The Keith Richards Cure For Apathy

I am currently engrossed in Sherry Turkle’s Alone Together: Why We Expect More from Technology and Less from Each Other, which details her fifteen plus years of research of studying the effects of technology on how we relate to one another. She interviewed a man who is both married in real life and on Second Life, an alternate virtual world he accesses on his phone.  He claims his online life is where he can truly be himself, making it possible to bear his real life with his real family.  WTF?  In my eternal struggle to pull my head out of my ass and put down my iPhone only to behold a sea of people staring at their phones, her book is setting fire to my brain, especially in regards to social media related depression and anxiety.

Facebook depression is a recent phenomenon that is mostly documented in teenagers, where the source of one's crap ass attitude is placed squarely on the fact that everyone else’s online life seems truly magical according to your news feed, whilst your life remains a steaming piece of shit.  Thank God we've found a new and effective way to make teenagers feel inadequate!  It does happen to adults as well, probably because Facebook can bring out the moody teenager in all of us.   I took a hard look at my FB presence, which has been scaled back and now consists of the occasional inspirational quotes/musical offerings/news articles, pictures from races I have run and vacations, and shameless self promotion if I am fortunate enough to be involved in some literary goings on about town.  World, check me out.  Damn, it must kick some serious ass to be me!

What Facebook doesn’t reveal is that I spend a lot of my downtime in a supine position staring at the ceiling wondering what the hell I’ve done with my life.   When that gets old, I throw in rationalizing how I cannot possibly run errands or exercise or write today because of insert rotating lame excuse here.  There are no life or death deadlines, there's enough toilet paper to make it until tomorrow, tomorrow will be better weather to do things outside, no one knows whether I do or I don’t do these things, so who gives a rip?  Great news!  I’ve decided to focus on the things I truly want to do and not cave to things I don’t want to do out of guilt.  Bad news!  I often don’t want to do a damn thing.  

I had to really check myself before I wrecked myself recently when I decided to attempt to tell a story next month at the Moth here in Chicago.  For those of you not familiar, the Moth is a storytelling organization out of New York that has a popular podcast and puts on live events all around the country….the stories are told without notes, limited to five minutes, and judged and scored. (www.themoth.org)   Upon contemplating what it would take to be ready to tell a story in front a big crowd without the written words to crutch out on and the paper to hide behind and to have strangers judge it and give it a number, I just kept asking myself why I would want to do all that work and subject myself to possible humiliation for something that was going to last FIVE minutes?

And there I was, clubbing my dreams like a baby harp seal.  

When I figured out that I was cloaking my fear with laziness to put a more comfortable spin on it,  I started to fight back.  I've been working on the story, working on producing more stories.  Still not writing as much as I’d like, but what I'm managing to put together is helping me to  keep my eyes on the future and off the ceiling.  

The point behind this overshare is that there are compelling ups and downs behind all of the online avatars where everyone controls what’s represented about their identities….we often present only our best news, our most flattering pictures, our most hilarious musings.  But perhaps our most meaningful connections happen when we are vulnerable, when we take chances and fall on our faces, when we say or do the wrong things, and the people in our lives choose to love us anyway, because we deserve to be loved for who we really are.  

Lately I've been relying on a pick me up more powerful than any drug ever invented....I crank up Keith Richards singing ONLY TO ME.  I mean, if you're not inspired by a guy who changed the face the rock and roll, who has been married almost thirty years, who has survived drug abuse and Mick's bullshit and falling out of a palm tree to write a best selling book and who still pines to be a librarian, check your pulse.  You might be dead.

Exciting things on the upcoming agenda.....storytelling class show May 14th here in Chicago, perhaps I'll be fortunate enough to get my name pulled at the Moth, where even if I completely eat shit, I will be buoyed by love and support.  Story Lab show in June will feature an overarching tale that may explain my love/hate relationship with technology.....come check it out if you feel like hearing some new voices sharing their experiences.  Ciao for now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nl7eKwRGuCA

W-O-M-A-N! I'll Say It Again.

