and you're set; no need to mess with the "o"s.

Loose is an adjective that rhymes with moose and goose. Would you ever spell them as mose or gose? Nope. But you can change loose to become looser and loosest.

If you need a visual, imagine you've got a pair of size 20 jeans that fit perfectly. You are the letter "o". If you lose weight so you are the size of one "o," two of you—two "o"s—will be able to fit in the jeans because they are loose. Get it? Lose weight and the jeans will be loose. I lost weight, so the jeans are loose.

Now I am going to go lose myself in a good book about a loose moose.

Ghost Taxis in NYC

I'm tired and my brain is running on empty, so it's the perfect time for a pin-the-mouse-on-the-photo post.

I took this pic in December, 2004, from a taxi. It's the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue next to Bryant Park. It was a chilly night, probably around 3 a.m., and the city felt quiet and deserted. Though it's not a fantastic photo by any means, the darkness, the gray marble building, the fuzzy streetlamp, the skeletal trees, and the few ghostly-looking cars still evoke the sense of tranquility I had at that moment.

In a metropolis that is teeming with activity at all hours, moments of quiet desertion are an unexpected but welcome luxury. It was a rare opportunity to feel like I had this small chunk of the city all to myself—just a lone little ant, sharing secrets with ghosts in the crisp night air.

Joy in the 'Loin

This is what I woke up to about three Sundays ago: A woman moaning loudly, "heeeelllp meeeee..." "heeeelllp meeeee..." over and over and over again. She was on the ground, falling over; I couldn't tell if she was injured, or drunk, or loony, or what. There's a bicycle cop trying to help her. Notice the crackhead lady walking by with no pants on, and some inspired citizens, greeting the morning with spirit(s).

Yes, it's quite scenic here in the Tenderloin. I've lived here for 3 1/2 years now, and in general I really don't mind it. It's only one bus to work, and within walking distance to pretty much everything I need. It's in the heart of all the action, and on the edge, and far, far away from pretention and snobbery.

But recently, I find myself getting more and more annoyed and exasperated. This morning the first thing I smelled when I stepped outside was stale pee; and coming home, I nearly stepped in a pile of shit—I wouldn't have been the first. There are two SROs and welfare housing across the street, and almost every day at least one of these buildings is visited by the paramedics/fire department. Then there's the rock-star motel next door, whose bar attracts weekend party buses full of dumb twenty-somethings learning how to get blitzed. Add to this the elevator of my seven-story building going on the fritz monthly, and the water heater breaking for days at a time a couple times a year.

Yes, people, you, too, can have all this joy and more for the low, low TL price of $1,000 a month! Actually, no, you can't, because if I were to leave this studio apartment, it would be rented for about $1,150.

I really can't justify spending more than I already do for a place I don't own. And that is the simple reason why I will be here for a few more years. Unless I win the lottery, or find someone to shack up with, or get a much-higher-paying job, or this city comes to its senses and makes itself livable and affordable to all classes.

The Most Annoying Noise

Today's post is again courtesy of The One-Minute Writer: What noise annoys you the most?

I haaaate the sound of everyone on the airplane opening their cellophane-wrapped food at the same time. That squeaking, crinkling, screechy-squealy sound grates on me worse than fingernails on a blackboard. It's gluttony in concert, amplified 'til my eardrums want to burst and bleed.

Lucky for me, the airlines rarely feed us anymore.

Hacked, Scalped, and Left for Dead

I got sidetracked on Ancestry.com again today, and traced an additional six (!!) generations, making an exciting discovery. While I can't confirm that my sleuthing is 100% accurate, I'm pretty sure that my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was the amazing Penelope VanPrincis Stout.

