Life's Small Secrets

I have a small bit of genius to share, a discovery about every day living that has truly improved my life: Two Blanket Sleeping. Two Blanket Sleeping refers to the act of sharing a bed with a partner, but each using your own blanket. I'm telling you, this is the co-sleeping rosetta stone. You can be close to your loved one, even touching knees or holding hands, but as you both fall asleep you drift off into your own private physical worlds. No more kicking, blanket stealing, sheet tangling, or pillow hogging. This works especially well if you have a matress that doesn't transmit every little jiggle to the other side of the bed. (If you don't have one of these, get one. A good mattress is worth the money.)

This may seem trivial, but getting good sleep on a regular basis is just so nice. Where is our cultural repository for such practical wisdom?

Change Immunity

So I've had this idea in my head for a couple weeks, and I want to actually get it out of my head and into the record. I wrote a post a couple weeks ago about the importance of futurism, in which I basically argue that the accelerated pace of change makes futurism a necessity just like market analysis and weather reports. But here's the really interesting question about change: why is it accelerating? I know people are always saying that the spread of information and connectivity is behind it, but why? What, exactly, is happening?

I started thinking about change as a virus. Each time I encounter a new idea that alters my daily behavior or my life philosophy or my sexual habits or whatever, I've caught a virus. This is hardly a new idea. Viral spread of ideas and information is a very popular topic these days. The bit that really fascinates me is the extrapolation to a concept of individual change immunity. How well do you resist change?

We all have some level of change immunity. If we didn't we'd be redirecting so often we wouldn't get anything done. There are thousands of potential new ideas in even pretty mundane experiences, and our fellow humans are also repositories of the unexpected, even those we think we know well. Generally speaking we filter all that disturbance out, cherry-picking information that supports our current patterns and ditching all the rest of it. A couple hundred years ago our change immunity was good enough to allow us to keep living our lives with minimal upheaval, even over generations. A fellow might wander into the village bringing samples of the fabulous new drink from the new world and convince a few people to try it. They would promptly spit out the bitter dreck and go home for a nice cup of tea; so much for Starbucks.

These days the sheer volume of exchanges and encounters with new ideas is overwhelming our change immunity. We spread new thoughts and experiences to our friends and family all the time. In my case, being young and embedded in Silicon Valley culture, it's happening every day. Thus I contribute to the dizzying whirl, where we never quite find our feet.

Is it possible to measure individual change immunity? Take me, for instance. I actually like change much of the time. In fact, I have a rather serious problem with boredom in my day to day life. I don't tend to stay in a job, or a location, for very long. I would have been the person who, when offered a drink made of ground up boiled beans that tasted distinctly like tree bark, would have said "Sure!" (And then gotten the shivers, had heart palpitations, and probably been exorcised, since it turns out I'm allergic to caffeine, but that's not the point.) My friend Steve, on the other hand, lived for years with a group of close friends who were all flamingly liberal, and managed to change his conservative political views not one bit. It just seemed to wash over him, and the dissonance between his affection for us as people and his avowed hatred of our positions didn't seem to bother him one bit. He was immune.

Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson posited in the Illuminatus! trilogy that there were in fact two types of humans: homo neophilus and homo neophobus. Is it true? I wonder how we would measure that?

Hail and Farewell

George Carlin died on Sunday. Normally I'm not into bemoaning death. We all die, and if you made it past 70 you did pretty damn well. I don't see death as a tragedy-death just is. Still, I wasn't ready for George to go. He's been a viciously hilarious and wise presence in comedy my entire life. Not many people can spit the truth in your face as convincingly and lyrically as he did. I wanted to hear the next routine on the primary, and Iraq, and everything else.

So I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not sad that George died. He's well quit of this mess, gone to become one with the Great Electron (hummmmm, hummmmmm). But I am sad for myself, because I kinda thought he was always going to be there, reminding me of the absurd reality of this society we live in. Now I'll have to do my own remembering, and I'm not nearly as fucking funny.

P.S. Is it just me, or are a lot of famous people dying lately?

