Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 188

YOLO is not new

A twenty-something explained on a podcast that her generation doesn’t believe in allowing things to pass them by.

“You know,” she said. “YOLO. That’s where that word comes from.”

Just for the record:

YOLO is an acronym popularized by Drake in his hit song “The Motto,” but it’s certainly nothing new. “You only live once” is a sentiment that has existed for a long, long time. Simply because the current generation of young people have affixed an acronym to an age-old expression doesn’t make them any more daring than previous generations.

When my friend, Bengi, and I decided to drive overnight from Fort Lauderdale, FL to Myrtle Beach, SC to avoid losing a day of vacation to traveling after having already been awake for nearly 24 hours (and ended up seeing identical delusional clowns on the side of the road in South Carolina), we certainly could’ve been shouting “YOLO!” through our car windows.

When I agreed to compete in an underground, middle-of-the-night arm wrestling gambling ring in Brockton, MA , I could’ve shouted “YOLO!” upon descending the stairs in that abandoned elementary school.

When I decided to dam a river to see if I could cut off the supply of water to The Basin, an ancient rock and water tourist attraction in the mountains of Laconia, NH (and succeeded), I could’ve shouted “YOLO” when the first tree fell across the river.

When so many of my friends decided that it was better to work two or three jobs, sleep on couches, and eat ramen rather than living for a single second more with their parents, they all could’ve been shouting “YOLO!” from the windows of their cruddy apartments.

Simply because my generation and the generations before me didn’t apply an acronym to the sentiment or speak incessantly about the importance of living your life like you only live once doesn’t mean we weren’t doing so.

So just stop.

Discount men

Every year, Space Telescope Science Institute in Maryland fields thousands of requests from scientists all over the world to use the Hubble telescope to advance their research.

Only 200 proposals are accepted.

In 2014, the Institute realized that 21.9 percent of proposals written by men were being accepted while only 16.9 percent of proposals written by women were being accepted.

As a result, a double-blind evaluation method was implemented wherein reviewers couldn’t see the name of the person who proposed the project.

The results?

The acceptance rate leveled out. In 2019 the success rate for proposals was 8.7 percent for female researchers compared to 8 percent for male researchers.

This is an excellent reminder that it’s still incredibly hard to be a woman and that a man’s success in almost any arena should be discounted to some degree by the presence of his penis.

If that penis happens to be white, double the discount.

I am not experiencing enough stress (at least according to others)

Important (and astounding) information on aging from NumLock:

Telomeres are protective caps that prevent damage to DNA. They also shorten each time a cell replicates, and when they get too short cells know it’s time to wrap it up and self-destruct. This plays a role in the aging process, and every year telomeres shrink by about 25 base pairs per year. Turns out that stress can seriously accelerate this process: first-year medical residents saw a decline of 140 base pairs, on average. Those who worked over 75 hours per week lost 700 base pairs.

Less stress equates to a reduction in aging.

This is very good news for me, as I tend to experience very little stress in my life. Why I experience very little stress is a matter of conjecture.

I’m sure that my daily meditation and exercise regimes help.

Perhaps I’m also genetically predisposed to less stress.

Maybe my aggressively optimistic nature protects me from the stress I might otherwise feel.

I suspect that perspective plays a role, too. Once you’ve been arrested for a crime you didn’t commit and subsequently become homeless while awaiting your trial, the problems of everyday life often pale in comparison. Add a couple near-death experiences and a violent robbery that led to decades of PTSD, and it’s hard to fluster me.

Here’s one other thing that I know:

There are people in my life who are often annoyed and even angry at my lack of stress. These are actual human beings who have told me (and others behind my back) that my lack of stress is inappropriate, frustrating, and ridiculous.

People have actually complained to me and others that I’m not experiencing enough stress.

I suspect that those people are aging rapidly.

My little girl is a storyteller

My family and I have been in Seattle for five days now, and it’s been quite the whirlwind.

In addition to playing golf, walking beaches, eating delicious food, and visiting with friends and family, I have also been doing a bit of work.

On Thursday, I had the pleasure of visiting with a book club of about 17 ladies who had read a variety of my novels and nonfiction. The conversation was great, the questions were insightful, and I was once again renewed by the joy of spending time with serous readers.

On Friday night my friend, Plato, his daughter and my former student, and I attended a Moth StorySLAM in Seattle. It was just as fun and exciting as any StorySLAM in New York or Boston. Plato and I had the good luck to take the stage and tell a story - back to back - and I won the slam and Plato placed a close second.

Not the first time we have taken the top two spots at a StorySLAM.

