Heeding the Signs: Actual and Intuitive

intuitive - adjective - knowing or understanding something right away through feelings or natural instincts without needing facts, proof, or conscious reasoning (Cambridge Dictionary)

The older I get, the more I get it. This life is composed of patterns: figurative, repetitive road maps that we either understand and follow or ignore out of ignorance, the inability to open our eyes wide enough to comprehend what stands before us. God or the Universe–whatever force we believe is hovering above us–shares with us metaphorical, enigmatic, ambiguous placards (not always discernible) that we can attempt to interpret using our intuitive powers. Some of us are just more tuned into them than others because, after all, we do not all trust our feelings or natural instincts until it is often too late. No matter what, if we are aware of them, we need to heed the signs, actual and intuitive. 

I have to admit that for the most part, my intuition is spot on. For example, right before the pandemic, I read the writing on the wall that intimated that something unprecedented was heading our way. I was teaching high-school English at the time and was contemplating whether or not I should retire sans my full pension or instruct another few years in order to qualify for the maximum benefit. For whatever reason that school year (2018-2019), I kept encountering one negative harbinger after the other in secession, what I intuited as a signpost, a.k.a. the Get-Out-of-Dodge-A.S.A.P. bumper sticker. The last was actually a fortuitous billboard: I would be able to collect my deceased ex-husband's social security so that I would have enough to pay for my monthly health benefits until I qualified for Medicare. Taking every clue into consideration, I retired the June before COVID struck the following March. Whew! By paying attention to the indicators, I saved myself a lot of stress and agony as an educator who would have had to manage teaching almost one hundred students a day via Zoom, a most miserable fate according to my colleagues who had to endure the uncharted, technological territory. I could not help but wonder, though: If they had been similarly forewarned, would they have noticed? 

But like everyone else, sometimes I disregard blatant signs and get myself into trouble. For instance, last Saturday, Bond and I took a bicycle ride from Carlson Park to downtown Culver City, his home turf. We came to a fork in the road, a back alley used by pedestrians. Just before the entrance was a physical alert sprayed onto the concrete walk that read: "Walk your bike from this point on" or something to that effect. Bond, pretty much oblivious to alarms as most Evel Knievel types (testosterone-charged men) are, did not dismount his bike but continued riding. I saw it. My intuition told me to get off my bike, but I did not listen. What happened? I wound up with a very painful, severely sprained left pinky as I used my hand to keep me from crashing into a wooden wall that was waiting for me just through the door well. OUCH! Of course, my fate could have been much worse, but my crew of angels upstairs were taking notice when I was not. Thank God. 

We tend to learn from the pain of our mistakes. Ergo in the future, I will remember to heed the signs, actual and intuitive, so that I do not wind up losing more than partial use of my left hand. I hope you will concentrate on keeping safe as well. 

#intuition, #warning signs, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger

Portable Erudition: Dostoevsky at El Porto

 

erudition - noun - profound extensive scholarly knowledge acquired through intense reading and study (Merriam-Webster).

There is no contemporary American equivalent to Russian literature. There is no 21st century writer, artificial or otherwise, that can compete with the talents of Leo Tolstoy or Fyodor Dostoevsky. There is no American under 35 today interested in what either of the twin Russian literary giants of the 19th century has to say.  

Wait a minute. I have to take back the last claim.

Last week, as Bond and I had not seen each other in a month (he had Covid; I had the cold from Hell), we decided to wax nostalgic while revisiting the location of our first date: our favorite food stand at El Porto, the surfers' beach in Manhattan Beach, L.A. Second in line about to order guac and chips, we eyed the young man (approximately thirty years old) in front of us. Most unusually, he had with him a paperback copy of Dostoevsky's The Idiot (1868-69), a challenging novel depicting the ins and outs of protagonist Prince Lev Myshkin inside of the corrupt and cynical high society of Russia during the late 1800s. As a retired English teacher who took seven years to get through Tolstoy's War and Peace (or as I like to call it, Too Much War and a Little Peace) and five summers propped up on various beaches to finish Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment (don't ask me if I even recall a paragraph of either), I was astonished. I just had to ask him, a construction worker who had never been a student of Russian literature, why he had chosen such a difficult tome as a beach read. His answer went something like this: "I've never read anything by a Russian before and wanted to try." I questioned his erudition pertaining to Russian literary figures and their fiction. He had none, but ostensibly, he was working on getting some. 

Ergo, I took the opportunity to recommend my personal favorite Russian literary achievement, Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, which he notated on his iPhone. For me, this young man's willingness to jump into yet another complicated book written by yet another complicated Russian was something along the lines of a personal triumph. Hmm. Clearly, this was not an ordinary, thirty-year-old male. After he had left with The Idiot and a smoothie in tow, I, another idiot, pinched myself for not inquiring as to whether or not he was picking up on any modern-day political likenesses in The Idiot, especially since we are surrounded by so many (idiots, that is) of late. I wish I had remembered anything about Dostoevsky's Demons (Possessed), his political novel about the rise of nihilism and radical movements (not that I had read it myself) just to impress upon the receptive construction worker the fact that people (or their causes) don't change over time. 

The takeaway? 1. Never stereotype. Don't automatically think that construction workers have no interest in Russian authors, or for that matter, in literature, period. There could be an entire movement of literary laborers out there that has simply gone unreported. 2. Don't automatically think that Gen Z isn't book smart just because they seem to prefer their phones over paperbacks. There are always exceptions. 3. Be open to the element of surprise as you never know when or where you may find it. The world is vast and unpredictable because of its inhabitants. And finally, 4., be open to the professorial treasures of the past. Just because they might have emanated from the 1800s doesn't mean they are antiquated. (If today's authors did more close reading of literary classics, their writing would be much better than it is.)

Just sayin'. 

#RussianLiterature, #GenZ, #Dostoevsky, #Tolstoy, #blog, #PersonalEssay

The Importance of Pronunciation

 

pronunciation - noun - the way a word is spoken or sounded out (Wikipedia).

Juliet Capulet in William Shakespeare's ever-enduring Romeo and Juliet emotes, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Naturally she is referring to her lover Romeo, whose last name, Montague, is abhorrent to her family. She even suggests (as far as I remember) that he drop his last name altogether. Okay, I get that. But let's say that Romeo were a unique name back then, hard to remember. For the sake of argument, let's also say that Juliet decides to start calling Romeo, Romy, a similar sounding, yet more common name in the present day. Do you think he would correct her? Or do you think he would let it slide, especially since he is blindly in love with her? (He might taken to the name. Love is a powerfully potent potion.)

Personally, I think pronunciation is important, particularly of names, the first, the middle, and the last. A name is identification. A person is born with one and grows up into adulthood with the specific identifier. Yet what if a person cannot relate to his/her/their given name? Well, the person has the option of changing it. A friend of mine embraced her parents' choice of Jacqueline until she was in her twenties. At which time, she changed it to Arianna. She was a New York cabaret singer; ergo, the name change worked as the latter is more musical than the former. 

Let's return to my initial point, though. What if the person is assigned a rarer moniker that is close to a more common one? What if the two are separated by only one letter, but the pronunciation of each is different? For example, there is "Lisa" and then there is "Liza," two names that fall into this category. The "s" in "Lisa" does not sound the same as the "z" in "Liza," so therefore, the two names are not interchangeable although people think they are. Poor singer, actor Liza Minnelli, a victim of perpetual mispronunciation, went to the trouble of having a television show produced (Liza with a Z), a song written, and an album made ("Liza with a Z") just to get fans to stop mispronouncing her name. Ugh. How frustrating!  

Recently, I learned that entertainer Gwen Verdon, Bob Fosse's former wife and creative partner, was born "Gwyneth," which is pretty much my name (Gwyn), like Gwyneth Paltrow, who is also mispronounced as "Gweneth." My guess is that Verdon got so tired of correcting people's pronunciation of her name that she just changed it to "Gwen," what I consider to be a notorious domesticity for "Gwyn," an easier name to say (think "sin," "gin," "win" as they rhyme with it) than "Gwen," short for "Gwendolyn," way too Medieval sounding for words. The only word I can come up with at an instant's notice that rhymes with "Gwen" is "pen," as in penitentiary, one of the reasons why I distain the name. I like the idea of freedom. Of course, if your name is Gwen, I'm sorry. You were actually born lucky in a sense. I don't think my parents liked me very much as they could have easily chosen the more common of the two Welsh names that both mean "fair/blessed" but are never confused in Wales. Why are the two names confused in the U.S.? Here people just don't like things that are out of the ordinary, I guess. There is too much effort involved in differentiation. 