Futurism is not a fad

I was at a party last night with a whole bunch of poli-sci grad students, all from the same program. They were talking about the various ways they find to kill time on the net while still nominally thinking about their dissertation. One guy spent 3 hours that day watching YouTube clips of Irish folk discussing the recent defeat of the EU referendum. He's a European policy studies major-it's topical, right? More or less, anyway.

This got me thinking as I brushed my teeth later that night: where do I lurk on the net, and how does that relate to my work? Sure, I spend a lot of time reading about sustainability and environmental policy, which directly applies to my work. But I also find myself reading a lot about futurism, even when it has nothing to do with "green". Why? The short answer: because it's Important. Yes, with a capital I.

Once upon a time it was fine if Nostradamus was the only guy with a bead on the future. Change happened so slowly that you were pretty sure to live and die under the same rules. Events might come and go, but the governing principals of the universe as you knew it didn't alter. When change did happen, it was usually isolated and well-announced, making it easier to assimilate. World-shattering change occurred on a time scale measured in generations.

These days world shattering change comes around several times a decade, and smaller changes proliferate like bored bunnies on Viagra. We have to keep looking ahead just to avoid getting clobbered by some unforeseen upheaval. Five years out is cloudy, and 50 years out is essentially impossible to predict. The only way to be even mildly prepared is to wade through the ocean of daily events and look for the sticky stuff. What's a Tickle-Me Elmo, and what's the next World of Warcraft? What's going to hang around and have an impact?

Searching and sifting through the proliferating changes of our world is not something most people can devote a whole lot of time to in a day. Most of us still have to write the memos, sell the sandwiches, and pave the roads that keep our society running. That is why futurism, and futurists, are so important. They do the foresight for us, and hopefully we learn to listen and adapt. It's like Nostradamus, if Nostradamus had wandered down south in the early 1800s talking about the new-fangled cotton gin and the fact that slave labor was on its way out.

As long as the pace of change outstrips our ability to predict and process, we are going to need futurists. Someday they may be seen like the meteorologist or the market analyst-just another purveyor of specialized knowledge that we consult in the daily paper to guide our decision-making.

Attack of the Deep-Fry Bandits

Lock up your lard, ladies and gentlemen. In the post-Iraq, carbon-paranoid world of the near future, grease is the new gold. How do I know this? Because people are stealing it. Mad Max, eat your heart out.

Shifts in criminal activity may be one of the best futurist tools out there. While the majority of America is talking about tar sands extraction and corn ethanol, the black market is trading fry oil because it's WORTH MONEY. Imagine it: the bandit in the article had collected a $6000 haul just by vacuuming up oil that most restaurants store out back with the garbage. Fry oil has quintupled in price over the last eight years, but to most people this commodity still looks and smells like waste.

The massive increase in the value of used grease indicates an intriguing shift in thinking. Instead of talking about the price of gas, we need to start talking about the price of personal transportation. Gas isn't really the point; the point is, how much does it cost me to use a personal combustion engine to get around? Oil, ethanol, and biodiesel all offer the same service in the end-combustible fuel. Leaving your fry grease in a tub out back is like storing a couple barrels of crude next to the dumpster. Except that fry grease is easier to process.

My friend Brian likes to talk about preparing for the End Times. He says he's stockpiling rice and guns in his basement-the Apocalypse ain't takin' him unprepared. Me, I'm filling my basement with lard. Brian won't get very far without fuel for his biodiesel scooter. Also, lard makes the BEST pies.

Duct Tape Vagina

So yes, I just watched this abstinence video asserting that having multiple sex partners makes you dirty, less of a person, and incapable of lasting commitment. Where to begin? First of all, why is some sex like sticking to a wall or a garbage can, but other sex like sticking to other pieces of tape? If we're all tape, then all sex is tape-on-tape, right? Maybe tape-on-wall sex is bestiality? Or use of sex toys?