 

Today is International Women’s Day.   I wrote about it last year, bringing up economic disparity, violence towards women, and emphasizing the importance of self esteem.  This year I could quote all kinds of similar statistics, and add to the conversation the multiple instances of politicians attempting to change the face of women’s reproductive health care by infusing it with misogynist “morality” related proposals.  Or discuss the Rush Limbaugh debacle, where he called a Georgetown law student a “slut” and a “prostitute” after she made statements to a House committee regarding birth control.  Thanks Rush, you paragon of virtue, for seizing an opportunity to enhance the situation with your misanthropic vitriol.  I could discuss how after the Grammys were broadcast, there were a shocking number of ladies tweeting about how Chris Brown was so hot, they would TOTALLY let him punch them in the face.  Way to go, sisters who suck.  Or that the US trails behind much of the world, ranking 90^th, in the number of women in national legislature.  Or that the 2010 election marked the first time since 1987 that the US made no progress in electing more women to Congress.  I could go on and on with depressing numbers and disheartening news stories and we could all throw our hands in the air and say THAT SUCKS in unison…waking up to March 9^th to celebrate the 53^rd birthday of Barbie.  A doll that if she were real, would have a 38 inch bust, an 18 inch waist, and 33 inch hips.  

Holy crap, at 53 years old with those boobs, her back must be killing her.  Someone get Barbie some Aleve.

In deciding what to write in regards to Women’s Day, I came to the conclusion that the only information I could share with any hopes of making an impression is my own story.

I grew up in a middle class household in a suburb outside Seattle.  My mother divorced my father when I was six and subsequently remarried another man who was my stepfather during all of my formative years.  Nothing happened that would rate the making of a movie for the Lifetime channel; we had enough money, there was no abuse or even heated arguments around the dinner table.  My mother told me not to come home pregnant or in a cop car, but other than that, I could make my own decisions.  She never gave me much advice or guidance at all, really.….I just came to conclusions based on her examples.  Conclusions like:  everyone else’s needs come before your own, never expose your imperfections to the world, and it doesn’t really matter what YOU want to do with your life, just find a man to take care of you.  So off I went sailing out into the universe with not much in the way of a tacking strategy.  I lived with a few boyfriends and moved here and there and made friends and changed jobs and generally did the best I could, mostly putting everyone else’s needs before my own, trying not show my imperfections to the world, and figuring although I didn’t need a man to take care of me, it didn’t really matter what I wanted to do with my life, I should just focus on getting by.

In the last nineteen months that I’ve been on my own, I’ve had a lot of time to cull through my core beliefs and make changes for the better.  I get now that putting yourself first is the best way to have quality relationships, that sharing your imperfections and mistakes publically is a litmus test to attract people who are secure and deflect fakers, and that following my creative bliss is more important than material wealth.  I’ve recognized that the only person standing in the way of my success is me, which is strangely liberating, as I’m the only person I have any control over.

Okay, you’re thinking, when exactly is she getting to the point about Women’s Day?  It’s my goal to use the aforementioned epiphany to help women realize their strengths and their potential to improve the world.  We can’t change the minds of the Rick Santorums, the Rush Limbaughs, the Fred Phelps, the advertising morons who bring you shit like this. 

  