I would like to involve you, readers, in my conundrum. Usually, I do not correct people when they call me "Gwen" because it happens ALL OF THE TIME. But lately, some of my oldest friends have resorted to using the tag, and as I am turning into a curmudgeon with age–an inevitable transition–they are starting to irk me in a big way. They know my name is "Gwyn" as they have associated with me for over fifty years. 

So, what do you think I should do? 1. Should I just ignore them like I ignore everyone else? 2. Should I start calling them names close to their names, but not quite their names just to get even? 3. Should I offer them an option? (Please call me "G.E." instead. Or "G." Why not?) 4. Or should I be completely honest, lay into them, and say, "You know you're pissing me off. Why don't you pronounce my name correctly?" (I know. This is probably the worst choice of the four.) 5. Or you can come up with an idea of what I should do on your own. I'm open.

Please leave me your sound advice in the "Comments" portion of this blog. I will try to respond to all of the thoughts. And, of course, I will tell you what I wound up doing even if you could care less. (I'd conjecture that there are some of you out there in the same predicament.)

#pronunciation, #names, #mispronunciation, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

The Friend versus the Acquaintance: Which are you?

 

acquaintance - noun - a person whom you know slightly, someone who is not a close friend (Merriam-Webster)

friend - noun - a person whom you know, like, and trust, who is not a member of your family (Merriam-Webster)

The acquaintance is the outlier of friendship, the one who hugs the border between committal and noncommittal, someone who either does not choose to rise to the high expectations of being an actual friend or is otherwise too self-centered to go the distance. 

Most of us say that we know what a friend is, but in truth, since most are ensconced in the limited microcosms of our own making, we don't. Or we have just forgotten out of convenience. ("I really don't have time for this.")

If you are continuing to read this blog, then you might be willing to reflect on the complete definition of "friend."

According to Better Up.com (and I agree), the attributes of a friend are as follows:

Trustworthiness: a friend will keep your secrets safe and remain loyal when you are not around.

Dependability: a friend will show up when things get hard and follow through on their commitments.

Active listening: a friend will pay attention to your feelings and will hear you out without judgment.

Empathy and kindness: a friend will treat you with respect, will comfort you in tough times, and will care about your well-being.

Honesty: a friend will tell you the truth with good intentions even when it is hard to hear.

Boundary respect: a friend will give you space when you need it.

To the list, I'd also like to add: 

Initiative: They will reach out to see how their friends are or to set dates with them. They will not expect their friends to take onus consistently. (There is no one cruise director.)

The authentic traits of a friend are not easy to come by in a person, making Better Up's friend a rare gem. With these in mind, just how many people who occupy a space in your life possess these characteristics? 

Am I a good friend? I would say that I might score high on all of these except for the first. If a friend does not come right out and tell me not to impart shared information to anyone, I will naturally think that if a mutual friend asks, I have the authority to tell because after all, we are all friends, or that is my assumption. I can also be a bit opinionated. I call the kettle black if that is what it is. If this level of honesty makes me disloyal, then I suppose I am. Note that honesty also comes into play. So maybe I'm coloring inside the lines as it is. The bottomline is that despite being an imperfect human, I try to work hard on being the kind of friend that I wish to have. 

With all of these things in mind, how many true friends do you have? Remember: family members in your microcosm do not count although you may treat them as friends. I think out of the legions of acquaintances (people who are either capable or incapable of the attributes of a true friend), I probably have maybe ten actual friends. Which is quite extraordinary when you think about just how self-centered people are these days. I would conjecture that most people only have about five friends each. And if you trust Instagram, I am right. "The average person has three to five (close) friends." ("Close" in my mind is inessential. You are either a friend, or you are an acquaintance.) 

Women tend to have more friends and larger social support groups than men because they are willing to take the initiative. They value friendship. The men whom I've encountered often view their wives' or girlfriends' or mates' friends as theirs as well so that they do not have to put in much effort. They might have one or two of their own male friends if they are lucky. But then again, there are extraordinary people out there, both women and men, who are true friends to a number of people who may return the favor. They are just hard to find. Most of mine have been my friends for over twenty years. One dates back over fifty. I consider her a sister. 

One of the reasons I decided to delve into this topic was because a close family member of mine confided in me that in order to manage her expectations (she likes to hold her friends to the aforementioned qualities that she herself owns), she has gone through the inventory of people who surround her and has organized them under two classifications: 1. Friends 2. Acquaintances. The friends have proven their worth as friends. The acquaintances may be people whom she knows well, but they do not care enough to embrace the entire definition of a friend. Fair enough. (I'm thinking of doing the same thing. Sometimes you just have to weed out the roses from the dandelions.)

So what is the takeaway? Put yourself to the test. How good a friend are you? Can you honestly say that you possess the above features of true friendship? 

I think we all could stand to be better friends rather than just acquaintances. 

Go the distance. If you do, your efforts may just be returned. 

#friendship, #acquaintance, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay 

Prophetic A.I. and Dream Interpretation

 

prophetic - adjective - related to predicting future events or to a prophet and divine messages (Merriam-Webster).

    Admittedly, I am NOT a fan of A.I. I don't like that it robs most, particularly students, of motivation, the conscientious effort needed to support industry. If learning comes too easily, most likely the facts gathered go in one ear and out the other pretty rapidly. As a former teacher, I found that my students retained what I was teaching when an engaging process was involved, i.e. gleaning via kinesthetic learning when coupled with auditory and visual. A.I. is cut and dry. A question is asked; an answer is provided. Satisfaction comes within seconds, which does not stimulate the long-term memory to retain data. And it certainly doesn't provide the learner with a valuable work ethic.

    On the other hand, at present, I don't have to involve the kids, especially as I retired from teaching in 2019. Right now, if I am looking for immediate gratification, i.e. a definition, a synonym, a translation, or an interpretation, I do rely on Google. If that makes me a hypocrite, I guess I'll plead guilty. This morning, A.I. acted as a prophet, interpreting a dream that I had right before opening my eyes. I dreamt that my deceased father, who was not visible to me in the dream, told me and my daughter to travel down a shoveled path through deep snow in the middle of the night to get to a resort hotel that had been his favorite haven in life. (Please pardon the stair-step prepositional phrases. If you don't know what I mean, Google it :).) We listened to him. Unfortunately, I woke up before we arrived at the hotel. As the dream fascinated me, I wanted to know what it meant. After I gave A.I. all of the necessary details, it immediately spat out the following:

  "When you connect the pieces, a beautiful narrative emerges: You, your daughter, and the memory of your father are all connected across generations. You and your daughter are walking through a quiet, cold, or reflective period of life (the snow and night), but you are well supported, and the way has been made manageable (the shoveled path). By directing you to the hotel, your father is reassuring you that there is a safe, warm, and comforting destination ahead for you and your family. It is a dream of deep reassurance, continuity, and ultimate shelter."

    It all makes perfect sense. I could not have come up with all of it within seconds myself. If I had called my analyst ex, he might have unearthed something similar, but being that he is somewhat tainted by subjective feelings (I broke up with him, not the other way around), his interpretation might have been tinged with negativity. Since A.I. does not know me a all, it can be totally objective, gratis. No human therapist can go that distance. 

    Am I a tad intimidated by A.I.'s intelligence, its ability to get to the crux of the matter sans a modicum of hesitance? Yup. It is a definitive, scary force that even has its creators taken aback. Which is perhaps the most frightening part. Frankenstein goes through the same quandary in Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and he is a student scientist living fictionally in the late 1700s. I'm thinking schools might have to consider reinserting the work into their curriculums unless it may be a little too late? I digress. 

    What is the takeaway here? Everything we experience, particularly inventions, in this life is fine in moderation. It is when we become completely dependent on these things at our own expense that we lose our way. As humans, we have free will. We have to exercise it with caution. 

    Enough said. 

#A.I., #dream interpretation, #prophecy, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

The Summer Cold: An Oxymoron?

