Wednesday, January 18, 2006

meg, interrupted. I decided a while back that I was going to try and write something fresh here every day, or almost every day (unless I couldn't get to the computer.) I love having the opportunity to interact with the amazing people who stop by Blogcabin. I'm genuinely honoured that you take the time to get to know me and my thoughts. Sometimes I know I'm not saying much; I fully cop to having my silly days, my meaningless days, my babbling days. But I also know that I pour out my guts here sometimes, and you never fail to make it worthwhile. That's why I feel a bit silly for taking a break, but that's what I'm going to do. I'm not sure how long it will last; it could be a matter of days, or it could be a week. The purpose is to regain a little momentum and meaning in regards to how I express myself; I never ever want to write just because I think I have to or because I figure someone expects it or because I have half an idea to toss out into the ether. This -- not blogging, but writing -- is what I understand to be my lifelong vocation. I know that a lot of people start blogs to access a sense of community or to embrace the journaling aspect of the process. Some of these people are far better writers than the career writers who start their own sites. I'm humbled pretty much daily by their natural, undeniable, electric talent. Sometimes I even pause to wonder if I'm doing the right thing with my life. I mean, if this is all I've chosen, and people with thirty other things to do and places to be are kicking my ass on the page? Yeah. But really, truly, I can't see myself doing anything else. I want it. I love it. It feels like a part of me. Even when I've spent three hours pressing the delete key more than any other on the board, it owns my heart. For now, though: no more ranting about James Frey's "creative" writing; no more discussion of hockey, coffee, lipgloss, or insomnia. No more lists for the time being. But keep checking in -- I'll be back very soon, I promise. Maybe even sooner than I think. I won't be having many more guest bloggers, if any, during my itsy bitsy hiatus, but a friend of mine agreed to step up to the plate and take the reins this evening (I love mixing metaphors.) And you guys are very lucky he did. If it could be said that I have a mentor in all of this blogstuff -- maybe even in writing in general -- it would be Chuck Sigars. He is effortless, witty, wise, and entirely and completely wacky at times. He challenges me, he inspires me, he has my back, he builds me up, and he reminds me often why we write in the first place. Because we can't not do it. Except for maybe a little while. Starting tonight. I feel like I'm telling you guys I'm not going to cook you dinner -- but then bringing in the Iron Chef to whip you up a snack. And yeah, I cried when I read it. Thanks, Chuck. Love to all. *** Meggy and Me In early April, 1974, when I was 15, my mother was worried. I'd auditioned for a variety show featuring Dick Van Dyke. Dick was a Phoenix resident at the time, as was I, and this was Phoenix, and I was 15, and I wanted to be a comedian, and this was 1974, but I said that already. A lot of the cast were notified on April 1, making a nice April Fool's non-joke, if you look at it that way, but I wasn't, and finally Mom called on April 19th and they told her I was in. And on that very same day, the day I learned I'd made the cut, Meaghan Fowler was born, all loud and Canadian and Irish and attitude. OK, so some of that I made up. It could have been the 14th. I can ask Mom. But Meg's birthday I know. I assume her parents took notes. Her first word was "coffee." Her first phrase was "I'll take Potent Potables for 500, Alex." Her first steps were halting, hesitant, but purposeful and strong. Then she broke her nose. That's my Meggy. Part Mary Richards, part Garrison Keillor, part Madame Curie, part the guy who won all that money on "Jeopardy!" and part George of the Jungle. We're giving Meg the night off. You've got me. I could gush about Meaghan, whom I adore, but then my wife would raise her eyebrows, which is not something she does a lot but when she does it gets serious. Not that she's jealous, but she knows stuff, and if I go on too much about adoring Meg and her writing Julie knits her brow and her eyebrows get itchy, so I need to be honest but careful. Plus, Meg's dad has guns. So I will just say this. There are so many differences. Age, gender, nationality, feelings about "The West Wing," caffeine issues. But still I love what she has to say, and I've been her biggest fan, and if you question that then you're either a cynic or...a really...cynical...person. Sorry. Can't think of a worse thing. I've always loved women, liked them better, gotten along with them easier, and wondered at the inequity of gender ties. Old guy marries young woman -- trying to recapture what probably he never caught. Old woman snares young man -- looking for love in (probably) all the wrong places. Young-young, old-old, old-young, young-Jung -- We want explanations, and examples, and forget that it's possible for two people to just be friends. I forget this sometimes, too. But not with Meg. So here's a list (homage to Meg) of why men and women should seek out friends of the opposite sex, or what I like to call: Why Men and Woman Should Seek Out Friends of the Opposite Sex Someone has to ask for directions. Men want to see where they can get. Women want to see where they can go. Discuss. Women will listen as long as they get a chance to talk. Men will listen as long as they get a chance to eat. Conversations happen this way. Sometimes you want to bounce great ideas off an entirely different set of hormones. Only someone of the opposite sex will truly understand the dream you had last night. Occasionally you just want to bitch. You can never have too many brothers or sisters, particularly if you find one who won't tell Mom. The best way to end an argument amicably is to mentally throw up your arms and blame it on chromosomes. The one who best understands your pain probably doesn't have a horse in the race. So to speak. Say anything. Meg sometimes sends me an e-mail, just asking if I'm OK. Sometimes you just want people to ask. So I treasure my friendship with this bangs-burdened Canuck, who makes me smile a lot and calls me on my triteness and laughs at my jokes and writes like the freakin' wind. I wish her only happiness, and an early night, eight hours of sleep and no bus trauma the next day, manageable hair and Muppet music and love and happiness and peace and sunshine, and a Seahawks victory this weekend. OK, the Seahawks thing is sort of for me, too, but you can sometimes get away with that sort of thing with a chick if you know what you're doing. *** 11:14:12 PM    well, yes, but...  [] a heavy yolk to bear. There was a study done by the American College of Nutrition five or so years ago which hypothesized that the nutrient choline, when absorbed during pregnancy, may have a profound impact on the development of an infant's memory function, as well as on memory capability later in life. The study also found that two antioxidants, lutein and zeaxanthin, may significantly reduce the risk of cataract and age-related macular degeneration (AMD) as well. Eggs were cited in the study as a key dietary source of choline, as well as lutein and zeaxanthin. In other words, moms-to-be who eat eggs as a regular part of their diet -- especially at key points during their pregnancy -- may be significantly enhancing their child's future memory capacity through aggrandized choline absorption. Now is probably a good a time as any to tell you that my mom ate... oh... a dozen eggs or so a day during those points when she was pregnant with me. She didn't know that she was pumping me full of potential. Mom just really craved eggs. When she saw this report on the news, my mother called me with excitement in her voice to tell me that we finally had a potential explanation for why I was a complete and total freak. That's right. A freak. I can't forget stuff. I have the memory of a whole circusful of elephants. I don't know why I remember as much as I do. I don't know why it's so damn easy for me to do it. All I know is that I cannot shake the lyrics to Dreamweaver, no matter how hard I try. Or my seventh grade student number. Or Gene Simmons' birth name. Or long lists of middleweight prize fighters. Or the haiku I wrote about an asian vegetable more than a year ago: crisp white, leafy green bok choy is a crunch machine toss it in my wok Granted, I can't remember any useful things. Mathematical theories stick in my brain about as effectively as a goldfish dipped in WD-40. I don't always remember to put on shoes before I leave the house. But the complete discography of Duran Duran? Did you want that in reverse chronological or alphabetical order? This is why none of my friends will play Trivial Pursuit with me. This is why I flail at the television when Jeopardy is on. This is why Google both delights and horrifies me. On one hand, I can prove I've remembered things correctly with a quick keyword search. On the other hand, I'm tremblingly aware that there are many, many more things waiting to be remembered, just a click away. I joined a memory study during my first year in university. We took part in conversations with psych students, each of which was recorded using a small cassette player. When we were done talking, we were left alone to write down as much of the dialogue as we could remember. They used different conversational styles and vocal tones to see if those factors had any impact on a subject's ability to recall verbal exchanges. When they would play the tape back, I'd mumble along with the track while my tester stared in horror at my legal pad. "Did you listen to the tape already?" "No." "Do you have some trick you use to remember things?" "Caffeine?" Sigh. Part of the problem is that I can never really explain where I acquire all the knowledge. Television? Maybe. Newspapers? Maybe. Magazines? Maybe. The internet? I