OK, maybe my tape gets dirty when I stick to other dirty tape. That makes some sense. But how did that tape get dirty? Does the very act of pre-marital sex-I mean tape sticking- somehow involve dirt? What, do you think premarital sex only happens in cornfields and public restrooms or something? I like my own bed with clean sheets, thanks. The floor can be fun, but I prefer it swept.

Of course, physically the whole analogy fails. My vagina is not sticky, and I wash regularly whether or not I'm having sex. There is nothing in my body but me. Up to and until the time I may get pregnant, all of my body belongs to me alone. Same goes for all of you, male and female.

But psychologically, emotionally...maybe this whole duct tape thing has a point. I have certainly taken a part of all my partners with me, whether big or small. And that's a GOOD THING. Some of my favorite music, authors, and ideas have been discovered through lovers. From one I learned that I love to have my hair brushed, from another I learned a whole new depth of feminism. I in turn have left behind some good taste, absurdist humor, and self-knowledge. These things are not diminished in the sharing. One night with a loving friend helped give me back a piece of myself that I had been missing since an assault months before. My partners have also helped teach me how to have sex that I really enjoy, which believe it or not is something I did need to learn.

Abstinence advocates could argue that the important things can be shared without actually having sex. Maybe, maybe not. The depth of emotional connection that exists in an sexual partnership can open doors that otherwise remain shut. Some of my best (and hardest) personal growth has come out of my intimate relationships. I'm not advocating that you sleep with everyone whose taste or personality you admire. That probably won't be right for you. Choosing to have sex with the wrong person can be it's own important lesson, but no need to go looking for that experience.

Also, if you don't want to have sex, DON'T! For heaven's sake, do what is right for you. You can develop other types of relationships that will help you grow and enrich your life. TAKE YOUR TIME. But I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that intimate sexual relationships have an important and unique impact on who we are as human beings. I wouldn't readily enter into a relationship with a person who did not have a similar level of experience. I don't mean they need to have had sex with X number of people, I mean they need to have gone through certain things: first love, first heartbreak, co-habitation, doing the stupid thing and surviving to tell the tale...

So, to bring it all back home, I have a thought. A counter-video, if you will. Using the same music and most of the text, but showing people with big pieces of duct tape covered in bite-size candy bars. Any time two people "stick" to each other, they exchange candy. "Oooh, I got a strawberry starburst from that one!"

Which leads to a whole new question: What flavor candy are you?

Arghh

I walked around the lake this morning for my weekly farmer's market visit, and it was lovely as usual except for one factor: the dueling protesters. On one sidewalk were the Women in Black against the War and In Favor of Palestine and Ending the Gaza Occupation, etc etc. On the opposite sidewalk were the cluster of people waving the huge Israeli flags and signs reading Peace With Security and pointing out that Israel makes good software (relevant?). So there they stand, waving their flags and shaking their signs and otherwise not saying or doing much at all. It feels like a bunch of tourists have brought their conflict and dumped it on my cheerfully diverse and down-to-earth Saturday celebration.

This is not about apathy or wishing that the difficult and scary things in the world never intruded on my privileged Bay Area bubble. I respect the difficulty of the conflict in the Middle East, and the last thing we need is more self-righteous glaring. Are these two groups of people really incapable of intelligent dialogue? Is this the best thing they could be doing with their time? Are there not activities that would better contribute to both their goals? If there is one thing I really can't stand, it's a self-indulgent waste of time masquerading as social justice.

Birthday Week!

I turned 25 on Tuesday the 1st, and I have decided that I get a birthday week instead of just a single day. So happy birth-week to me for another 4 days! I'm not having much of a reaction to being 25, except to fervently hope this year is better than the last one was. One day at a time I suppose.

I bought myself a microwave which my grandmother has promised to pay for as a birthday gift. It's a silly thing to be excited about, but as a person living alone let me tell you: leftovers are much more likely to get eaten if you don't have to dirty as many dishes warming them as you would to make a new meal. I reheated something today and it was GREAT. Small pleasures, folks.