 

oxymoron - figure of speech that puts two contradictory words side by side (Merriam-Webster)

At first glance, the title of this blog post presents itself as an oxymoron, side-by-side, contradictory terms, as summer is generally associated with heat, not cold. However, what a foreigner who is having difficulties with learning English might question and then curse is the language's preponderance of homonyms. "Cold" here refers to the virus, not the temperature even though the two are spelled and pronounced the same. In English, context is vital. 

A staunch defender of integrity, I am strictly against anyone's catching a wicked cold in June, July, August, or September as it's not only unjust, it just isn't humane. How cruel is it to be relegated to the interior confides of one's 12 X 10 apartment bedroom as families of tenants engage in joyous banter, indulging in grilled delicacies hot off the barbecue, three flights downstairs in the garden courtyard! The mismatched chorus of voices and marinading scents of the seared menu are amplified due to the concrete structure of the building and creep up to egg the hungry prisoner into wanting to cry. Yet there is no time for useless emotion as the afflicted is too busy negotiating disruptive sneezes, jarring coughs, and periodic nose blows. Ugh! The agony of it all! 

How could this happen? Isn't the immune system supposed to be at its most functional during the summer? Hmm. Could the young man vying for the same bag of slaw as I was in Trader Joe's be the culprit? I vaguely recall his unapologetically sneezing in my face. Where was my N95 when I needed it the most? Where was his? 

One ribbon of silver in the cumulus cold has to do with Artificial Intelligence. It gives the victim time to test AI to see how accurate it is. I can't tell you how many times I Googled "average length of the common cold" just to see if the information had not been edited in the meantime to read the optimistic "three days" as opposed to the realistic "7-10." If it is indeed correct, I learned that one with an upper respiratory infection is contagious for up to ten days. The peak of the annoying symptoms is four to five days into the virus. And here's something else that isn't common knowledge: one can generously and unknowingly give the heinous bug to another three days before his or her own symptoms kick in. A truly anonymous gift. (It makes me want to err on the side of paranoia and invest in a stash of new masks.) Despite a plethora of over-the-counter remedies, one can't escape the virus. If one gets a little testy and thinks he or she can outrun a cold, it is never a good idea as it could wind up evolving into pneumonia, something I just had in March that I don't recommend. 

When it comes down to tackling the summer cold, patience is a virtue. Despite having to postpone or give up plans to do myriad fun, social things that I do in the summer, I'd rather listen to Mother Nature and ride out the miserable creature horizontally. Alone in bed. Contagious only to myself. After all, how many opportunities do I get to lose myself while binge watching any and all of the movies or series based on novels by Jane Austin on streaming? Practically none. And with my sole companion, a hefty box of Kleenex by my side, I am prepared for unlimited mucus as well as tears. I just can't complain, but I desperately want to. 

The moral of the story is stay six feet away from anyone who looks capable of sneezing in your face at Trader Joe's even if it comes down to losing the store's most coveted item, the last box of Steamed Pork and Ginger Soup Dumplings, to the culprit. As soup is what is recommended for the cold sufferer, he may need it more than you will. 

#cold virus, #common cold, #facts, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay, #humor

The Veracity of the Seen and Unseen

 

veracity - noun - the quality of being true, accurate, or honest (Merriam-Webster)

    Although I have a feeling that I confessed this truth before, I appreciate funerals more than weddings. (You might want to read my blog on how the two compare.) I apologize if I am coming across as morbid, but if funerals include more than one eulogy (as in the case of Jewish memorials), they can be informative, if not downright enlightening. From the eulogies, sometimes bitingly candid, I usually learn more about the deceased than I knew prior to his/her passing. Conversely, weddings are innocuous fluff as the speeches given purport to induce laughter as opposed to education, which makes sense given the occasion. But no matter how exposing the exposition is at either celebration, is it possible to see the veracity of what has been kept unseen? 

    In life, there are those who wear masks, hiding secrets that they believe will never be revealed, and those who prefer to be naked, metaphorical exhibitionists who are not afraid to revel in veracity regardless of whether or not others may find their candor offensive. Yet it is on the masqueraders that I wish to focus. Grifters at heart, they tread lightly and whisper half-truths, fooling friends and family as they sideline expectations and allude negative judgements. (It must be exhausting to be a successful pretender.) They are so good at deception that once exposed, no one wants to believe the factual evidence against them as it appears too farfetched. (Unable to take responsibility, the "victims"–usually guilty–use "I was framed" as their standard retort. It is no doubt overly used in prisons.)

    Two cases in point: I know of two sisters; the younger actually stole the identity of the elder, meaning she took her name, her resume, her credit cards, etc., and made good use of them. Delusional, the guilty party who never served time for her crime is most likely under the impression that few know about her misdeed. She hides behind her beauty that has allowed her room to be dishonest. Another pretender is someone I've known for fifty-some years, a teacher from a good family, well educated and seemingly together. Recently, he spent a month or two in rehab, recovering from thirty years of crack use, an egregious habit he hid from all until it nearly killed him. When I found out about it, I didn't want to believe the reality as it was incongruent; it just didn't fit into the equation. How could someone in a position of reverence be living a double life? Like many, he became lost in his masquerade, finally removing the mask before it destroyed him. By taking responsibility as opposed to playing the victim, he regained respect he had lost from friends and family and is doing well in the present. Thank Goodness! 

    Getting back to the funerals for a sec, what dozens have taught me over the years is that we can never know the entirety of a person, not even if that person is a close relation. Each individual composes his/her own play, conveniently editing out revelatory, potentially damning asides that he/she, the main character, should relay, yet doesn't to save himself/herself from what he/she might just deserve: a reckoning with veracity and the aftermath that follows. 

     In this life, there is the seen and unseen, the two are locked in an invisible competition. Seen should remember that sooner or later, Unseen will be exposed. Most likely, there will be a high price to pay. So yes, to answer the initial question, the unseen can be seen. Yet another question remains: Will the onlookers accept the truth about a person's dark, unseen side when it leaks out into the light to be seen? 

#veracity, #seen vs. unseen, #truth, #blogger, #personal essay, #blog

Desiccated New Mexico: The Final Frontier

 

desiccated - adjective - thoroughly dried out; depleted of moisture; lifeless; dull (Merriam-Webster).

    In 1983, I agreed to help my sister, a music teacher in Odessa, Texas, relocate to Salt Lake City, Utah via her classic Caprice sedan. We wound up doing some sightseeing throughout New Mexico on the way. The only memory I retained from the expedition was of Santa Fe. I had bought a ring from an Apache woman near the steps of the capital building. I still have the memento. Because it has been nearly 45 years since I had visited the state, I accepted an invitation from my friends Brian and Chuck, a sweet, gay couple I had met on the world cruise, who own a former B&B in Corrales, a desiccated village nestled between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. 

    If you have never been to New Mexico, you may be unaware of the first hand effects of climate change. According to Chuck, who has been residing in semi-rural Corrales for decades, this summer has been an inferno of unrelenting heat, usual for a typical desert, but unusual for their semi-rural hamlet of 8,500 that sits at about five thousand feet above the sand. The daily afternoon rains, the entrance of which once could be predicted down to the hour, have been as unreliable as an adolescent in his/her last semester of high school. What I found disconcerting was that the Rio Grande River running through Albuquerque had vanished. In its place was a parched, serpentine ditch decorated by yellow-leaved cottonwood trees drooping beside the banks. Sad, especially when the Mid-West is underwater from recent torrential precipitation. 

    What I observed as hopeful is the abundance of Native Americans who still hold onto to their fine art and crafts. As I was departing from the airport, thousands were entering from all over the globe to attend the annual Indian Marketplace held in the center of Santa Fe. Native tribal people representing over 200 nations (who knew there were that many left?) congregate there to sell their unique turquoise and silver jewelry, handmade leather goods, sand paintings, baskets, woven tapestry, and pottery off of blankets spread out on the concrete: the most beautiful collections of physical storytelling that I have ever seen. Those not in the business of retail are landowners (President Bill Clinton was responsible for giving most of the government land back to the tribes) as well as casino proprietors. Of course, many are not as successful as there is a high incidence of drug addiction and alcoholism in their communities. But I can say the same for those outside of their nations. Addiction is ubiquitous in this country. 