doubt it -- I'd been a fact geek long before I'd ever made my way online. I'm definitely not any more intelligent than your average gal on the street. Or in the gutter, for that matter. I'm actually a bit of a dolt. Sadly, that hasn't stopped me from becoming an information sponge in need of a squeeze. But sometimes all these facts are a greater burden than I can possibly explain. I do remember freer times, though... My friend Steve and I used to enjoy debating with people. We made a great team. Whatever one of us didn't know, the other knew in detail. Together we made a rather complete brain. But sometimes we'd end up sparring with someone very ignorant or arrogant. This was not so fun, since people like that didn't really care much for logic or rules of debate. They just wanted to win an argument. So -- in the throes of righteous collegiate frustration -- we started coming up with Spontaneous Statistics. If we got tired of listening to someone pontificate on a boring issue, one of us would fabricate some sort of outlandish figure or study to reduce their side of the debate to a pile of dusty rubble. We could do it on the fly without any prior preparation. And because they never checked our factoids, things always went rather swimmingly. This really wouldn't work now -- not with search engines being what they are. But then? Oh yes. Only my mother seemed to be able to catch us in the act. I suppose it was the choline echoing through her system. And the fact that she's approximately fourteen times smarter than anyone else on earth. One afternoon, we were sitting in the Student Union Building on a shabby couch discussing Canadian immigration policy with a conspiracy nut from one of our Political Science classes. He was in his thirties, and prone to wearing knitted caps and Che Guevara t-shirts. He was the kind of guy no one liked to debate with because his idea of rebuttal was always something like, "Honestly, let's see what you think in ten years." You mean when we're old like you? (I shiver at my hubris now.) I saw Steve's eyes about to glaze over a few minutes into the conversation and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that a Spontaneous Stat of some sort was about to make an appearance. And sure enough, Steve shocked our classmate into silence with the following revelation: "Well, it really doesn't matter whether we think our policies are fair or not, because our government won't deport anyone who pays the Stay Tax." "The Stay Tax?" "Yeah, man, of course." "Well... I might have. Refresh my memory." He eyes narrowed in suspicion, but I could tell he was curious. "Oh, it's likely you've never heard of it. After all, it's not widely known that you can pay a fee to escape deportment. They started offering the out to high-risk foreign nationals as a sort of cash-grab in the late seventies." At that, he was horrified. "I... I've never heard of any such thing. I mean, I know they're corrupt, but an actual tax on the books?" "On the secret ledgers, yeah." Steve was trying really hard not to laugh. Why the hell was he buying this, when he barely trusted that we were giving him our real names before? "Shit. How did you find out about that? And they have secret ledgers? What's your source?" "Dude, " Steve replied, sighing deeply, "You're just going to have to take my word for it." And against all odds, that's exactly what he did. The amount of power Steve attained in that moment would have been enough to obliterate us all, had he not forgotten about the Stay Tax the next time Che brought it up. In class. We don't invent stats anymore, nor anything else. Who needs fake facts rolling around with the real ones? That's just a recipe for disaster. And the older I get, the more I think I need to keep things pure up there, anyhow. But still the fact remains that I still carry a lot of data crumbs in this brain of mine that never seem to get dusted off my mental tablecloth. I have a seemingly infinite amount of phone numbers memorized, some of which haven't been active in years. I hear a song lyric twice and never forget it again. I know the full casts of most sitcoms from 1980 to 1999. I retain odd facts about jet propulsion that I don't recall ever taking in. I have entire sections of Cats stuck in my head. I have to pause every time I use an ATM to remember which one of 10 possible PIN numbers I'm using now. I even have a rudimentary understanding of squirrel mating habits that I picked up by falling asleep on the floor in front of the TV during a Discovery Channel Critter Marathon. Is it any wonder that I'm single? Who wants to date the "I'm Feeling Lucky" button? Wait, don't answer that. In the end, I have only my mother to thank for her addiction to things passed through the bodies of chickens. The choline has made me what I am today. That, and the fact that she was always egging me on to learn. Sorry. Now I have to go poke myself in the eye. 1:28:24 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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