http://youtu.be/JzprLDmdRlc
Two men talking on their cell phones compete to be the blacker black man (a sketch from last season on the Key & Peele show on Comedy Central, which recently began its third season).
Technology addiction and the end of productivity
My sister says that each time we get a new text or email on our cell phone, the little ‘ding’ that signals its arrival causes the release of dopamine or serotonin or whatever chemical makes things pleasurable and addictive. So, being on our phones really is as addictive as, say, gambling can be.
And just the same as it is with gambling, in which coming close to winning can give you the same rush as actually winning, it doesn’t matter that YOU KNOW the text or email you just received is not likely to contain exciting news or even interesting information, you still get the rush. I don’t know if the dopamine or serotonin is released because we anticipate the social connection that can be provided by a text, post, email or tweet. But studies show our social ties are the most important contributor to our happiness. The question is, if we can gratify our need for social connection by texting, posting, tweeting and emailing all day, why do anything else?
Why go to the trouble of, say, creating something (a business, art, etc.), when creating is often hard, and texting, posting and emailing is easy?
One answer is because creating stuff offers its own rewards. And doing hard things (like creating stuff) is usually, ultimately, more rewarding than doing easy things (like surfing the Net). As for the social interactions we have online, many of them are arguably not as rewarding as the social interactions we have or could be having in person.
I’m a writer, I work at home, and I don’t have a boss. In other words, I can be online all day. And I am. I’m totally addicted. And it’s making me miserable. (I want the social interactions I get online, but I want to enjoy them quickly and then get offline, so that I can do or make something.) I should ask for help, but like a true addict, I don’t want to. I think I can beat this on my own. (Haha.) I am now going to try to limit my time online. Starting tomorrow. (Haha.)
Who’s with me? Anyone?
Why bother? Because there is only one you
I had met a friend for lunch at Marmalade cafe in Santa Monica and as I was leaving, I saw an amiable-looking guy in his 60s getting into a big, white Mercedes convertible. He had a personalized license plate that said, “YESUCAN.” This is going to make me sound stupid, but I called out to him, “Does your license plate mean… you know… that I can?” He smiled and said, “Yep.”
If you are wrestling with whether or not you can do or make something that scares but excites you, let me and the guy with the white convertible tell you what you already know: Yes, you can.
What about all the fears and expectations and desire for ‘results’? We have to let all that go. I have to let all that go.
A letter from the famous choreographer Martha Graham to her friend, Agnes DeMille, who was a dancer (I quoted the start of this in one of my last posts):
“There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost, the world will not have it.
It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.
No artist is pleased…there is no satisfaction whatever at any time.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the rest.”
Do what you want to do. There’s still time.
I tore a page out of a book I own. It felt wrong, but I had a strong compulsion to do it. Page 298, from the essay Late Bloomers – Why do we equate genius with precocity? in Malcolm Gladwell’s book, What the Dog Saw. Gladwell says we assume genius announces itself when the artist is very young, but that there are just as many “old masters,” who made their best works later in life. From page 298: “Yes, there was Orson Welles, peaking as a director at twenty-five. But then there was Alfred Hitchcock, who made Dial M for Murder, Rear Window, To Catch a Thief, The Trouble with Harry, Vertigo, North by Northwest, and Psycho—one of the greatest runs by a director in history—between his fifty-fourth and sixty-first birthdays. Mark Twain published Adventures of Huckleberry Finn at forty-nine. Daniel Defoe wrote Robinson Crusoe at fifty-eight.”
As soon as I’d finished reading the words “fifty-eight,” I was carefully gripping the page with the intent of tearing it out. After a moment of arguing with myself about whether I’d regret it, I tore.
I don’t like the phrase “late bloomer.” It’s one of those embarrassing things parents say about you when you’re young, to explain your level of emotional maturity, or your lack of breasts. But what’s worse than being a late bloomer is to stop growing altogether. Better to keep creating and be frustrated than to stop creating and be depressed.
If you’ve stopped creating, no matter what your age or how long you’ve stayed away, it’s never too late to start up again. Even if you want to start some activity that’s completely new to you, that’ll take years to become good at, there’s no good argument for not starting.
Let’s both do or make something. TODAY. Let’s each think of something we want to do—just something we want to attempt—and take a small step toward it.