    Although I did not see any ranches with cowboys or ranch hands in the area, I did see plenty of corralled horses next to modest and not-so-modest, adobe-clay homes, contributing to the pervasive sense that New Mexico could just represent the final frontier, the last (dry?) taste of the former, Wild West that has been relegated to mythology. If you are not American but are interested in seeing an authentic, unique portion of this sumptuous country or if you are a citizen but would rather go to Europe instead, visit Albuquerque and Santa Fe before they dry up completely. You won't be sorry you did. There is no place in the world even remotely like New Mexico. 

#New Mexico, #desert, #Wild West, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay, #travel 

Polyamory and the Pipes

 

polyamory - noun - having more than one romantic or sexual relationship at the same time with the knowledge and consent of everyone involved. (Cambridge Dictionary)

If you have been reading my blog posts religiously (and who has?), you may recall that I tend to start my day listening to the headlines via The New York Times app. Since the basic news is just downright discouraging to hear first thing in the a.m., I gravitate towards human interest stories, articles that appeal to us as human beings. Most typically, they are positive in nature. Fortunately for the subscribers, The NY Times has succeeded in keeping the idea of "good news" alive and well. 

This past week, I picked up on two such human interest stories. The first is the most recent podcast under the nomenclature of "Modern Love." It features a doctor of psychology who has experimented with polyamory. During the interview, she answers two main questions: 1. What is the rationale behind polyamory? 2. Why be polyamorous?

But before I continue to answer the aforementioned, I'd like to comment on the term itself. When I think of polyamory, adultery comes into my mind. It used to be that adultery left a bad taste in society's mouth and was grounds for divorce. In the Bible, it is the only grounds for marital separation.Yet polyamory is a tad different than adultery. What separates the two boils down to the duality of honesty vs. deception. What has made adultery so unseemly is that it is done on the sly. The disloyal party goes to great lengths to hide the extracurricular love affair(s) from his or her or their spouse. On the other other hand, polyamory– another name for open marriage for those who are joined legally at the hip–is mutually agreed upon cheating. The cards are all facing up on the table before the deeds are committed. And they remain that way. Which makes it okay? I guess so. So much has changed in my lifetime that it is dizzying. 

Back to the questions. The rationale behind polyamory is that if you engage in it, you can share your love with more than one person. Why be polyamorous? You can experience the complete, unmitigated fulfillment of romantic love with more than just your main squeeze. Which is reminiscent of the thinking that was popular during the 1960s: "Love the one you're with" (CSNY). Personally, I would worry about sharing more than one STD, but sexually transmitted diseases are not the focus in the podcast. (Perhaps they should at least come up? Or is there an implied assumption that all of the male polyamorous wear condoms? Maybe. The men of my generation sure don't, but I digress.)

As in most human interest stories, there is irony. In this one, the featured psychotherapist, who was once in a heterosexual, polyamorous relationship herself, understands why people are polyamorous. Yet she herself, who admits to being a lesbian, would not participate in polyamory if she were, hypothetically, in love. From my own experience, people who are in love don't wish to share their partners with anyone else. Commonly in most humans, the intensity of romantic love unearths insecurity and jealousy, two deal-breakers when it comes to sexual partnerships. Perhaps humans do have the ability to mate for life monogamously after all?

Okay, so now you're wondering where the "pipes" come in. Well, I and the Times are not referencing your plumbing or your vocal cords here. We are talking about the bagpipes. According to the audible segment "The Headlines," bagpipers living in NYC can no longer find practice spaces inside of the city. Apparently, involuntary listeners in the various apartments and parks, notably Central Park, do not appreciate the often grating sound of the instrument and are complaining about it. Ergo, the pipers (and there are many since there are multiple bagpipe bands in the New York area) are leaving the inner city and relocating to the suburbs where the population is less dense. Whether or not they will be more appreciated there is left up to speculation. I can say that I grew up in a suburb of NYC with a sister who played the pipes. Although she practiced alone in our woods and was separated from neighbors by at least one acre, the teenage boys next door retaliated by riding their noisy motorcycles on their side of the fence until the air was filled with cacophony, i.e. noise pollution. One good deed deserves another? Well, not exactly. It's more like noise invites noise. The New York pipers may wish to move near cornfields, such as those in Iowa. I think they would be safe from unappreciative ears and/or retaliation there. 

So what is the takeaway here? If not taken seriously, human interest stories can be quite entertaining. One thing is certain: They are a good way of ignoring the 24-7 news cycle and the anxiety that it disseminates.

#human interest, #TheNewYorkTimes, #good news, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

Hollywood Icon Marilyn Monroe at One Hundred: Will Her Legend Endure?

 

icon - noun - famous person who represents a group or idea (Merriam-Webster)

    After one hundred years, through the magic of photography (and technology), Marilyn Monroe maintains her blonde, seductive looks, and hence, enduring legend. Until February, the Academy (of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences) Museum in L.A. is honoring her perennial beauty as well as her controversial past in a meticulously complete exhibit for all to experience for the price of admission. But for how much longer will Marilyn remain an American icon? 

Although the exhibit premiered in June, last night, the Academy Museum opened it to members only. Being that my daughter is one of them, she was permitted to include two friends. Fortunately, she chose her best female friend from France and me. For thirty minutes, we were treated to the curators' lecture that revealed all of the particulars regarding the colorful displays, including Marilyn's elegant wardrobe set aside in plexiglass from her classic movies, such as Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Some Like It Hot, and How to Marry a Millionaire. After the info session, we all headed up to the space, meticulously designed in reds to appeal to the aesthetically minded. What struck me initially was the diminutive size of the costumes. With a waistline of 22 inches, hardly voluptuous Marilyn would have been a size 2 or 4 today but was an 8 back then. (The camera put on twenty pounds making Marilyn more zaftig then she actually was. Hollywood has always been good at deception.) Looking around, I also noticed that the average age of the onlookers was about fifty. My daughter and her friend, 35 and 36, were about the youngest there. As their generation is more savvy re: past pop culture, I was not surprised that they knew quite a bit about Marilyn. I asked the French friend what Marilyn's reputation is over in France, and she said, "The same as here," meaning Marilyn is most likely still recognized in European countries wherein the Hollywood fantasy is still of interest. 

Yet does all of the existing American population know Marilyn? Unless the parents are fans, Generation Z doesn't. After I filmed and posted a short video of the Academy show on TikTok, most of my followers (approximately 35 and up) responded favorably. Some even reposted the video, but most of them are probably fifty and over. I have no way of knowing.

An hour later, I found myself at a cast party for a stage production I was just in, and I sat next to Max, a twenty-year-old student of jazz music (our company's sound man) who grew up in Culver City, the home of Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. As the musical genre is much older than Marilyn (and the films nearly as old), I thought that perhaps he would have at least heard of her. Nope. "Who's that?" he asked. I replied, "Google her." If Gen X doesn't care about Hollywood icons of the past, their Generation Z kids won't either. Such a shame. All of history should be taught. (As an aside: an allusion to Marilyn had come up in a play that I had been teaching to my high-school juniors back in 2019. Of course, they had been clueless, so I had made sure to provide them with all of the backstory on her. They might still recall who she is today. Hopefully.) 

Despite no longer being a uniformly household name, Marilyn is still lucky that the Academy and wealthy followers remember her and will continue to preserve her memory in tightly sealed, temperate vaults wherever they can be found. Although this sounds awful, Marilyn is fortunate she passed at the ripe, youthful age of 36 as it is possible that her career might have lost momentum over time. The studios did not like Marilyn since she had grown to be "difficult," open to working with only about three directors. And her character type, the Blonde Bombshell wound up losing popularity, vanishing completely during the women's movement. Sadly, Marilyn might not have been able to overcome typecasting as her range was on the limited side, and audiences tend to hold onto stereotypes. Roles depicting complex, female characters might not have been offered over time. On a personal note, I think it would have been tragic to see her fall victim to "the rich face," numerous face lifts, etc., resulting in a plastic countenance like other Hollywood stars whose names will go unmentioned. The need to stay young might have weighed down a buoyant, forever-young Marilyn, crushing her legend. 

Yes, perhaps Fate had mapped out her destiny accordingly to her advantage. Our pretty, sexy, faux Marilyn will always be a constant, an ageless star in the constellation of Icon, preserved for anyone curious enough to explore her region of past popular culture. 