Penelope was born in Amsterdam in 1622. In 1640 she married John Kent and they sailed for New York, but their ship crashed on the coast of New Jersey. Most of the passengers escaped, but John was ill and Penelope would not leave him. Soon they were attacked by Indians, who killed John and left Penelope for dead, having hacked up her left shoulder, sliced open her abdomen, and partially scalped her. For eight days she survived by finding shelter in a hollow log and eating the moss and mushrooms that grew from it, until a couple Indians found her. The younger one wanted to finish her off, but the older one threw her over his shoulder, took her back to the wigwam, sewed her up and nursed her back to health. Eventually Penelope returned to her Dutch community in New Amsterdam (now NYC), married Richard Stout, had 10 kids, and lived to be 110 years old (or 90, depending on the source). She became known as the "First Lady of Middletown" and was highly influential in her community and relations with the Indians.

I think it's incredible that 400 years ago a person could avoid infection and survive these injuries and then go on to bear so many children and live so long. She was obviously a very strong, very determined woman. I am honored to be a descendant of her—and what a cool story I have to tell now! (Read more about Penelope at History of American Women.)

Tony, the Two-Legged Tarantula

Tonight's entry is courtesy of a prompt from The One-Minute Writer: Write a brief bit of fiction from the point of view of an animal.

Tony the two-legged tarantula hadn't eaten in days. Moths weren't usually his first choice for a meal—they tended to be a bit dry. But he was desperate. He opened his mouth wide, belched gastric juices, clamped down, and masticated the wings, the thorax, the head, until the only thing remaining was a scrawny leg, dangling from the corner of Tony's mouth.

Ok, and that actually took me a minute and twenty seconds—I can't type fast enough! Oh, crap—I just realized it wasn't from Tony's point of view! Oh, well...

Quando omni flunkus, mortati.

"When all else fails, play dead."

Holy hiatus, Batman! How did six months pass in what seems like only six weeks? A spur-of-the-moment trip to London threw me out of the blogosphere for about a month while I researched and traveled. After that, I have no good excuse for not posting except for an extremely busy work schedule that depleted my creative energy. But no self-kicking allowed—I did just take a five-week memoir writing course, during which I wrote for far more than 365 minutes. That completed, and work back to normal, I am now happily resurrected and re-energized.

I do believe that time really does fly, faster and faster, the older one gets. Perhaps it's the contrast of our bodies and minds moving more slowly against the ever-speeding-up of the technological world around us... I can't think of a likely explanation for the phenomenon, but it reminds me of one of my favorite books—one that I re-read every few years, and that has had a tremendous impact on my philosophy of life and time—Einstein's Dreams, by Alan Lightman.

What is time? Does it have shape or mass? Is it fluid? How does one explain déjà vu? Lightman explores these concepts and more through about 30 brief chapters, each a unique time-world, each a dream of his fictional Einstein.

In one world, time moves backwards; in another, at high velocity. Sometimes it moves in fits and starts; and at others, in repeating circles. In all cases, people's understanding of how time works influences how they live their lives—whether they live on mountains, race from place to place, live in constant fear, or record every action in an effort to remember it. And each dream offers a theory that explains why people in this "real" world are as they are.

"16 April, 1905" is one of my favorite dreams: "In this world, time is like a flow of water, occasionally displaced by a bit of debris, a passing breeze. Now and then, some cosmic disturbance will cause a rivulet of time to turn away from the mainstream, to make connection backstream. When this happens, birds, soil, people caught in the branching tributary find themselves suddenly carried to the past."

People who have hiccuped to the past wear dark clothes and carefully tiptoe around, trying not to alter anything in that time, lest they alter the future—their futures and themselves—as a result. They lurk in corners and hide under bridges, waiting for time to deliver them forward to where they came from. They aim for invisibility, ignoring stares and not participating in life. A person from the future "is an inert gas, a ghost, a sheet without soul. He has lost his personhood. He is an exile of time." These future-people are lurking in every city. "They are not questioned about coming events, about future marriages, births, finances, inventions, profits to be made. Instead, they are left alone and pitied."

I love Lightman's brevity, concise words and strings of repeating structures that, together, lend a lyrical, dreamy quality to each story; and I love that each dream makes me question what I perceive to be reality. So maybe that loony guy who sleeps in a box in the alcove and whimpers to himself isn't so loony, after all... Who am I to say?