“Why should we all use our creative power? Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold and compassionate, so indifferent to fighting and the accumulation of objects and money.” — Brenda Ueland
Need another little push?
“Do not fear mistakes. There are none.” — Miles Davis
Ignore feedback from others with JONATHAN ADLER
It’s almost like his pottery and pillows, empire of shops and millions in profits are beside the point. What is awesome about Jonathan Adler is the man himself. The best way to get to know him better is through his coffee table book, “Jonathan Adler: My Prescription for Anti-depressive Living.” By the time you finish reading about how his former New Jersey neighbor is still his design muse (“As born-again Christians ask themselves when confronted with a dilemma, ‘What would Jesus do?’ so I ask myself, ‘What would Mrs. Goldstein do?’”), his philosophy on “happy chic” decor (“Minimalism is a bummer” “In a stunning epiphany, we realized the utter pointlessness of good taste without fun”), and his personal creation story (regarding summer camp: “My parents came to pick me up…expecting to find a tan, vigorous soccer star, but instead they found a pale potter with a dream”), you will be licking the pages. Or, if you can spare 18 minutes to watch this video of Adler talking about his journey from artist to global brand, you will feel as though you had a deeply satisfying meal in a peaceful, calming environment:
Some tenets from the Jonathan Adler Manifesto:
- I believe your home should make you happy.
- I believe that when it comes to home decorating, the wife is always right (unless the husband is gay).
- I believe in dorky enthusiasm.
- I believe in carbohydrates—to hell with the puffy consequences.
- I believe celebrities should pay full price.
You gotta see Maria Bamford’s “Special Special Special!”
Terry Gross is irritating, but her NPR interview of comedian Maria Bamford touches on everything that is great about Bamford. If you want to just lie on your couch, listen to the interview, and get to know someone who is fascinating and funny (that would be Bamford, not you, Terry Gross!), click here: http://www.npr.org/2013/07/18/202374622/maria-bamford-a-seriously-funny-comedian.
The trailer for Bamford’s comedy concert “The Special Special Special!” is good but doesn’t do it justice. The show is nuts and hilarious. The best is when she imitates her mother and other women–it’s like she transforms into someone else right before your very eyes. https://chill.com/mariabamfoo/the-special-special-special.
Btw, if you appreciate good website design, check out her site. And her responses to “FAQ” are interesting (click on “FAQ” at the top of the page): http://www.mariabamford.com.
Maybe a good quote will help you pull the trigger on her “Special Special Special!”:
“I love Maria Bamford. I think she’s hysterically funny. She’s one of the few people that really makes you laugh hard, who’s doing something so interesting and insane.” – Judd Apatow
What are these guys doing? They’re rescuing a lamb from the ocean! Wanna see a self-proclaimed formerly homophobic Christian hugging a gay stranger? I do! And a young man saving a woman’s dog? Of course! Click on the link below, for 21 pics ‘that will restore your faith in humanity.’ By the time I got to the military general and the protestor, I was bawling! I love how people have a gut instinct to help others, and be kind. And it’s amazing how many fleeting moments (like the Guatemalan girl’s reaction to being given a flower) are captured with cameras. Even more wild to contemplate is the infinite number of beautiful moments between strangers not captured by cameras. I mean, really think about that for a second–all of the small and big acts of kindness or heroism that are occurring all of the time, all over the world, that we don’t even know about, but that are undoubtedly happening. It’s mind-blowing.
(By the way, if you’ve read several posts on this blog and you’re starting to grumble that I’m too positive, or that I love ‘everything,’ it’s not true. For example, I don’t like the music of Bon Jovi. Each song is worse than the last. But see? You don’t really want to hear this kind of stuff. You probably like Bon Jovi. He seems like a nice guy. Although let’s be honest, there’s no way he’s faithful to his wife. But he has a right to make music. We all have a right to be creative, and not everyone has to like what we do, right? So, it’s kind of screwed up that you tried to get me to say something negative. You should check yourself!)
For 21 pics that are so life-affirming it’ll make you instantly happier, click on this link:
If you don’t have children, this might make you want some
I love that these kids are out there, somewhere in the world, being their openhearted, goodnatured selves.