#MarilynMonroe, #icons, #Hollywood, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

 

Escaping into Anachronism

 

anachronism - noun - anything (person, place, thing, event, etc.) out of its proper time in history. (Merriam-Webster)

    Although I have featured the above word twice before, it has been begging me to take a closer look at it. I don't remember whether or not I told you (I probably did), but life in California is way different than life on the East Coast particularly as there are way more outlets for you to escape into your passions. From doing the tango to collecting antique cars, no matter what floats your boat, you can find a group of people who are into the same thing so that you can bond accordingly. 

    Bond, the heartbreaker I alluded to in my last post, is back in my life, probably for good this time as I plan to hold onto him. Why? I have never met a man quite like him. Merely to say that he is "interesting" would be a trite euphemism, a gross understatement. Here I am left with no synonym as there is no adjective that can even come close to being precise when it comes down to depicting Bond.

    Recently, he introduced me to an establishment sans an actual building that he frequents: the Society of Creative Anachronism, founded in Berkeley, California in 1966. I wouldn't call it a cult because unlike a branch of a particular political party that will go unnamed, it doesn't have a prescribed, omnipresent, omnipotent leader calling all of the shots. However, each kingdom elects a king and queen just for the sake of historical accuracy, which is paramount. What the organization amounts to is a large, international collection of individuals who escape into Medieval times just for kicks. Basically, it is like a continuous revamping of Braveheart sans the lighting, cameras, etc. When it comes to recreating the time period, the SCA members go the distance in terms of wearing the exact costumes and participating in researched pastimes. Many possess Medieval weapons and use them competitively for sport. Obviously, no maiming or killing is allowed. Bond, who also creates and sells museum-quality, Medieval crossbows, is a champion archer who has earned the title of Lord because of his unmatched marksmanship with a bow and arrow. Since Odysseus is back in vogue due to Chris Nolan's ubiquitous The Odyssey, I would say Bond might fit into the character's sandals quite well albeit he is not willing to go that far back in time to do so. But who knows? As the movie is so popular, maybe a branch of the SCA might break off and escape into Homer's time frame as well? As the past is as vast, yet more familiar than the future, anything is possible when it comes to the creative anachronistic style of life.

    For the next two weeks, the twenty SCA kingdoms throughout the world will be converging at Cooper's Lake Campground in Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania for the Pennsic War, an annual Medieval reenactment involving something like 10,000 people. No kidding. This is a serious meetup that is not open to the public like any Renaissance fair would be. But if you showed up wearing just the right costume, no one would tell you to get lost in the woods although as the PA campground is so vast, many SCA members might be already. Lost, that is.

    Wouldn't it be great if all of the wars, particularly the one happening in the Middle East right now, were just staged for fun sans casualties? It might not be a bad idea since there are people in the world today who are so bellicose as to crave combat. Why not give them something a bit more creative to engage in? The budget involved would be a lot less than the billions already being spent in reality. And everyone would walk away unscathed, perhaps shaking hands in friendship? 

    As John Lennon wrote, "Strange days indeed. Most peculiar, mama." His own anachronism, he was ahead of his time as opposed to the other alternative. Still he might have smiled at the thought of the SCA. 

#hobbies, #pastimes, #anachronism, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

The Non Sequitur: Negotiating What Drops Down From Out of the Blue

 

non sequitur - noun - a conclusion that has no logical connection to the preceding premise.

Unfortunately for those of you who pride themselves on being the Dr. Spocks (of Star Trek) of the Universe, you may be totally confounded by the daily non sequiturs that present themselves in the news these days. But what if one has caught you off guard personally so that you have been completely blindsided by what has fallen into your lap from out of the blue? 

Case in point: my love life at the present moment is resembling a rom-com that ends tragically with a non sequitur, meaning an ending that is a complete reversal, one that makes no sense at all given the "preceding premise" and one that is so illogical that even suspension of disbelief can't go the distance so that it would seem rational. Let's put it this way. My actual experience transcends that of Sex and the City's Season 6 when Carrie Bradshaw gets dumped via Jack Berger's post-it note: "I'm sorry. I can't. Don't hate me." Albeit the note is rude–contrary to decorum–at least the two are depicted as not getting along; ergo, the break-up is seen as inevitable. But what if all had been going swimmingly the entire time; passion was constantly in the air; affection, plentiful, future plans were being conceived; "I love you's were exchanged? And then, hours later, there is a text message that reads, "I'm leaving town and you. Although you did nothing but love me well, I can't return the love" even if he had been the entire eighteen months of the ill-fated relationship? An insane non sequitur! 

After I did everything to make sense of it and the previous star-crossed relationships that I mainly walked away from, the most current, nonsensical, real-life episode motivated me to Google: Why are Baby Boomer men so messed up? 

For once, A.I. was totally accurate. Our dear Boomer guys' irrational behaviors come from mirroring their shell-shocked, WWII veteran dads who could still proudly hold their medals high despite their unrecognized PTSD. Because they had saved the planet from the Nazis, these larger-than-life soldiers had unrealistic expectations for their male offspring. They taught their little boys to be unemotional, which was perceived as being strong. (You know, like "There's no crying in baseball" although that is directed at women.) Ergo, the sons grew up not knowing how to manage their emotions well or just submerging them altogether. When you are deprived of love from your hero–your dad–you have a hard time loving yourself or anyone else, particularly an emotional woman like me who loves fast, hard, and well. You become unstable, noncommittal, fearful, and guilty–in short, a psychological disaster area. Which is why most therapists do exceptionally well. And by the way, unsurprisingly, the divorce rate among Boomers has never stopped burgeoning. 

Okay, Boomer gals. How can we negotiate the non sequiturs? We don't have much of a choice. We can try communicating our needs (which has never worked for me) or attempt couples therapy that emphasizes the communication (again, never worked for me), or if used to flying solo, we can go back to the single cockpit of that small stunt plane and "defy gravity" while singing the tune from Wicked.  It isn't so bad. At least our current society embraces singlehood as acceptable, unlike the Greatest Generation's that did not. 

Will I go back to Match.com to search for yet another seriously mentally ill, male Baby Boomer anytime soon? Nope. I'm looking forward to taking to the air (literally) in a glider in the fall. When one is down, the only direction to go is up. And eventually, I'll be the one to drop down from out of the blue. Hopefully, there won't be any non sequiturs, and the landing will be cushioned. 

#blog, #blogger, #romantic love, #breakup, #relationships

The Empath

 

empath - noun - a person with a high capacity for empathy; one who is highly sensitive to the mental and emotional states of people around them (WebMD).

Save yourself or your health insurance company $250 per one hour session with your psycho-therapist. If you are self-aware, willing to embrace your liabilities, you can self-diagnosis your condition via the internet. Of course, professional analysts will always be necessary as so few of you out there are able to look your faults in the face and do the research as to how you can rise above what is ailing you. 

The other day, I did, and I have to admit that I am glad. My self-inflicted enlightenment came when I acknowledged that I am an empath–or as my mother had pointed out once long ago–I feel too much.  Because of this, I and persons like me tend to have a hard time negotiating romantic relationships. We tend to fall in love almost immediately, "love bomb" just because we become precipitately obsessed with the object of our affections, take initiative planning dates, and hastily make regular contact via texts, email, video-calls, or just plain phone calls. Then the sh*t hits the fan. As we are galloping away towards the finish line, we realize that we are the only jockey on his horse in the race since we haven't given the other party time even to fall in like with us. Needless to say, high expectations of reciprocation are leaking through the saddle bag, and sooner as opposed to later, there is resentment as we empaths are too afraid to throw a rock onto the track, stop the race, and communicate our needs to the other jockey and horse a length behind us, but coming up fast. So what happens inevitably is that we quit and trot off to the stables alone without looking back. I can't tell you how many times I have prematurely left a perfectly good race to the finish line of mutual love just because I was not prepared to speak my mind to my contender.  

What causes a person to be an empath, you ask? Emotional volatile parents. If you had a mother like mine, one who was always on the verge of exploding with anger towards my narcissistic sister, you, like I, would be prone to anticipate the eruption and head for the hills before arrival. In order to do this, you, like I, would need to latch onto the culprit (the parent) closely, almost becoming the person yourself so that you could feel the pot brewing before it reached its boiling point. Eventually as an adult, you find yourself intuitively connecting to everyone, deserving the title of intuitive empath. As so much energy is used up in the process, you tend to seek solace to reboot, confusing close companions who are left asking, "Where did she/he run off to?"