Less vs. Fewer

It's time for a grammar rant! This has been driving me nuts. I don't know why, but I've been noticing "less" and "fewer" misusage a lot lately, and it's almost always "less" being used incorrectly. It seems like everyone's afraid to say "fewer," or maybe they forgot its existence altogether. On TV I keep hearing about "less calories" and at the supermarket the "10 or less items" signs make me cringe.

It's an easy rule: Use "less" for uncountable items and "fewer" for countable things. Uncountable items include water, rice, love, corn and air. Countable things include carrots, kittens, shoes, books and pens. Notice a pattern? Countable nouns can be pluralized, often with an "s". You wouldn't usually say you're breathing airs or eating rices.

So I can say I drank less water today. I have less rice than you. I feel less love for parrots than for kittens. But: I ate fewer carrots today. I have fewer fleas than kittens. I bought fewer shoes this year.

Uncountable items can only be countable if talking about types. For example, Trader Joe's sells 14 Italian cheeses and 22 domestic beers; Safeway sells 8 and 27, respectively. So you could say Safeway sells fewer Italian cheeses and TJ's sells sells fewer domestic beers. But if you're talking mass, they aren't countable: TJ's sells less beer annually, but Safeway sells less cheese.

Now, for every rule there's an exception. In this case, there are three-- money, time, and distance-- and we use "less" with these. I earned $5,000 less this year. I'll be there in five minutes or less. It's less than two miles to my house.

And that's today's grammar lesson. See you in less than 24 hours.

Hiroshima, Mon Amour

I'm tired again (gee, what's new?), so wanted to write something short, and thought that writing about a photo might be fun. I lived in Japan for four years and have been "homesick" recently, so I opened up my Japan photo file, closed my eyes, took a stab, and landed on this one.



Children's Peace Monument, Hiroshima

The site of the atomic bombing in Hiroshima has been turned into Peace Park. The park comprises all kinds of monuments, including the A-Bomb Dome and the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. This is the Children's Peace Monument, surrounded by strings of thousands of origami cranes, which symbolize peace. The girl on top symbolizes the world's children's prayer for peace and was inspired by Sadako Sasaki, who was exposed to the bomb's radiation at age two and died from leukemia at age 12. She's holding a likeness of an origami crane.

At the time of this visit, I wrote: I wish everyone in the world in any kind of power were required to visit these cities [Hiroshima and Nagasaki] at least once a year and maybe carry some kind of memorial with them-- perhaps it would make a little difference in remembering the fragility of life, our purpose on the planet, and what is really important after all. Why do some individuals find it so important to "divide and conquer?" How is killing, torturing and dominating a rational choice?

On a related note, the title of today's entry, Hiroshima Mon Amour, is the name of a beautiful film by Alain Resnais, written so poetically by Marguerite Duras. I encourage everyone to see it!

Things That Arouse a Fond Memory of the Past

I'm a very organized person, borderline anal perhaps, and I've always been a list-er of sorts: I have my shopping list, my wish list, my to-do list, my "places I've been" list, and so on. But ever since I read The Pillow Book, by Sei Shonagon, I've been even more obsessed with lists. Not just any lists, though— Sei's lists are special. They're on topics both rudimentary and idiosyncratic, and are often extremely poetic in their simplicity: Different Ways of Speaking. Depressing Things. Hateful Things. Things That Make One's Heart Beat Faster.

Here's my version of one her lists...

Things That Arouse a Fond Memory of the Past

An old song, maybe not even very good, but it was played a hundred times a day.
A pair of well-worn black 20-eye Doc Martens.
An old lithograph with an endearing inscription from one's love.
Triple-cream brie, and water crackers. And candlelight.
The scent of an Indian incense.
The memory of warm skin.

Green With Envy

I really do only have a minute tonight, so I'm going to take advantage of this awesome site I recently discovered (and how à propos for me!): The One-Minute Writer. The assignment: Write for one minute on "What makes you green with envy?"