On Saturday, I taught a storytelling workshop at the Taproot Theater in Seattle. Three dozen present and future storytellers gathered to learn some of the strategies and techniques that I have used for finding, crafting, and telling stories. It was thrilling to find such a vibrant and close knit storytelling community here in Seattle.

On Saturday night, I performed my solo show for a sold out audience in the same theater. I told five stories - all but one brand new and including a story that I had begun crafting during the workshop earlier that day. After each story, I offered some insight about the finding and crafting of the story in hopes that the audience would walk away with some strategies that they could use when telling stories.

It was a blast.

Just before intermission, Elysha also played her ukulele and sang in public for just the second time ever, and for the second time, she upstaged anything I did that night. She was sweet and charming, and she sounded beautiful.

And the kids sat backstage in the green room throughout the show, listening to the stories while pecking away on devices to keep them occupied. Just before Elysha played, they joined the audience to watch their mother do something hard and beautiful.

On Sunday morning, we traveled to Tacoma to attend a storytelling brunch called Homegrown Stories. Hosted by a storyteller named John and my agent, Taryn, folks enjoyed delicious food as names were drawn from a bowl and stories were told. I met a number of storytellers who I’ve only had the pleasure of knowing via our podcast and email, and I met some new folks, too. Clara and Charlie joined us, sitting at our feet and listening attentively. We heard stories about the challenges of running for office, hiring a professional cuddler, transitioning from female to male, and finding your husband back in middle school while writing a story together about monkey guts.

One storyteller had even told a story that used something I had done the day before in my workshop as the jumping off point.

But the moment I will never forget was when Clara took the stage before 30 or so adults and told her very first public story. She poke about being excluded from a game at summer camp, and though I am admittedly biased, her story was incredible. It was vulnerable and raw. It contained humor and suspense. She handled dialogue brilliantly. I had the good fortune of standing in the back of the room while she was telling, and I listened as the audience laughed, held their breath, sighed, and groaned at all the right moments.

Best of all, she stuck the landing. Her final sentences were perfection.

I hadn’t even known that she wanted to tell a story. I wasn’t sure how she would do. I worried that she might collapse in a bundle of anxiety and nerves.

Instead, she told a four minute story that was artfully crafted and expertly told.

I’ll never forget it.

This has been a glorious week, thanks in large part to our friends who have been kind enough to host us in their beautiful home and show us the town. But it’s also been a week filled with talk of books and stories, which has also been lovely.

But that moment when Clara stood before that audience and shared a story… that is what I will remember most.

I don't return stuff

I can count the number of things that I have purchased and then later returned in my entire life on two hands.

Maybe one hand.

I know that this makes me different from most people, but especially the Germans, who like to order stuff online and then return it at a rate unmatched by other Europeans. In 2018, a whopping 53 percent of German online shoppers returned an item.

This beat out the Dutch (52 percent), French (45 percent), Spanish and Italians (43 percent) and the British (40 percent).

Even those numbers seem enormous to me.

Here in my country, about 40 percent of Americans returned an online purchase last year. More than 8 percent of all purchases made online in America were returned. That is a lot of returned merchandise, and it doesn’t even begin to include the purchases made at brick and mortar stores.

28% of all Christmas gifts in America are returned.

I can’t say that these numbers surprise me because I’ve personally witnessed the plague of the returned item. I’ve seen and known people who seem to return half of everything they ever purchase.

I find all of this a little crazy.

I can count the number of items that I have returned in my life on one or two hands for a few reasons:

I’m not terribly discerning. I have no attention for detail, so I often overlook flaws that others will see.

When it comes to clothing, there is very little variance in my wardrobe or size. I wear the same things, so when it comes time to replace clothing items, I simply purchase the same things again. My waistline may be 34 or 36 inches depending on the number of cheeseburgers I’ve eaten in a given month and I might need the extra large version of certain tee shirts because of my large neck, but that’s about all the variance I need to worry about.

I don’t concern myself with aesthetic imperfection. We purchased an outdoor grill, for example, which has a dent in it. We’re not returning the grill because it’s large and unwieldy but also because I don’t care if it has a dent. Years ago, when my brand new car was dented on day three by a child’s bike, I didn’t care because I knew the car would be dented eventually and a crease in the fender didn’t matter to me.

I always factor in the element of time when deciding if something should be returned. If I purchase a $10 item online and am dissatisfied, how long will it take me to return that item? Will I need to package it? Label it? Drive to the post office? Wait in line? It might be better in terms of time and material costs to simply trow the item away or give it away rather than return it.