But we can speak our minds about what’s acceptable.  Recognize that your spending decisions are important.  Women account for an estimated 85% of consumer purchases.  Support women in business in your community and research and avoid companies with tired, sexist ad campaigns.  Volunteer or donate to charities and organizations that promote and assist women.  When faced with sexist remarks, (or homophobic or racist, for that matter), voice your dissenting view point.  These things might be prove to be inconvenient, possibly unpleasant, sometimes time consuming, perhaps with no discernible change for the better immediately available for an Aha! moment so you can feel all Oprah-tastic about yourself…..but keep in mind that the next generation learns from you, from what you do and say, and from what you don’t do and don’t say.  If we start telling all the young girls in our lives that they are important and valued and should be respected and that they should study hard and use their brain power to grow up to be ANYTHING THEY WANT TO BE, that would be huge.  That their looks do not determine their potential.  That a healthy body of any size is a beautiful one.  That their sexuality is something to be celebrated, not a commodity.  Because no matter what sort of material possessions one might receive for “putting out”, you’re still selling yourself short.  Imagine a world with more Adele, less Snooki.  More Christiane Amanpour, less Kim Kardashian.  More Tavi Gevinson (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/04/magazine/how-sassy-is-tavi-gevinson.html), less Paris Hilton.  That we don’t want special treatment.  We want equal treatment.  We aren’t a special interest group, we’re over half the population.  That their contributions and leadership will be pivotal in shaping the world for the better.

In an effort to be the change that I want to see, I attended a screening of Miss Representation last night.  (http://www.missrepresentation.org/) The documentary explores the correlation between the media’s treatment of women and their underrepresentation in positions of influence across the board.  I was surrounded by inner city teens who were fired up to end gender stereotypes and become more media literate.  I was particularly inspired by the film’s message that women sharing their stories will be an instrumental part of changing the shift in consciousness…..you know I love to celebrate story power!

I know many enlightened men who are equally sick of sexist double standards and to them I say THANK YOU.   Have a great Women’s Day, all.  

Excessively Frugal? Excitement Impaired? This blog post might be for you.

Those that know me well know that I have strong opinions about how the world should be.  With that in mind, I try to listen as much as I talk as I’ve come to the conclusion that absorbing other people’s ideas and fusing them with your own is a great exercise in keeping your mind and heart open.  Getting set in your ways seems to be a part of getting older and I am actively fighting that shit like there’s no tomorrow.   In my worst possible future scenario nightmare, I am saying things like, “But that’s the way I’ve always done it!” and such.  This fast forwarded hellish hallucination also involves me being decked out in polyester and industrial shoes with my finger in someone’s face saying “ I KNOW you said Dr. Pepper, not Diet Coke!”  Hey, I told you it was worst case.  But back to the tried and true rules I consult when I feel the crochety confines of maturity creeping in.  I have but one mantra.

Don’t be cheap and don’t be boring.  When I make decisions based on these guidelines, I’m generally pleased with the results.

I feel the need to clarify some points with the mantra.  When I say cheap, it has nothing to do with how much  money you have at your disposal.  Being broke is not the same as being cheap.  It’s a matter of not being chintzy with what you do have.  I believe in making smart decisions with money, in having a savings/emergency account, and all those things that Suze Orman has been hitting us all over the head with.  I also believe in the Warholism that wasting money puts you in a real party mood, but I respect those that don’t get with that one.  But I checked the facts, no matter how hard you try, you can’t take it with you and dying with more of it doesn’t get you any big fucking prizes.  If you’re one of those people who tries to figure out how to make your life cheaper at other people’s expense (i.e. being a shitty tipper, complaining about things in hopes of a discount, conveniently forgetting that you owe money until you are reminded, going to the bathroom when the bill comes), I would urge you to look at your level of satisfaction with your life.  Being a active cheap ass takes energy and and often goes in tandem with being a drag to be around.   Having enough money to be comfortable is key, but more can’t get you more of what’s really important…friendship, affection, connection, self worth, on and on and on….  It can’t even buy you solid success with the financially obsessed GOP,  just ask Mittens Romney.