I envy people who can live in the moment. I spend too much time worrying about my life's purpose. Am I doing something to benefit humanity? Are my actions deserving of good karma? Is this answer good enough? Meanwhile, much of life's beauty is passing me by...

Wow, that was a fast minute.
(Thanks, C. Beth!)

"The American People"

I'm tired, so this is going to be a brief rant.

There are a bunch of stupid Bank of America commercials that are all sappy and, I can only guess, trying to appeal to our patriotism. What first caught my attention was the phrase, "this is America," which is the common thread that ties the series of ads together.

Seems like I've heard phrases like "this is America" and "the American people" a lot in the past seven and a half years. And I mean, not just really often in normal usage, but way more often than necessary, like it became a prequisite for any public speech or commentary. Is it coincidence?

It could be— seven and a half years ago I returned to the U.S. after living abroad for three years. So, it's possible that "the American people" had always been common, but I just hadn't noticed it until it was "new" again.

But it might not be. That was also the same time that 9/11 happened— an event that sprouted mass, sometimes blind, patriotism.

Either way, it's annoying. I'm really tired of it, and I hope that everyone will grow out of it soon.

Time to Decriminalize?

I’ve believed for a long time that marijuana should be decriminalized. I’ve partaken in the weed, and am not ashamed to admit that I’ve inhaled. I enjoy its relaxing effect and the “deep” or silly conversations that result. Better yet, I like that I don’t wake up with a hangover the next day, or smelling like cigarette smoke.

I find it hard to believe that pot is still viewed as worse than alcohol and tobacco. Besides a glass of red wine a day being good for one’s heart, or its disinfecting properties, are there any other health or medicinal benefits to drinking alcohol? Are there any benefits at all to smoking tobacco? Yet research has found many medicinal benefits of marijuana—relief of glaucoma pressure, nausea, and chronic pain, to mention a few.

How many people have been killed by drivers high on ganja? How many fights or other acts of violence have occurred under the influence of grass? I’m not saying that there aren’t people who react poorly to the drug, but I wonder why we allow only alcohol and tobacco to be legal, when they are far more detrimental to us as individuals and communities? I don’t think Mary Jane is any more a catalyst to harder drug use as is Jim Beam or Captain Morgan—I think that’s an easy excuse. No, I suspect that it’s a pretty simple answer: the booze and cigarette purveyors can afford armies of lobbyists who keep the law working in their favor. If marijuana is legalized, the alcohol producers especially will see their profits fall. And those interests have done a good job of proliferating the “War on Drugs” and keeping the public under the influence of their own selfish concerns.

I know it’s a scary prospect, but perhaps it’s time we make concerted efforts to change the way we think about these substances, drug law, and how to deal with people who have tendencies toward addiction.

Portugal took this leap recently, decriminalizing drugs, including cocaine and heroin. Glenn Greenwald has written about “the success of drug decriminalization in Portugal,” which, “from an empirical perspective… has been an unquestionable success.” Furthermore, he learned through his research that “decriminalization is what enabled them to manage drug-related problems far more effectively than ever before, and the nightmare scenarios warned of by decriminalization opponents have, quite plainly, never materialized.”

That is not to say that it is an easy process without its own breed of complications, but perhaps it’s the “least bad” approach (see “How to stop the drug wars,” from the Economist, also linked from Greenwald’s article).

So maybe California Assemblyman Tom Ammiano is on the right track with his recently introduced bill to legalize marijuana. The state would collect much-needed revenue, our courts would be less bottlenecked with petty possession cases, police would have more time to combat violence, and I’m betting that the snacking industry would happily see a rise in sales.

Climbing the Family Tree

Wow, time flies. At 3:00 today I opened up Ancestry.com to update my family tree, and in the past nine hours I've been as far back as 1850, and as far away as Italy and Switzerland.

My paternal grandma died in January, just six days short of her 102nd birthday. Today I finally went through the whole big bag of stuff I brought back-- photos, letters, birth certificates, funeral announcements, news articles, and other things I thought might help me put together a map of her life. Unfortunately, she wasn't a very sharing person, so it is bittersweet that now I am finally learning about the path her life took. But that path can only tell me so much; and I'm afraid none of these artifacts will really tell me who she was.