Money is valuable, and $10 is not nothing, but time is our most previous commodity. That fact is always in the forefront of my mind.

"They call me Matt" is apparently no good

At the very end of the song, “Light My Candle” from the Broadway musical Rent, Mimi and Roger exchange names.

Roger sings, “I’m Roger.”

Mimi responds, “They call me Mimi.”

Driving in the car, listening to the song the other day, I turn to Elysha and say, “I’ve always wanted to introduce myself to people like that. You know… ‘They call me Matt.’ What do you think?”

“No,” she said, flatly, immediately, and without an ounce of uncertainty.

I really like the idea, but I’ve learned that when Elysha is absolute in her opinion, she’s usually right.

Also, I had apparently brought up this idea in the past and received a similar response. More than once. Apparently I’m hoping for a change of heart that isn’t coming.

She’s probably right.

Still…

Why I respond to Donald Trump via Twitter

Last week, a listener to our podcast and a reader of my books wrote to inform me that he would no longer be listening, reading, or otherwise engaging in my work as a result of the way I write about Donald Trump and respond to him online, specifically via Twitter.

The man was polite and even sounded a little regretful, but he explained that even though he does not support the President in any way, he feels that my responses to the President are ignorant and childish. He explained that I was leaving behind a shameful legacy, and that the best way to defeat the darkness is through light.

I was sorry to see the man go. I had exchanged emails with him in the past and even answered some of his questions on our podcast. I found him to be interesting and thoughtful. But before allowing him to sail off into the night, I had to at least explain myself, and he appreciated my explanation and thanked me for not lashing out and taking the time to write a thoughtful response.

But then he still sailed off.

Oddly, I’ve also heard from many Trump supporters who are often annoyed with the things that I write to and about the President but continue to read and listen because they are sensible enough to understand that even although I may refer to Trump as a racist old horny burger goblin who literally steals children from poor people (credit Stephen Colbert), this is not an attack on them personally.

Simply a difference of opinion.

But this recently departed listener/reader not the only person who has asked why I would spend a scintilla of time responding to Trump’s tweets when there are so many more productive things to do. I also have friends who are quite certain that I am on an enemies list of some kind as a result of my responses and my participation and victory in the lawsuit that forced Trump to unblock.

So I thought I’d post my response to the listener/reader here in order to list the reasons for my actions.

__________________________________

1. Yes, being involved in the lawsuit that led to me being unblocked by Trump (and all the money dedicated to this cause) makes me feel like I should be shouting to the rooftops of the world whenever I feel it necessary. I owe it to the Knight Foundation to make use of this tool and deliver truth to power whenever possible.

2. It genuinely makes me feel good to speak to the powerful in this way. It warms my heart. And I know he's listening, because he's already blocked me once. It’s not all that I’m doing, of course. I'm a member of the ACLU, a subscriber to the New York Times and Slate, and I contribute to the campaigns of political leaders both monetarily and in terms of time and expertise. I call my state senator and Congresspeople frequently. I'm trying to do everything I can do oppose his hateful and ignorant administration. I really am. But telling Trump exactly how I feel in the kind of coarse language that he uses and seems to understand (while never swearing) makes me feel good. It might make me seem like a rotten person to feel good in doing this, but it's exactly how I feel.

3. I have heard from many, many people who thank me for tweeting like this. There are lots of people who are genuinely afraid of Trump and our growing authoritarian state and take great solace and even joy when someone they know (or sort of know through his writing, speaking, etc.) stands up to him. I have received dozens of emails from folks expressing appreciation for what I am saying. I'm sure there are also folks like you who see it as negative and childish and wasteful (and I have friends who are sincerely worried that Trump may have an enemies list of folks like me), but lots of people are also heartened by my approach.

4. Yes, I want there to be a record of my resistance when my children are older and wondering what the hell the country was thinking when they elected this man. It may not be the most eloquent record, but it's a permanent reflection of my anger, disgust, and refusal to allow him to go unchecked. And yes, I'll be proud of it. They will know that their father despised this President and his policies and made that abundantly clear as often as possible. They may wonder about my choice of words, but they will never wonder about how I felt, and that means the world to me.

5. I agree that the best way to fight dark is with light, and I like to think - sincerely - that as an elementary school teacher for two decades, a person who tells honest, vulnerable stories onstage that connect with others, as a person who writes stories that have traveled around the world and brought joy to people's hearts, a person who promotes and supports the ideas of making the most of every moment and being authentic and vulnerable with the world, a person who encourages others to be brave and tell their story, and a father and a husband and a volunteer... that I am bringing lots of light to the world. So yes, light is important, and honestly, I'm trying like hell to make a positive difference in the world.