Also, sometimes miracles of modern technology really do feel like miracles. On my birthday I got a surprise phone call from two dear friends I never see, one of whom is in Cairo and another somewhere in Germany. They were on the same cheap phone call with the wonders of Skype. It was the best birthday gift ever.

On Second Thought...

I have been meaning to post for days on my culinary school experience (this was the first week). So I just sat down to write and realized I am freakin' exhausted. Maybe not so much with the detail-heavy posts tonight. Eventually I hope to blog a bit about each class, to solidify the content in my mind and share the secrets of pastry chef-ing. Coming soon!

Sometimes I Miss My Old Job

It has come to my attention that ARCs (Advanced Reading Copies) of Warren Ellis' new novel are soon to be distributed. Once upon a time I managed the SciFi section of my local independent bookstore, and I might have qualified for such an object. I would have written a newsletter review and made a special sign and obnoxiously recommended it to every poor soul who happened to wander into my section looking for the sports biographies...but alas. I no longer work in a bookstore. Some of my friends still do. But they will not give me their ARCs. Fuckers.

Pastry School Here I Come!

I went down to Santa Cruz last weekend to visit my mom, and formally signed all the papers for my student loan. I walked out of the bank on Monday with a check for $9,000. Wheee! I am now fully capable of paying for the Tante Marie Pastry Program, and I start next Monday. I'm also now fully in debt, and trying really hard not to worry about it. I think the worry will fade behind a mountain of delicious food and fantastic mess. I wonder who my classmates will be?

The syllabus is crazy, they pack a huge amount of content into 16 hours a week. I realize I don't actually have any idea what they will teach me. How much chemistry, how much practical lecture, how much plain practice? Updates will follow, I'm sure.

This is Your Brain On a Head Cold

I appear to have caught one of the various viruses going around. I beat something into submission right before I left for Puerto Rico, and now I may be paying for it. My thought process is very slow and floaty. It actually has some of the detached feeling of an anti-anxiety med. Odd, but acceptable. I've been watching the new Terminator series on my laptop, because that's about what I'm good for today. Is anyone else faintly disturbed by the similarity in the programmed kill-bot roles of Summer Glau?

That's That

Follow-up to Friday Night Blues: The casual thing is now a former casual thing. I wanted more, he didn't, and the only notable part of the story is that even a casual thing can't end casually. Instead of tears, this just ended in awkward. C'est la vie. Back in the pool.

Friday Night Blues

I was really excited. I hadn't seen him in two weeks, and I had lots of time on my hands to plan a fun dinner. It was farmer's market day, so I bought all kinds of fresh veggies, and two heaping baskets of strawberries for a shortcake dessert. I cleaned the house and made the bed, and debated between fried plantains and mashed sweet potatoes, satay or teriyaki chicken. I went to my usual class at the gym and came home buzzing with hormones and ready to start cooking. I was just washing up some earlier dishes when my IM pinged. He was sorry. It was his friend's surprise birthday party tonight. He'd forgotten to mark his calendar...

We have a casual thing. It's an open relationship, and we mostly only have time to see each other on weekends. Also, I respect the importance of friends, and their birthdays. But I was so excited. I was going to tell him about my trip, and make an amazing dessert. I'd been thinking about it all day. I have to go down to Santa Cruz on Saturday evening, and I'll be gone through Tuesday, so this is the only real time I have before another week goes by. Well meet for lunch tomorrow. I probably won't cook. Part of me doesn't even want to see him at all. We may be casual, but we've been seeing each other for months. Couldn't he have invited me to the party? Or split time and made it here for a quick bite before heading out with his friends? Or...something?

So here I am. It's Friday night. None of my friends are around. The house smells like strawberries, but I'm not hungry.

Travel vs Tourism

My time Puerto Rico has led me to ponder the distinctions between travel and tourism. I have done a lot of travel in my life, and I love it. I train-hopped from Paris to Barcelona, lived with a family in Singapore for a week, and slept in the living room of total strangers in Romania. Travel has it's own cultural and moral value. It connects us to new people and perspectives, helps us remember how small we are in the scheme of the planet, teaches us to relinquish control and thrive in uncertainty. As a traveler I scorned tourists, the way young hip ignorant kids do. Tourism was hedonism with no redeeming value, belittling to the locals and damaging to cross-cultural relations. How middle-class, ugh. Then I spent four days on a beach drinking mojitos.