Be an ANTeater!

I’ve been listening to the Feel Better Fast and Change Your Brain, Change Your Life audio CDs by Dr. Daniel G. Amen. He offers some very common-sensical “prescriptions” for various brain conditions such as Alzheimer’s, depression, and ADD. The advice I particularly like, which anyone can easily put into practice, regards ANTs: Automatic Negative Thoughts. Negative self-thoughts themselves aren’t an original idea—if you’ve ever read up on cognitive behavior or been to CB therapy, you’ve probably heard these before. But I like the way they’re all packaged up into these pesky critters, metaphorically called “ANTs.”

Dr. Amen recommends that we become ANTeaters and kill the ANTs that destroy our good mental health. Here they are:

1. “Always” or “never” thinking – thinking in absolutes: No one will ever date me again.
2. Focusing on the negative – you only see the bad in a situation: Two people gave me negative feedback (but 25 gave me positive feedback).
3. Fortune telling – predicting the worst, even though you have no evidence: They’re going to think I’m fat and stupid.
4. Mind reading – you arbitrarily believe you know what someone else is thinking: Oh, my boss is in a bad mood (but really, she’s just constipated).
5. Thinking with your feelings – you believe your negative thoughts/feelings without questioning them: I feel like a failure.
6. Guilt beatings – I should… I ought to… I have to…: If I have to read a book, it’s boring, but if I want to, I enjoy it.
7. Labeling – attaching a negative label to yourself or someone else: Jerk… frigid… arrogant… irresponsible… You’re lumping them into a big group and then you can’t deal with them.
8. Personalization – innocuous events are taken to have personal meaning: My friend didn’t talk to me this morning, so she must be mad at me.
9. Blame – blaming someone else for your problems. You blame your partner for the situation so you become powerless (the victim) and can’t participate in fixing it.

How to be an ANTeater: when you’re feeling sad or mad, write out your feelings. Which ones are distorted? You don’t have to believe every thought you have—talk back to them! Someone will date me again! And he is going to see all the great things about me! Because I’m fabulous! And only I am responsible for my own thoughts.

I have a cheap fortune-telling pen at work, and one of the messages on it is “no one can make you feel anything.” It’s so true.

The “Average” Dilemma

After quitting dating seven months ago, I’m considering signing up on a dating website again. I’ve checked all the boxes, filled in the short answers, and had no trouble coming up with a cliché-free short essay about myself and what I’m looking for. But there’s one thing that still stumps me: the weight question.

Which best describes my body type? My choices are: slender, about average, athletic and toned, heavyset, a few extra pounds, stocky, big and beautiful, curvy, and full-figured.

The first problem is that none of these terms are necessarily exclusive of one another—that is, it is possible to be slender and athletic, or heavyset and stocky. That said, I can pretty easily narrow it down to three possibilities: about average, a few extra pounds, and curvy. But here’s where terminology nit-picking and man fortune-telling come in to play.

Let’s start with “about average.” “About” implies that there’s some leeway—average, plus or minus. Great. But what is average? Is it the CDC’s recommended healthy weight, or the real average weight of U.S. women? In the first case, I’m overweight by 14 pounds; but in the latter, I’m 4 pounds short of average. Take it a step further, and I would say that I’m 25 to 35 pounds over my ideal weight.

And how much leeway do we get if we claim to have a few extra pounds? Literally, a “few” means maybe three or four. But then it seems that “a few extra pounds” could mean the same thing as “about average,” and anyway, if our real average weight is overweight, then that is in fact the same as being a few extra pounds over.

And curvy? Well, don’t you have curves whether you are “about” average or a few pounds over? Or is it just a nice way to say “fat”?