And as far as being boring, I’m not implying you must be hang gliding on acid or partying with celebrities or any other Hunter S. Thompson-esque pursuits.  I’m perfectly happy hearing about your adventures in making macrame potholders with kitty faces on them if you’re passionate about them.  Everyone has different activities that make them tick, find yours, and respect and appreciate what works for others.  Being boring in my definition involves endless bitching, living your life through other people, focusing on how everyone else has it better than you, what other people have that you don't or what they can do that you cannot.  A lot of folks feel comfortable in this cocoon, and nothing dies harder than a bad idea.  We all have our whiny moments, but if your identity is defined by them, it is never too late to make a change.   When I feel like life's buffet is serving all poop sandwiches, I recognize that lots of other people are struggling along in this life…that I am unique and special, JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE.  Also boring, people who talk too much, regardless of the content and quality of their output.  Are you often met with a blank stare from those on the receiving end of your word bubble?  Do you interrupt people?  Are you always thinking of what you’re going to say next as opposed to really hearing what the other person is saying?  Check yourself, you may be on the nonstop to Blowhardville, population YOU. 

I am guilty of committing all of the above sins as I am human.  But being aware is helpful.  If you feel you may be in danger of being a tight ass and/or dull specimen, or are generally soaking in the agony of defeat, do yourself a favor.  Call someone RIGHT NOW and invite them to do something.  Take them out, have them over, doesn't have to be fancy.  Ask them what’s up with them, and really listen.  Pick up the check.  You might be surprised at how good it makes you feel.

Enough of my advice.  Things are turning around in the land of nonsense….I’m reading the Artist’s Way and taking steps to push my creativity into overdrive.  More soon.....

Venus and Mars Meet the Overhead Bin

In the my last stretch of eight days of work, I came into contact with 1,925 people on the plane.  Yes, I actually added it up.  Ostensibly the airplane’s job is to get people from point A to point B, however, I prefer to consider it a giant social experiment put together for my amusement.  As I am obsessed with all things gender related, I focused on the difference between men and women when the quandry of the overhead bin rears its ugly head.

If you've been on a plane (or better yet, IN one, RIP George Carlin), you probably already get a notion of where I'm going with this.  Passenger brings bag, bag goes in bin.  Simple enough?  Not really.  Making a bunch of people's shit fit nicely in a confined storage space is sometimes akin to a cruel puzzle with too many pieces.  Every plane is different, every bin is different, you bought a new bag, you stuffed it full of crap on your journey, there are no rules that universally apply to this mess.  People are stacking up behind you, fool, put your bag away and get out of the aisle!  And here's what I've witnessed....

A good number of people when faced with overhead bin drama stop and look at the problem, they rearrange things, they look for other spaces, they solicit help from their fellow passengers or from me or one of my other bag wrangling pro co-workers. These folks give me faith in human kind.  But some people are not so logical or resourceful.  When one of our less evolved friends comes across this dilemma (note I refrained from using the term idiot, because I am CLASSY), I see a discernable difference in reaction between the genders.  

When He Man Master of the Universe cannot make it work, he often resorts to feats of strength to man handle that bin to bend to his will.  Clearly these dudes have not heard the funk anthem “If It Don’t Fit, Don’t Force It”.  There is slamming and cracking and damage to structural integrity and my central nervous system.  They will not stop when asked, they just have to prove to that bin WHO’S THE BOSS.

When Our Lady of Perpetual Confusion cannot make it work, she resorts to leaving the bag sticking out five inches over the edge, often verifying that it won’t close, and proceeds to sit down and read a magazine.  Basically, her mindset is, I don’t know what to do, therefore IT’S SOMEONE ELSE’S PROBLEM.

I’ve certainly seen guys walk away from the above scenario, but not with such shocking regularity.  And I honestly can’t remember any women trying to physically assault the overhead bin in my eleven year career.

So, I guess I’m asking….is the message we’re telling men is MIGHT MAKES RIGHT?  And are we telling women DON’T WORRY YOUR PRETTY HEAD, SOMEONE ELSE WILL DEAL WITH IT?  I have no answers, just more questions.  But I’ll retire the Caps Lock for now.

My writing is currently flatter than a coke addicted super model’s chest, but I refuse to be discouraged.  I’ve started to train for some upcoming runs in Chicago as the weather is improving….and running is where I have most of my writing inspirations.  If there was only an app that could transcribe what happens in my mind when I’m truly inspired that seems to fizzle when I stare at the blinking cursor…..