What can we empaths–paramount people pleasers who love intensely–do to achieve longevity in romantic love or friendship? There is only one way that we can: erase the fear of confrontation and communicate our needs clearly, in some cases, strongly. Last weekend, I told all of this to my boyfriend, James "Bond," who has his own psychological baggage, but probably more or less ADHD and/or just PTSD. Ordinarily, as he is not a hot head unless he is driving on the 405 and someone cuts him off, he just said that I should hit him over the head with what I want or need sans mincing words. (As an actor and bonafide Jersey girl, this is something that I am not shy about doing.) Example: "Hey, Asshole! I need you to text me good morning every once in a while." Apparently, "Asshole" alone would motivate him. So far, it is working. Who knows? It could work for you, too. 

Being an empath isn't easy, but it can often open the door to friendships as we empaths tend to be more selfless than selfish, and we will listen to people's problems and even shed a few tears with them. And we will remember birthdays, organize dinner parties and outings, each becoming recognized as the ultimate cruise director. After all, everyone appreciates a compassionate listening ear and a natural giver. 

However, it is never good to be so selfless as to be invisible. Empaths' lives matter just as much as those of their opposites, narcissists, as well as everyone else in between. If you aren't an empath, but you have a friend who is, connect with the person and tell him or her that next time, you will call to listen to his or her rant, wish him or her a happy birthday, or take him or her out to lunch as you are aware that you contribute virtually nothing and are now feeling guilty enough to return favors that the empath has so willingly provided over the years. 

Maybe just stop using the excuse that you are too busy and try to be a better friend to all in your life, not just the empaths?

Just sayin' or just hitting you over the head with it. 

#empath, #romantic love, #friendship, #blog, #blogger, #personal essay

Bi-Coastal Friends: A Contrast

 

bi-coastal - adjective - living, working, or regularly traveling between the East and West Coasts of the United States (Merriam-Webster.com) I would like to amend the preceding definition to include the following: 2. bi-coastal (as it pertains to friendships), platonic relationships that exist simultaneously on both the East and West Coasts of the United States.

Because I lived in the New York area for all but two years of my life, when I uprooted my cast-in-stone life and relocated to Los Angeles in 2024, I was able to pack up my friends (and some family) in a technological suitcase and take them all with me along with my material possessions. Additionally, once I was acclimated to the day to day in SoCal, unabashedly joining multiple organizations filled with like-minded folks, I made many new friends rather quickly. Ergo, at present, I have a variety of bi-coastal friends. Half are there, 3,000 miles away, and half are here. So far, I am managing to keep juggling the multifarious balls, spending quality time with both subsets either online via Zoom, texting, email, phone calls, or in person. 

Most would find it difficult to maintain contact with all of these cherished individuals, but for me, a lifelong collector of people, not things, it isn't. But what I am noticing lately is the dissimilarities between the groups. For one, my East Coast friends have more complicated lives despite most being retired. The majority are married with children and grandchildren, meaning they value family more than friends. I have to book way in advance if I want to put together a Zoom or if I want to visit them in actuality. They don't have time, or don't have the motivation, to step away from their routines and visit me. So the street is, for the most part, one way. And it is short. My East Coast friends do not like to drive far to see people whom they love as friends. If they agree to meet at a restaurant, it better be equidistant from all parties, making said eatery not easy to locate. And as they are always consumed with familial obligations, an agreed upon date and time are near impossibilities. Case in point: I just got off of a group text that involved five women (excluding me in CA). It took the better part of the day to finalize plans for a birthday dinner party. They were all so occupied, they had to opt to go out the following evening. Which impressed me as you would think spontaneity would be an extinct concept with this group. One more thing re: socialization, my friends on the East Coast will rarely return texts within an hour's time. Some will go days sans answering, something I find a bit rude. 

On the other hand (or side of the country), my West Coast pals, despite being much younger than the East Coast crowd and employed, are a bit more uncomplicated. For one, finding a mutually compatible date to get together is relatively simple, but it could be because I don't cut them as much slack as my East Coast associates. I give them two dates, they select one, and wha la! I pencil them in on the calendar. If the group is large and a few can't make the date, it is not a big deal. They simply join the party the next time around. (I wouldn't dream of excluding any of my East Coast friends from an event, probably because they would be irreparably pissed off at me.) And no one out here is afraid of driving distances albeit in L.A., he or she should be since the drivers here are off the deep end (and have the potential to be literally). We do have to attempt to schedule meetups before or after rush hour, though, as traffic can be heavy at certain times, and it may take two hours to go ten miles. Still, even if it does, no one is very distressed about it, but the East Coast clan would be infuriated despite having to endure traffic abnormalities regularly. And one last difference, just about everyone I know here will text back immediately or within a reasonable time frame. 

What I find interesting is that my "transplant" friends who were once East Coast denizens but who now live here brought their social idiosyncrasies with them. (See paragraph 3.) And it doesn't matter how long they have resided here. When it comes to human nature, a pattern often remains fixed. 

Could it be that East Coast urban/suburban dwellers are by and large a bit more uptight than their counterparts on the West Coast? Could it be that the West Coast coalition experienced better parenting? Do the variations have anything to do with the weather? Eureka! It just could be the reason. I do believe people, in general, are quite affected by climate changes. Consistency is key; inconsistency causes stress and related problems. Yet what do I know? All I do know is what I observe. Opinion can transmogrify into fact with substantial evidence. 

What it all filters down to is this: I feel blessed to have the friends I do have. All of them are family to me, solid gold despite their contrasts, good or bad. 

#friendship, #bi-coastal, #differences, #blog, #blogger, #sociology, #personal essay

Pride: Unity Through Diversity

 

pride - noun - deep sense of self-respect and admiration of achievements; celebrated visibility of the LGBTQIA+ community. Merriam-Webster.com

On Saturday, we in the United (?) States will be celebrating 250 years as a nation. What started as an involved experiment that a room full of anachronistic geniuses imagined is still pretty much that–an involved experiment– as the legal complexities within the government have been continually tried since 1776. The current regime has put the bi-partisan, democratic system to the test on a daily basis, needless to say, exacerbating any divisions omnipresent due to opposing political platforms. I know. I know. You are probably saying to yourself, "Why doesn't she tell me something that I don't already know?" It's coming. 

Lately, though, contrary to the aforementioned popular belief that the Media perpetuate, I have seen signs of unity among "We the People." Unifying the globe, the World Cup has been proving that even if you don't like soccer ("football"), you can join the international ranks, choose a team to root for, find yourself a sports bar supporting your specific team with at least five TV monitors, pick one, and watch. Chances are, as you will be shouldering up to people with the same team in common, you may feel that you belong and that Earth is a lot smaller than you think as its people tend to be pretty much the same: boisterous, potentially violent if on the drunk side, but joyful when their team wins. Even if the team loses, you can still stagger home with a few, new, most likely American friends. (Just don't talk politics or religion on the way home.)

Another unifying element is the local fair for a cause. This past Saturday, I, along with others, volunteered to host our church's rainbow-cookie-decorating booth at the Culver City Pride Festival, one of a few here in Los Angeles. One of our members, a young woman transitioning into a man, baked 500 homemade cookies to hand out gratis to anyone of any age who desired one. Some enjoyed getting a bit messy by taking modified Baggies of food-colored icing and using them to create Technicolor art on top of the flat sugar cookies. All walks of LGBTQ, etc. participated as well as legions of straight people, notably families with children. As it was my first experience at a pride celebration, I was pleasantly surprised to see so many straight parents introducing their offspring to the LGBTQ culture, which I feel is an exemplary, unifying idea. My young, attractive–albeit also straight–Presbyterian pastor decided she would give out hugs for free, advertising the giveaway via a rainbow-bedecked sandwich board that covered half of her petite form. Back and forth, she paced for hours in front of the booth, attracting attention. Not surprisingly, many souls–lost or found–took her up on the deal. She must have felt Jesus's presence as she was taking a walk in his sandals since if he were present, he would have offered to step in and give her a hug and a much-needed coffee break. I couldn't help but wish that a few "Christian" politicians, stuck-in-the-mud of conservatism, were there to see just how beautiful we humans can be when we aren't afraid to offer love to all, not just a select few. (Thank you, Matthew 25.)