Does all of this make up for the negativity that I fire off at the President? In your mind, perhaps not. I'm sorry to hear it. But I think that in terms of the balance sheet, I’m well into the positive column even after I call the President a nitwit.

Yes, it's true. I spend about 10 minutes a day telling the President how I feel, and for reasons that I think are justified. But I'd like to think that this very tiny part of my life is well balanced with everything else I do in the world. The countless hours I spend teaching and writing and supporting and building and parenting and loving.

__________________________________

It wasn’t enough to keep this particular reader/listener in my orbit, but I tried.

Another review of Twenty-one Truths About Love

Another early review of Twenty-one Truths About Love from another important outlet - Booklist.

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Dicks manages to create tension, pathos, humor, and some searing melodrama in a novel written entirely in lists. Daniel Mayrock, soon to be a father, quits a dull teaching position to open his own bookstore. Following the advice of his therapist, he starts making lists, and list-making becomes a compulsion as he submits all aspects of his life to enumeration. He ranks his employees, analyzes his interactions with others, and documents his many foibles and phobias.

Through lists, Dan’s rich, sympathetic voice shines, and as he organizes his opinions about music, his love of his wife, and his many vices and neuroses, he is funny and insightful. Like Benjamin Kunkel’s Indecision (2005) and Joshua Ferris’s To Rise Again at a Decent Hour (2014), this tale explores the struggles of a man attempting to navigate contemporary adulthood and his fear that he is unable to function like everyone around him. Often moving, sometimes shocking, always entertaining, this superbly crafted work emphasizes the incalculable variety of the novel form.

— Alexander Moran

I know these men exist, but I don't know any of them

You know those guys - it’s always a man - who drive in the third lane of the highway at high speeds, flashing their lights at any car that get in their way?

Who are these guys?

I’m serious.

In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever known a man who would do such a thing.

Not one.

Are these the same guys who smoke cigars at sunrise while playing golf? The same guys that park their car on the diagonal lest someone park alongside them? Are these the same guys who are chronically rude to waitstaff? Cat-call women on the street? Order bottle service and then talk about having ordered bottle service long after the night is over?

I don’t think I know any of these guys, either. I don’t think I’ve ever known any of them. I see them all the time, in restaurants, the golf course, my rearview mirror, and other places, but I don’t think I’ve ever befriended or even been friendly with any of these guys..

Do they flock together like geese? Move in herds like buffalo? Cluster like maggots?

I think they must. RIght?

I am not a monster

Over the weekend, friends and I were discussing a recent revelation on social media:

There are couples in this world who do sleep on the same side of the bed every night.

When someone on Twitter revealed this last week - obviously a monster - Twitter went crazy. People couldn’t imagine choosing random sides of the bed each night.

Some of their responses included:

“I know what all these words mean but can’t make sense out of how you put them together.”

“I just want to add my voice here by saying yes, this is weird, but I’m happy you weirdos found each other.”

“So you have to keep moving your pillows back and forth? Exhausting.”

“I plan on marching on London to end this nonsense.”

“I thought I was a tolerant and progressive sort. But you have found my limit. A stone throwing mob needs to run you and Amy far beyond the city walls before you spread this contagion.”

But for every thousand or so people who declared their allegiance to their side of the bed, there was the occasional person saying, “Yes, my husband and I also don’t have predetermined sides of the bed.”

The world is apparently filled with monsters.

While discussing this insanity, one of my friends said, “What about all the stuff you keep on your side of the bed? Doesn’t that alone force you to choose sides.”

“I don’t have anything on my side of the bed,” I said.

“Nothing?” she said.

“Nope.”

“You don’t have a single thing on your side of the bed?” another friend said. “A book? A glass of water? A phone charger?”

“Nothing,” I repeated.

“Not one single thing? C’mon.”

“It’s true,” Elysha confirmed. “He has nothing on his side of the bed. It’s weird.”

My friend concurred. They concurred far too vehemently for me.

Suddenly I understood how Steve O’Rourke must’ve felt.

For the record, it’s not weird. What the hell do I need on my side of the bed? I climb into bed every night - on my predetermined side - and fall asleep almost immediately. Then sometime between 4:00 and 5:00 AM, I awaken, often without an alarm, and I immediately climb out of bed.

What could I possibly need while I’m in bed?

I know. I probably sound like Steve O’Rourke now, except I bet that lots of people don’t keep anything on the side of their bed.

Right?