Ending on a high note, I'm very excited to start a new storytelling class in March. Spring is coming, people.  Can you feel it?

Solace and the airport's Eleanor Rigby

Hello, gentle readers.  I hope the first month of 2012 has been kind to you.  Already fed up with an overdose of bullshit (thanks, election year!) and the propensity of Faceworld to offer me a lot of information with not much substance, I'm opting to share some candid thoughts with you in today's post.  


As a self proclaimed word nerd, I always like to discuss favorite words.  I've always gone with solace as my top choice.


Solace:  Comfort in grief; alleviation of grief or anxiety; also, that which relieves in distress; that which cheers or consoles; relief. 


I always liked the way it sounded as well as what it meant, but in really thinking it over recently, I  came to the conclusion that I have been on a search for solace for the better part of my life.  Not joy, not fulfillment, not enlightenment.  Solace is specific in providing consolation and comfort through times of trouble.  Shelter from the storm, if you will.  Hold on to your hat, anecdote alert.


Please rewind your brains to 1994.  I was twenty eight years old, living in Seattle, and had recently given up on restaurant management to return to waiting tables at the 5 Spot on Queen Anne hill.  I was pretty weary by this point, waitresses they do get weary, wearing that same old shabby collared shirt and black jeans.  Life was not dealing me any tenderness at that juncture.....  job related defeat, caring for a sick mother, people breaking my car windows to steal cigarettes, drunk patrons from Casa U Betcha screwing in the bushes behind my apartment. I was peering at life through hands over my eyes, waiting for the next inevitable catastrophe.  I was reprimanded after a few weeks on my new job as some of the regulars complained to the manager that they were concerned that I never, ever smiled.  In a debrief with one of the surlier members of the kitchen staff over beers after work, I commented, "The restaurant is paying me minimum wage, hardly enough to expect me to smile." He replied, "Honey, you have a shitty attitude."  This was not news to me....I truly thought it was the only attitude that was available.


Although the overall state of affairs improved over time, my defensive state remained a constant.  Living in wait of the next terrible situation to reveal itself proved to be a debilitating stance.  After my most recent round of health problems combined with a big time breakup and subsequent move to Chicago, I found myself particularly anxious and exhausted yet again.  I focused on my pity party....that I was a middle aged gal who had never married, that I would never have children, that I didn't parlay my intellect into an impressive career, that I had squandered my time on the planet thus far......in my mind I was the airport's Eleanor Rigby.


Enter unprecedented development.  Somewhere in the middle of the poop parade, I decided I had nothing much going on and nothing left to lose.  I decided that I would do whatever I felt like doing, not thinking about the outcome, not fearing failure or expecting success, not asking anyone else's permission or opinion.  I concentrated on running, writing, and meeting new people in Chicago as they all sounded like activities that I might enjoy.  I drove down some dead end streets trying stuff out.  I volunteered at a bookstore that I found to be incredibly depressing, I went on a good handful of lackluster dates, I dropped out of my second round of classes at Second City.  But I also managed to run three half marathons, I performed my written work on five occasions, and I found a most amazing sweetheart....all as a result of vowing to only look at the road ahead and not jump out of the car.  I received some powerful feedback from my circle of friends that brought me to an exalted state of being....people told me they were proud of me on a regular basis.  It was all some seriously life affirming awesomesauce.


Bringing on the full disclosure....in the last few months I haven't written much at all and what I've managed to put together has been a struggle.  What used to be effortless is now a serious challenge and I am highly critical of the results.  I haven't found the humor in day to day events lately.  There hasn't been a plate of food or a bottle of wine that didn't have my name on it and my pants are screaming at the seams.  I don't enjoy running the way I used to and I often make excuses not to do it at all.  Today I ate Skittles for lunch and took a two hour nap instead of doing things that needed to be done.  But this most recent trek through the emotional bottom lands has a different feel than in times past....I recognize that it's temporary.  I know I will write again and run again or I will find other activities that I enjoy to replace them.  I stopped letting the lows of life define my outlook.  I stopped anticipating disaster....bad things will happen, but worrying about them does not provide prevention or protection, it just robs you of enjoying the present.