The bottomline: Take some time to look around, before, after, or during the fireworks on this July 4th. Are we as a nation actually all that divided? Maybe not. I, for one, know that after 250 years, we have at least one thing in common: we are still the people of United States of America. Based on what I have seen, not read, I know that no matter what, we will band together to keep this great democratic nation from crumbling like a sugar cookie sans red, white, and blue icing. 

Happy 250th Birthday, U.S.A.! 

#July4th, #unity, #Pride, #personal-essay, #blog, #blogger

Hubris: Hell on Wheels (A Road Rant)

 

hubris - noun - extreme, excessive pride or dangerous overconfidence (Merriam-Webster.com)

When it comes to driving in L. A. where traffic jams blend ubiquitously into the landscape, I have an unproven, yet practical theory. All of the drivers who initially flunked and then passed (by the skin of their teeth) their DMV driving tests anywhere else in the United States migrated to SoCal sometime afterward, celebrating the possibilities of the California car culture on the way. Why do I think this is true? Vehicle accidents are plentiful here, which is why car insurance and registration in the City of Angels are probably the highest in the country. But much of the crashes might be due to hubris, the pervasive attitude that bigger is better. Because the "Biggers" contend that they are better, they push their weight around. I see these folks cutting off economy cars all of the time because they can. Apparently according to the "Biggers" whom I know and love, the rationale behind buying bigger is that the larger the vehicle, the least likely they and their passengers will lose their lives in collisions. Well, I hate to tell you guys, but someday you'll die. And if you are meant to die in a car accident, you will, no matter how colossal your vehicle is. The problem here is that "Biggers" often cause the road fatalities. 

Every morning, I listen to the headlines via the New York Times app. Today's last two-minute, oral article considered the rise in pedestrian deaths due to the bigger and better. SUVs and trucks are so high up that the drivers' sight lines are limited. As their gazes are on the distant horizon, they simply do not see pedestrians at ground level. They also don't see those of us who are beneath them in compact cars as was the case last Saturday when I was trying to exit the parking lot at Trader Joe's. A woman riding high in the saddle of a huge Suburban didn't see that little old I in my pseudo-lowrider Mazda 3 was perpendicular to her monstrosity and started backing out of her spot. Fortunately, the car in front of me moved in the knick of time so that I could hit the accelerator to escape the probability of my car's getting reduced to a crushed tin can. Thank Goodness for small favors. 

While I'm on this rant, pertaining to the parking lot of Trader Joe's (and parking garages), I'd like to broach the topic on differentiating between SUVs, mini-vans, vans, and pick-ups and compact cars, such as Austin Minis, VW Beetles, Priuses, etc. The former grouping DOES NOT BELONG under the nomenclature of "Compact" albeit I see these monsters parked in the tighter spaces labeled COMPACT in giant letters ALL OF THE TIME. Why? Hubris. Bigger is better, so "Biggers" can park wherever they want to. It's a free country. Right? Why should smaller cars have a more generous selection of parking spaces? (This is the thinking.) Well, just to let you"Biggers" know, there are engineers/architects who design these parking areas and take the width and length of all possible parked vehicles under consideration when planning the lots. If you "Biggers" cop an attitude and park where you don't belong, you limit the space in back of you and that of the other "Bigger" parked behind you so that you pretty much park yourselves in or just reduce a two-way road into a one-way path, making it harder for vehicles to move freely and safely around the lot. It's also a lot easier to gouge the doors of or hit any one or more "Biggers" parked next to you in the compact car spots. Ooo weee! Door dings and fender benders abound. If the trend continues, before you know it, your SUV or truck will look like it had an egregious outbreak of small pox or a bad case of acne albeit I realize that some of you don't care. Yet wouldn't it be nice if everyone followed the rules posted via signage instead of considering them just a suggestion? 

Of course, there have always been "Biggers." A long time ago (fifty years in fact), there was a gas crisis that convinced the "Biggers" back then to trade in their gas-guzzling, V8 Caddies for  practical, efficient Japanese imports, such as 4-cylinder Toyotas. How SUVs and pick-ups became stylish is beyond me. Maybe the Boomers whose parents had them take their El Dorados to the nearest gas line back in '76 actually had too much fun while waiting all night for gas? Or maybe the Generation X and Millennial "Biggers" just crave more confidence so they buy big to rise above the status quo on the roads? Who knows?

I have no answers, just advice. Biggers, obviously you can keep your pretentious possessions, but try to park where you're supposed to, and don't attempt to cut off us puny peons on the 405, 10, 101, 110, or elsewhere. Of course, don't forget to look down when making turns so that you don't hit any pedestrians crossing the street. Thank you. 

"That's all." 

#critique, #personal essay, #driving rules, #blog, #blogger, #rant, #LosAngeles, #car culture

Petty Resentment and Parenthood

 

resentment - noun - a feeling of indignant displeasure or bitterness toward someone or something perceived as an insult, injury, or unfair treatment. (Merriam-Webster.com)

Petty resentment, especially toward a parent, can linger deep in the waters of one's subconscious for decades but can swim up to the surface every now and then to take a breath.  

Case in point: Although I loved my deceased mother dearly, she wore the pants in the family and could be dictatorial–benevolent or malevolent–depending on the situation. To say that she was strict might be an understatement. For example, because she dreaded anything remotely related to funerals, my sister, two years older than I, and I were prohibited from wearing black: no black jeans, no black T's, no little black dresses. You get my gist. To even out the score, once I became emancipated, I wore black all of the time and still do. Could my perennial defiance be a robe, black or otherwise, covering up a petty resentment that I had and maybe still have toward my mother? Probably.

To tell you the truth, I am certain that my own adult daughter still resents me for a few mandates I put into place years ago when she was growing up. I do recall not buying her her own television when she was twelve. And I probably did not let her watch shows or movies with adult content in them on my TV. What self-respecting mother would? (I don’t know about today’s moms, though. Could they be a bit more lenient?)

Young people on the fence about becoming parents can use the aforementioned to justify not having children. Those of you who are already committed to parenthood know that it isn't easy. Raising kids to love unconditionally rather than to resent might just be the hardest thing you've ever done. After all, there wasn't a guide book handed to you in the maternity ward stipulating how to keep your kids from harboring ill will toward you. Since then, you’ve had to wing it the whole way, doing what your instincts have told you is right to protect the little suckers (sometimes, literally), and you’ve taken the risk of their hating you for it. 

Yet maybe it all boils down to balance. You and I resented our parents for something petty, so our offspring now have the opportunity to hit us in the face with a similar tasting lemon meringue pie, an apt metaphor as there is bittersweetness in the mix. Parenthood can be painful and so can childhood, adolescence, and adulthood, yet there are usually so many rewards that there can be no regrets. 

Let's hope that true love outweighs petty resentment in the end.

#resentment, #parenting, #blog, #blogging, #personal-essay

  

Do Black and White Mix to Create Bland?

 

bland - adj. - anything lacking strong features, stimulating characteristics, or distinctive flavor (Merriam-Webster.com)

Yesterday, as my daughter and I were driving to the New Beverly Cinema here in LA to see a screening of The Beatles' classic A Hard Day's Night, she remarked how the majority of cars before us in traffic were tinted either black or white. As she was driving, I had more of a safe opportunity to concentrate on the vehicles around us. With the exception of an occasion red or blue sedan or SUV, muted colors (gray, black, white, brown) were primarily represented, making our view on the bland side. I told her I missed the abundance of colors when it came to the paint on cars. I also missed the variety of makes and models that were once available. Once upon a time, people ordered their vehicles and had a choice of not only multiple colors but also at least a half dozen accessories. Which is generally not the case today since most buy their autos off of lots. 