What it’s like to go to a doctor appointment in Australia
My friend Tiffany moved from L.A. to New Zealand to Australia. On her blog, NewMeLand, there’s a post about doctor appointments and, as someone who often faints after medical examinations, I find it funny and harrowing:
MY NUDE SCENE
There is no such thing as an annual physical in Australia. You go to the doctor and ask for it, and they look at you like you’re some overindulgent yahoo who wants her bones counted. Here, and in New Zealand, you are considered well until you come forward with a cough, lump, or plague to prove you’re not.
Or. You’re of that age and you get a letter.
I recently got a letter stating it was time for my health check. It opened with how as we get older, many of us become more vulnerable to disease and it ended with me. Their records showed I was within the “age rage” for a health check. A perfectly placed typo. Old me was furious. I didn’t like being of that age. But if you add up all the cakes, I was. So I made an appointment. My bones couldn’t wait to be counted.
Now I’ve been to my doctor here before for a sore this and a swollen that. The specifics of this and that or my incessant need to Google it all is not important. What is important is my doctor and I have a relationship. One based on respect, honesty, and both of us being fully dressed.
That relationship changed on health check day.
Things you should know at this point:
No nurses at doctor’s offices here.
None of the doctors I have encountered wear a white coat or drape a stethoscope around their necks like they do in the movies or America.
Most family doctors’ offices are in old repurposed buildings. Craftsman houses. Terrace apartments. Mine screams low-performing brothel.
Things I didn’t know at any point:
NO PAPER OR FABRIC GOWNS?!
I was called into my doctor’s room by my doctor. Her office is old, wooden, creaky. There is no sink even though I (and all those girls before me) wished there was. An examining table is pushed up against one wall. A desk occupies the opposite one. In between the two, so much space you could twirl.
What happens next is what nightmares are made of. You know the ones where you show up to an exam, your in-laws’ house, your work four jobs ago and find you have no clothes on. This is that guy but with more gravity.
Standing in the so much space, I twirl to face my doctor. In her floral dress. With no doctor’s coat. Or stethoscope. Or medical anything anywhere on her person. And this is when I realize that my doctor, as competent as she is, doesn’t look like a doctor. She looks like she could be anything. And this exchange we’re about to have? Well. It could be between me and just about anyone.
Doctor: Okay, so I’m going to need you to take your clothes off.
Me: Okay.
Anyone: Down to your underwear.
Me: Right.
I wait for some sort of gown to be offered to me and privacy.
The bookstore clerk offers me nothing and waits.
I awkwardly take off my top.
The accountant awkwardly watches me fold my top.
I hope a curtain will soon be pulled. But I notice there is no curtain for the off duty security guard to pull.
I unbutton my denim.
The librarian doesn’t.
Confused but compliant, I pull my jeans down, all the way down, and step out of them. I try not to trip over my shoe as I trip over my shoe.
The bus driver looks away to check her bus schedule as I discover I’M WEARING THE WRONG UNDERWEAR!
I am mortified.
The florist looks up and sees my inappropriate thong.
I apologize for my panty selection.
Astronaut: No worries.
Oh but I am worried. Because I am nearly naked! Just standing there.
The CEO of a Fortune 500 company, also just standing there, reminds me: Bra too.
Bra too? I think out loud with words.
The farmer nods.
I begrudgingly take off my bra. And, yep, there are my boobs. I am now super naked.
Your sister: Let’s get started.
I cannot believe we’re not done.
The very not naked human resources manager walks over to the examining table and pats the piece of hygienic paper covering it.
I want to Project Runway that piece of hygienic paper into a robe but it is too small to turn into anything besides a thong, which would be inappropriate and redundant, so instead I sit on it.
Possible Evil Gown Hoarder: Lie down so I can count your bones.
End scene.
I wish I could say the above word jumble was a one-time dealie, but it wasn’t. It happened again weeks later at my mammogram and again at my mole check with varying degrees of me being nude in front of people who weren’t nude and had no gown cover up drawer. But that’s okay. With experience comes confidence. I now take off my bra before I’m even asked. And I can rattle off my chicken sausage pasta recipe with my pants off. Which is good because I am of that age.
Tomorrow I go to the ophthalmologist.
If it’s been a while since you last saw Urban Cowboy, can I remind you why it’s great: it’s shot in a naturalistic and unsentimental way, it depicts life in the late 70s/early 80s Houston-area refinery community, and it shows how torturous the path of young love is. It’s almost painful to watch. You earn that happy ending. Stream it tonight!