I was at work last week, bending over to pick up trash off the airplane floor, pondering whether a fifth cup of coffee was going to be the one that contained a miracle.  A passenger stopped on his way out and waited in the aisle until I stood up to face him.  He extended his finger in my face and said forcefully, "YOU!  You have a great attitude!"  I smiled and said thank you, he went on his way.   Eighteen years later, I was pleased to acknowledge my improved reviews.  I'm working on a new favorite word choice....I'm leaning towards kerfuffle....because who doesn't enjoy a good kerfuffle?


Thursday is the blog's first birthday.  I started it with no idea what would be accomplished...it's slowly evolved into a journal of my quest to cultivate happiness, which I think a lot of people can relate to.  I recently looked at the stats of almost 2,500 page views from the US, Europe, Mexico...it's staggering to consider that your thoughts can reach people you will never meet in the blink of an eye.  Thanks to all who read my nonsense....your support drives me when the road gets rough and the car metaphors get stale.  Beep beep!

Why Not Take (Know It) All Of Me?

Hello and happy holidays.  This time of year makes me cranky for any number of reasons, but that’s another blog entirely.  Instead of focusing on mistletoe and wassailing and other stuff I don’t understand, I thought I’d try to purge my brain of some of the thoughts that are stuck in my head like that damn Chumbawamba song.

I have been fortunate enough to go to Rancho La Puerta, a spa in Tecate, Mexico on a handful of occasions, all of which have been nothing short of life changing.  The first few times I went alone and I was drawn to all the activities billed as “silent” or “meditative”, as they were opportunities to participate in cool stuff sans small talk with people I didn’t know.  I’m generally all for meeting new folks and chatting it up, but a whole week of answering the same questions (Where are you from? Did you meet the other lady from Chicago?  You’re here ALL ALONE? Have you been here before?) can use a break or two.  I signed up for the silent meditation dinner and looked forward to having a meal in peace and quiet, but in the company of others.

We were instructed to chew our food very carefully and try to really taste it and think about what we were eating and make a note of where those thoughts took us as we would have a group discussion after.  If you’ve never been to anything like this, I’m here to tell you IT WAS A TRIP.  First of all, as someone who mostly eats whatever isn’t nailed down as quickly as I can over a garbage can at work to avoid listening to passengers’ commentary about it (Ooh, that looks good!  Did you bring enough for everyone?  Seriously, people?  It’s canned tuna.  Remain calm….) I could not believe how long that dinner seemed to take.  In a good way, but it really seemed like hours of chewing and thinking and chewing and thinking.  I thought about what the food really tasted like, the subtle nuances of flavors, about the labor it took to grow it and put it together and serve it and I wondered about what all the other silent chewers were thinking about.  When it was over, the thoughts shared aloud were mostly in line with mine, about the food and its taste and origins and preparation and such until one older man cleared his throat and said, 

“I’d like to say something.”

We all stared at him as he looked alternately at the other diners and down at the table and said, 

“I am here at this dinner because my wife thought it would be a good idea.  My brother recently made some seriously bad decisions regarding our family’s finances and it cost us a ton of money.  I’m really, really, REALLY angry about it and I can’t think about anything else besides that, especially not about how lettuce tastes or about farmers I don’t know or whatever else is being discussed here…..I just keep thinking about how much I hate my brother.  Sorry to bring you down, but I’m here because my wife thinks this experience will help me get over it, but I can’t let it go.  What do you say to that?”

I can still remember vividly the looks on the faces of the dozen or so middle aged, affluent, spa going, meditation dinner eating, road to self actualization trudging types just staring at this guy with the same “Holy crap, we just got blindsided with buzz kill at a SILENT dinner” expression.