But do black and white consistently create bland? When it comes down to cars, yes. When it comes to classic films, no. Case in point, the previously mentioned Richard Lester 1964 comedy shot in black and white, accentuating the phenomenon that was The Beatles, was and still is far from lacking in anything. Way back in 1964 when I was five, I had convinced my dad to escort me to the local movie theater, the Rialto, so that I could be one hundreds of young Beatles' fans supporting Beatlemania. Reluctantly, he agreed, but most likely regretted taking me as the screaming in the theater during the feature made it impossible to hear the musical soundtrack or the dialogue. I, of course, did not care. In terms of their looks and mannerisms, the Fab Four were so colorful that I don't think anyone noticed that the print was not in Technicolor. John, Paul, George, and Ringo exuded Technicolor just by being themselves. Last night, my daughter and I were treated to New Beverly Theater owner Quentin Tarantino's personal, flawless, print of the work in 35 mm. Like the film itself, it had not aged at all. Afterwards, I remarked to my daughter that even though many of the sets and costumes were dated, the boys themselves were not. They were and still are, timeless, part and parcel of their genius, anachronisms who were way ahead of their time. 

Black or white or otherwise, there are few music creators out there who exude the same colors as The Beatles. Which is why the New Beverly was packed and totally respectful last night. There wasn't a cell phone in sight. Most of the audience was made up of people under forty, meaning they weren't around when the band was actively making music. Which leads me to believe that all, regardless of age, are craving another natural phenom like The Beatles, who made it the hard way via working dark, dank clubs sans the opportunity to advertise on social media. 

As a singer-songwriter myself, I am very much aware that there is way too much content out there so that if another group like The Beatles were to be born, most likely they might never be discovered unless the members had wealthy or influential parents to finance their rise so that their needle might fall out of the haystack and be found. 

Because life is a balance, I hold onto the hope that maybe I'll see another incarnation of real, unmistakable, far-from-bland musical talent. However if I don't, it's okay as I have a DVD of A Hard Day's Night and a working DVD player so that I can cue it up, lie back on my queen-sized bed, and be immersed in all of the black-and-white colors of the rainbow. 

#black and white films, #The Beatles, #film, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #music

Relating Reciprocation to Bed Rot: A Stretch?

 

reciprocation - noun - the act of responding to a gesture, feeling, or action with a similar or equivalent one.

(www.dictionary.com)

It's hard to escape ubiquitous technology. Like it or not, it has taken charge of our lives so that more than a few are beginning to sit up and take umbrage, especially those whose livelihoods A.I. has erased. (I was just asked to contribute to the musical mind of A.I. recently. Guess what I answered? No, no, and no!) I could go on and on, but when it comes down to keeping abreast of cha-cha-cha-changes, I tend to let the New York Times to do my bidding for me. 

I am a big fan of the publication. Always have been. What can I say? I admire exemplary, objective (and occasionally subjective) journalism underscored with articulate intelligence. The other morning, I was listening to a podcast featuring Yale psychology professor Laurie Santos while I was preparing my daily fruit smoothie. The conversation broadcast had to do with happiness, a concept that can be easily intellectualized but rarely understood as readily attainable. Santos, a young member of the intelligentsia, mentioned "bed rot," a term that I had not heard prior to listening to her thoughts. For those of you who, like me, are oblivious to most of the modern lingo, bed rot is a condition associated with those who spend exorbitant amounts of time lying in bed surfing social media platforms, like Instagram, for instance. According to Ms. Santos, these individuals are not only experiencing loneliness but also unhappiness as the two are correlated. (Again, this finding is not new; it's common sense. Since so few have it, it is often erroneously seen as being synonymous with genius.)  

To defeat loneliness and/or unhappiness (neither of which I have time for), I tend to reach out to real friends, not A.I. creations, and invite them over to my place (a one-bedroom apartment) for dinner. Most are enthusiastically accepting of my generosity and reciprocate by offering to enhance the meal by way of contributing additional items of food or drink. Which is kind and decent of them, kind of like taking baby steps, though, as when it comes to reciprocating fully, taking giants steps forward, they don't, meaning virtually no one I know will return the favor and host the next gathering at his or her apartment or home. I can't help but ask whether bed rot has anything to do with it. Does allowing one's mind to rot via endless online activity cut in to the desire to return favors? Has it obliterated decency? Probably. 

Of course, every once in a while, those who continually depend on me to be the "cruise director," will assuage their own guilt by coming up with excuses as to why they can't return the favor and have us friends at their places. "I'm short of cash." Okay, fine but the invitees can supply most of the meal. "I don't have enough space." Don't invite a hundred; invite two. And let's not forget the classic: "I don't have time." Make time. What I am getting at here is that all things are possible. "If there is a will, there is a way," as my mother was so fond of repeating. By hosting folks, you might just be mitigating their loneliness and unhappiness in addition to your own, effacing the need to listen to thirty-minute podcasts like Santos's that aim to "optimize" happiness. In the time that it takes to hear all of her findings and subtle advice, you can be contacting friends and arranging a meetup. Just sayin'. You are at the helm of your own well being, not technology.

So there. I related bed rot to reciprocation. And it wasn't a stretch at all. Not bad for a common blogger.

#personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #loneliness, #unhappiness, #Laurie Santos, #podcasts, #A.I.

Delicious Delis and Accreting Writers

 

deli or delicatessen - noun - a retail establishment that sells prepared foods, cured meats, fine cheeses, and specialty sandwiches. (Wikipedia)

accreting - adjective - growing slowly over time by accumulating layers. (English Language and Usage)

Two of my favorite scenes from classic cinema take place in actual New York City delis. The first is the opening sequence from Woody Allen's iconic, black-and-white comic elegy for a hapless theatrical agent, Broadway Danny Rose, and the second is from director Rob Reiner's homage to accreting love, When Harry Met Sally. The delicatessen featured in the former is the Carnegie, now defunct unfortunately. The deli in the latter is Katz's, fortunately still a NYC staple at 205 E. Houston Street on the Lower East Side. When I resided in Manhattan 45 years ago, I would trek to Carnegie at 854 7th Avenue between 54th and 55th for a sumptuous, four-inch-thick corned beef sandwich on rye that was way more affordable than the twenty-five dollar version I might have purchased today. Although the original restaurant is no longer, devotees of the Jewish deli can still order from the menu at its Madison Square Garden location or visit the website. But neither experience would be the same. There is nothing that compares to sitting in a slightly dodgy, dusty deli, chatting with a companion or negotiating fingerprint smears on a dirty window in order to appreciate the appearances of passersby on 7th Avenue.    

For whatever reason (probably because the Carnegie used to be cheap), the aforementioned was a hangout for every starving artist looking to bite into half of a hefty sandwich at lunch and take the leftover half home for dinner. If I were still living in New York, I'd probably meet my fellow writer friend, who is hoping to snag an agent (aren't we all?), at Katz's. However, since moving to Los Angeles, I met her today at the equivalent of both the Carnegie and Katz's: the deli-restaurant Canter's, which opened in 1953 at 419 North Fairfax Avenue. Over the years, it has been a location for numerous films and TV series, especially as Television City is right down the street. The decor has not been altered much over the years, and neither has the vast selection of deli classics on the menu. Canter's also has a tempting bakery that specializes in Jewish treats, such as mouth-watering coconut macaroons. Again, it isn't inexpensive, but I did manage to get someone in the kitchen to make me a Jersey Sloppy Joe (not on the menu) for $25. I know. Yikes! But it came with a foil container so that I could tote the leftovers back to my apartment. 

What mattered more to us writers was the conversation. The deli provided the right ambience for us to share our experiences as also-rans–always the bridesmaids, never brides–when it came to finding just the right people to promote our literary talents. My friend, who just finished a manuscript for a children's picture book, has just started to query agents. I, the author of a memoir and psychological drama, have been querying literary agents for six years. I've probably contacted about five hundred by now. Unsuccessfully. The only tidbit of trivia that keeps me on my toes trying is that Ray Bradbury, whose Fahrenheit 451 is still taught in high school English classes, was rejected over eight hundred times before his work was accepted for publication. 

Will I hang in there for as long as he did? Probably not. I could publish tomorrow on Kindle for nothing and start making seventy percent of $3.99 per read right away, something thousands of writers do. But that masters in creative writing that I have keeps reminding me I just might be better than Amazon. Immodest? Maybe. But for now, I'll continue to commiserate with my writer friend over one Sloppy Joe at a time at Canter's and keep the faith that I'll win the lottery and find representation. My friend and I might just be the two in two thousand who, as accreting writers, grow slowly by accumulating layers of tenacity and patience. 

If you just happen to be like us, keep the faith and don't give up easily. 

#delicatessens, #Canter's, #writers, #personal essay, #blog, #blogger, #advice for writers