My San Juan trip was undoubtedly Tourism. We stayed on the hotel strip, ate at fancy restaurants in tourist districts, and basically failed to see a single culturally significant landmark in the city. The extent of our interaction with residents was to converse with hotel employees and ask directions of people on the street. Even the big box profusion was welcome. Our first afternoon we walked across to the 24 hour Walgreens and bought Go Lean Crunch, Dannon Light and Fit Yogurt and 2% Milk. I ate the same health-conscious breakfast in PR that I eat every morning in Oakland, California.

I'm not saying we were uber-tourists. There are some tourism behaviors I don't think I'll ever adopt. We rode the bus around the city instead of taking a taxi. We did make it to the open-air mercado to buy one of every kind of fruit we didn't recognize, to supplement our standard breakfast. And for one day we left the beach to visit the rainforest and bioluminescent lagoon, which was an amazing experience deserving of its own post. But basically, I alternated between the ocean, the hotel-provided beach chair, and my bed. And it was perfect.

My life lately is one big ball of stress. Frances' job is enough to drive most people barking mad. We needed a vacation, not an adventure. We needed to be physically and psychically comfortable for a few days. We were looking for mellow pleasure, not the thrill of the new. We wanted to eat the same breakfast every day, and go to a comfortable and delicious and easy restaurant every night, and have no obligations in between. We could have done most of these things if we stayed at home, but we also needed the escape. We needed to be tourists.

There were a few things about our trip that were certainly not good for the island. Buying food at Walgreens doesn't do much for the economy of Puerto Rico. But generally we were a pretty benign presence. We ate at local restaurants, tipped like crazy, respected the natural beauty of the place, and smiled at everyone we saw because we were so happy to be where we were. This dedicated traveler has discovered that tourism has its place.

The Joys of a Sugar Momma

Despite being unemployed, bored, and perpetually anxious, my life does have some perks. For instance, my roommate and good friend from college happens to work for Google in a fancy-pants position. This means she makes an absurd amount of money, and is often happy to share it with me. Two weeks ago was "Google Bonuseve", otherwise known as the week that Googlers receive their bonus packages for the previous year. (We are inventing a whole set of greeting cards around the specific holidays of the tech sector. Ex: Congratulations on Your Cliff Date!) When we realized exactly how much money she was going to get, we decided that a tropical vacation was the only possible response. So that Saturday we bought plane tickets and reserved a five-star hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico. We left the following Thursday. I planned the trip, and she paid for it. Like I said, perks.

Puerto Rico, for those of you who aren't aware, is gorgeous. I think a lot of people still associate the island with the tap-dancing gangs of West Side Story, but a lot has happened in the last 50 years. Large parts of the island are still rural, spotted with small towns, but the few metropolitan areas have become tourist hot spots, especially San Juan. This has some unfortunate side effects, like an explosion of fast food restaurants and big box stores vomited across the landscape. On the other hand, if you're willing to venture away from the hotel district you can discover as lovely fusion culture. And even a strip mall feels a little different when it's 85 degrees with a breeze and 100 feet from a glowing blue ocean.

One thing I will say for San Juan, they have done a great job of protecting their beaches despite the waves of tourists. The beaches are clean and welcoming, and even crowded they feel authentic because just as many locals are on the sand as tourists. I am a water creature, so for me the ability to simply bob in salty water at body temperature is a kind of heaven. As Frances said "My hindbrain is so happy right now."

Rhythm

Yes, I blog with spastic irregularity.

Since my last post, I have been fired, survived the holidays, and begun collecting unemployment. My current daily life consists of going through the humiliating process of applying for work with various green building companies, dicking around the house, and trying not to lose my mind. I figure blogging might help with the last bit, so here I am again.