We all turned our bewildered faces towards the dinner’s moderator, a young pretty gal with hippie sensibilities, whose face seemed to indicate that although she was a bit taken aback, we should relax because she would handle it.  She spoke in a soft but authoritative tone and replied,

“I’m glad you shared your true feelings with us.  Your wife seems to have your best interests at heart and for that, you should be grateful.  It sounds like your family situation is complicated and that your brother has made some mistakes that you find hard to reconcile.  But I’d like to get you to start thinking differently with the simple concept that it’s often better to be kind than to be right.”  

The man nodded and looked back down at the table.  Not wanting to process any more uncomfortable silence, everyone broke free of the table, assumedly to pursue aromatherapy foot massages.

Five years later, that simple concept still echoes in my head.  I may not be the hottest girl with the smoothest moves, but I’m pretty confident that I am a smart cookie.  I realized early on that my intellect was my most valuable asset, for supporting myself, for attracting companions, for weathering life’s storms, and for stringing together lists complete with Oxford commas.  Chances are if we are friends that you may wear smarty pants as well.  I’m here to tell you as a smart gal I WANT TO BE RIGHT ALL THE EM EFFING TIME.  It’s part of my nature, it’s ingrained in every fiber of my being, and I don’t appear to be alone with this credo.  However, I’m attempting to soften this side of myself for a few reasons.  More lists, naturally.

Most importantly, NO ONE LIKES A KNOW IT ALL.  You know it, I know it, everyone listening to Cliff on Cheers knows it.  So why do we forget this when we open our mouths?  Why, why, Nancy Kerrigan lead pipe to the knees, WHY?  Why must we think our two cents is worth a dollar eighty five?

As I get older, I’ve gotten smarter about certain topics but my memory for factoids is starting to swirl the bowl, leading me to forget things or (shudder) remember them incorrectly.  And there’s nothing worse than thinking you’re right and being wrong….. Am I right?

 

The state of the world has caused me to tune out of “important” topics like politics and finance and who’s trying to dominate the world as we know it this week.  I mean, I vote and I’m a decent manager of my own money and I attempt to read a newspaper of note on a regular basis, not just the celebrity gossip.  But the stuff I really know is mostly music trivia and pop culture bullshit, which I know in the big scheme of things is just pure cocktail party fluff.

Humbled by all this, I continue to practice being kind over being right.  Before I go twenty rounds over there vs their and the like, I ask myself, does it really matter?  I get seriously annoyed over petty bullshit like that all the time and then I have to remember that I don’t get all those moments in my life back and there isn’t a special place in heaven for nitpickers.  Even in the realm of dispensing advice, where someone else is merely asking my opinion, lately I find myself doing more listening and asking questions like, “How would you like things to be different?” instead of trying to smother them with my thoughts on how things should be.  I was recently told that making people feel good is my super power, so perhaps while I’m being kind I’m also doing something right.  Two great tastes that taste great together……

I am trying to overcome an overwhelming case of writer’s block…..looking for avenues to continue to share my work at the onset of Chicago winter.  Being between writing projects makes you feel like you should at the very least be actively living a life worth writing about.  I’m off to drink a whiskey drink, a vodka drink, a lager drink, a cider drink, and sing the songs that remind me of the good times…..more Oxford commas soon.

Phonely No More

Recognizing that no story of any interest ever started with “I recently bought a new phone”, here goes.

I recently bought a new phone.  My trusty two year old iPhone 3G had been sputtering along, not reacting quickly to my every request and needing to be charged at every turn.  I was truly surprised it had held up as long as it did as that phone was constantly in use for our entire relationship.  I used it for emailing, texting, research, writing, rewriting, and until I was recently given an iPod Shuffle, I used the iPod function while I was running or just killing time on the El train.  Okay, sure, this sounds like what everyone does with their phone….precisely when does this become interesting?