Now, in the past I’ve selected both the “average” and “few extra” options. There are pros and cons to each. If I choose “average,” then I’m going on the assumption that I’m right in there with other random women on the street. But how many guys have met me and been disappointed because they expected someone twenty pounds less? If I choose “a few extra,” then I feel like I’m being honest with myself, but I’m probably closing out all those guys who think they’re only ok with someone “average” or “better,” but their definition of “average” is “few extra”?

Of course, the most important thing really is to find a guy who values my intelligence, wit, and artistic leanings more than my weight—someone who doesn’t care which body type I claim to be; someone who realizes that when we’re 80 years old, we’re going to value our minds and souls much more than having perfect bodies.

“No answer” is beginning to sound like a good choice.

(Statistics from the CDC, National Center for Health Statistics, National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey [NHANES, 1999 – 2002].)

The Lyme Defense

{Note to self: Change “one minute a day” rule to “one minute a day except for weekdays when I'm out in the evenings, in which case it’s ok to talk about something and write about it later, and/or to think about writing.”}

Monday night my sister came over for dinner and we were talking about the guy who killed a pastor on Sunday in Illinois. The alleged gunman, Terry Sedlacek, has Lyme disease, which causes physical and mental illness, including lesions on the brain.

I find it interesting that a Yale “expert” on Lyme disease, Dr. Eugene Shapiro, said that “Lyme disease doesn’t cause people to shoot people” and basically dismissed the disease in being a likely cause or defense for Sedlacek’s actions.

How can Shapiro so easily dismiss this, in a disease that has not been extensively researched and is relatively new in the human timeline? There have been so few cases of such severe Lyme disease, just because a precedent hasn’t been set, how can he say with such confidence that it is not a characteristic?

Shapiro further explained that it was apparently pre-meditated; that Sedlacek had actually thought it out in advance, and by virtue of planning ahead, he therefore could not be “insane.” But is the ability to plan ahead really a reliable measure of one’s sanity? Can’t a person have totally crazy ideas, no common sense, and no ability for logical thinking, yet still plan ahead?

Obviously, if someone kills a person, there’s something wrong with them, whether it’s temporary or not, and whether labeled as “insane” or not. Does a reasonable person go around killing? And does it make a difference whether his mental state was caused by Lyme disease or by other factors? Should Sedlacek receive different treatment or punishment if his brain is ill from a tick as opposed to depression or schizophrenia or a football concussion?

It’ll be interesting to see what happens with this case. Already, it has faded to the background with the news of a man shooting several family members in Alabama and a 17-year-old going on a school shooting spree in Germany.

Thank You, Sarah Palin

Is it cheating if my second post is the one I actually wrote four months ago? Well, maybe. But, I figure I'm writing for a minute right now, which completes my daily goal. Plus, since I referred to it yesterday, it makes sense to include it right away. Plus plus, it was the impetus for starting the whole thing. Plus plus plus, I still think it's relevant. So, there you are: 3.65 good reasons...

* * * * * * * * * *

(originally published 2008.10.18)

Thank you, Sarah Palin

Yes, I'm thanking Sarah Palin. I conceived this blog a few months ago and wavered back and forth, forth and back between birthing this slimy, toothy beast and exposing all my earthly inadequacies, versus squelching it, letting it starve and wither and die before coming to any sort of fruition. And then I saw a few minutes of Palin's interview with Katie Couric and could not find a valid reason not to express my disgust, anger, dismay, and offense. Frankly, the whole interview sucked (on Palin’s part, not Couric’s), but the bit that got me off the couch was Palin’s idiotic explanation as to why she hasn’t demonstrated curiosity about the world.

In case you missed the interview, it went like this:

Couric: In preparing for this conversation, a lot of our viewers … and Internet users wanted to know why you did not get a passport until last year. And they wondered if that indicated a lack of interest and curiosity in the world.

Palin: I'm not one of those who maybe came from a background of, you know, kids who perhaps graduate college and their parents give them a passport and give them a backpack and say go off and travel the world. No, I've worked all my life. In fact, I usually had two jobs all my life until I had kids. I was not a part of, I guess, that culture. The way that I have understood the world is through education, through books, through mediums that have provided me a lot of perspective on the world.

I realize she was trying to draw a distinction between herself and the "elitists" of this country. She doesn't need their votes; she needs the votes of "Joe Six-Pack" and his buddies at the sports bar. She's fishing for the votes of the population that undulates between “conservative values” and affordable healthcare. Isn't that why she was chosen to be the Number Two on the McCain ticket? (Aside from being a Hillary-offcast magnet and token [fill-in-the-blank], but that's a subject for another time.)

What really irks me, as a “middle-class” person who has lived and traveled somewhat extensively abroad and highly values those experiences, is that Palin might actually be able to convince some voters that people who travel are in fact somehow privileged.

How does it irk me? Let me count the ways…

1. She’s appealing to people in this country who will buy into her purported belief that people who travel are elitist, rich, priveleged. And by winning people over on that premise, she’s deceiving them—and that’s irresponsible and just plain dirty.
2. She’s deriding the curiosity, intelligence and fortitude of people who do travel—many of whom, like me, have worked multiple jobs to save the money and/or have secured jobs abroad in order to experience other cultures.
3. She’s trying to pass off incuriosity as being working class. Since when is one associated with the other? And how insulting is that, anyway?
4. She’s completely disregarding the fact that you can’t truly understand a culture unless you experience it first-hand, which includes walking the streets, meeting locals and living it through sights, smells, tastes, sounds, and hands-on experience.

Sorry, Sarah, you can read all you want (and what do you read, by the way?), and books provide excellent foundation for knowledge and insight, but no book can take the place of life. That’s why some people, perhaps your husband included, skip college to get on with life and get a job. That’s why one can’t just become a doctor from reading books—one has to complete a residency. And that’s why, as a candidate for our country’s next Vice President, you are ostensibly trying to convince people that you have enough experience to lead.

Now, that said, I really don’t think Palin is dumb enough to believe everything she says—it does take some kind of skill and insight to be able to win people over to your side. It’s just too bad that she thinks the way to do it is by siccing on people who are naïve enough to buy into her brand of “regular” (wink, wink). So listen here, gullible people: Understand that learning from books has minimal influence on how you will conduct yourself with foreign heads of state. And if they’re history books, say goodbye to any real cognition of current events. Being able to see Russia from your porch says more for your eyesight than your political foresight. And if one really has a desire to travel (and, ergo, to really learn about other cultures), well, where there’s a will, there’s a way—it’s that simple.

It’s disappointing that Palin has inadvertently (?) chosen to define herself as a stereotypical politician—selfish, dishonest, power-hungry—and set such low standards for future women politicians, when she could have chosen instead to be a beacon of respectability and admiration, something worth aspiring to. But again, that’s a topic for another day.

So thank you, Sarah Palin, for getting me riled up enough to get me off the couch and launch my thoughts into cyberspace. At least you’ve done one thing right.

“The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”
—St. Augustine

To Blog, or Not to Blog?

I actually started a blog four months ago. The subject was Sarah Palin, a woman who easily gets me riled up and irritated. I could have spouted off about her for hours, but alas, I do have a day job—one that took me away for three weeks, interrupting any chance I had at turning this into a habit.

I considered starting up again but then I wondered, who cares what I have to say? I’m not some brilliant intellect and I have no idea who I want my audience to be. Plus, why expose all my thoughts for the world to read? Am I really that egotistical? I finally decided that I don’t care. None of that matters to me. What does matter is that I have a place for all these ideas in my head to live, and maybe these ideas will even spark “conversations” once in a while. And more importantly, as a writer with perennial writer’s block, maybe if this can turn into a habit, I’ll unplug the block and it’ll all come out in the torrents I dream of.

So I hereby pledge to myself to start with baby steps: No matter how vile a mood I’m in, or how tired I am, or what kind of crazy-creative excuse I come up with, I will write at least one minute a day, for at least a year. I will turn off my self-judging mechanism. I will not obsess (too much) over grammar and semantics. I will say what’s on my mind. And I will not obsess about pushing the “publish” button!

To blog!