As soon as iPhone 3 started to show signs of biting the dust, I focused on getting the latest and greatest iPhone.  My phone limped along through the summer as everyone said the iPhone 5 would be announced in October….no iPhone 5, but what about the iPhone 4S?  It was touted to be a jillion times faster and featured Siri, some sort of voice operated assistant function that might actually live my life for me when I’m not interested.  Sounds great.  Of course getting a new iPhone 4S, at least in Chicago, proved to be a challenge, especially since I put very little effort into jumping through hoops to get it.  I figured I’d waited this long for a new phone….I’d wait for the hype to die down and get one when everyone was done clamoring over it.  Who cares if I was the asshole plugging my phone in at random coffee shops just to get through the day?  I would have the new phone, some day, some way.

I was on the El last week, catching up with online blather, when I came across my friend Colleen’s blog.  She had written a story about a chance encounter with someone she met at the Double Down Saloon in Las Vegas.  Colleen had gone in to kill some time and try a bacon martini when she was approached by a young woman out of the blue; they struck up a conversation and had a compelling connection.  As I read the story, I recognized that it was of special interest to me as I am immensely attracted to tales of alliances between strangers, to the point that is a thematic obsession.  Some of my most cherished songs, movies, and books revolve around this; when I started writing, it became a recurring motif.  Perhaps because there are no strangers, there are only people you haven’t met yet, and those people can change the way you think in important and meaningful ways, even if your relationship is very short.  While this was sinking in, I looked around and took in the faces of those surrounding me, people I hadn’t taken any time to notice because I was completely consumed with my phone, which is a pretty typical scenario for me.

It wasn’t always this way.  I thought about the first cell phone I had when I started my job back in 2001….it was slightly smaller than a brick and it MADE AND RECEIVED PHONE CALLS.  That’s it.  I would fire it up at the end of my work day, check my messages, return calls, and turn it off.  Every new phone came with more features whether I wanted them or not (I still remember telling the salesman at the Sprint store, “I don’t need a camera!” to which he replied, “You can’t get a phone without one!”), and I’ll admit that texting and emailing on a handheld device has made simple communication more convenient.  As someone who is away from home for work, I have come to rely on the phone to keep me in contact with life in Chicago while I’m working and with others who I don’t see often for a variety of reasons, distance, work schedules, etc.  But at some point, I started using it not only to stay connected to my important people, but to dissociate myself with the here and now.  My job (just like yours, possibly) involves people saying and doing things I’d rather not see or witness or absorb, and sometimes I prefer to climb into a comfortable internet rabbit hole instead of acknowledging what’s going on around me.  But when I do this, I’m denying myself two very important opportunities….opening my eyes to the people around me and accepting whatever magical, offensive, or truly banal events may occur, or if I need to check out of reality, I really should be day dreaming.  It’s completely acceptable to be lost in one’s thoughts in the middle of it all, in fact, it is probably when we are our most creative.  With that in mind, I went to the AT&T store and bought a basic iPhone with a quarter the storage of my old one.  It makes and receives calls and texts and emails and holds 1,000ish songs, which is more than I need to revert to my old philosophy of checking in with the electronic world on occasion, responding, and returning my focus back to the present. When I make a decision that involves choosing relationships and experiences over shiny material stuff, it brings me happiness, another recurring theme here in the blogosphere.

I could have come to this realization sooner if I’d listened to a scruffy, Hawaiian shirt clad, heavily medicated, quite possibly crazy guy on the El a few months back.  I was texting a friend and listening to music while taking the orange line home after going out for dinner.  When we arrived at the end of the line, he yelled in my face, “I don’t know who you’ve been texting this whole ride, but I’ve been trying to get your attention.  I’M A REAL PERSON WHO’S RIGHT HERE!”  I laughed and agreed with him, but he continued to cuss me out.   He definitely gets points off for his technique, but I’ll be damned if that loony dude wasn’t on to something.  Sometimes people are telling you everything you really need to know, you just need to make sure you’re able to listen.

NaNoWriMo idea scrapped, but there are some new writing developments in the works.  And it's snowing here in Chicago!  And thus begins the season of hunkering down at the keyboard....