Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 235

Walk fast. Now science is standing behind me.

Four years ago, I wrote a post on productivity that suggested that you walk faster in order to save time. 

I wrote (in part):

I know it sounds simple and stupid, but if you want to be more productive, walk fast.

I am often teased by colleagues because I walk down the halls at breakneck speeds. It’s assumed by many that I am incredibly busy, and while this may be true, my decision to walk fast is a conscious one that I make in order to recapture time.

Not only does the increased speed provide me with an elevated heart rate and a tiny bit of exercise, but I simply get places sooner than everyone else. Almost every day, I park my car and walk past people who are sauntering through the parking lot as if it were adorned with fine art. As if it were a place they wanted to be.

Do I save much time in the process?

Over the course of a day, a week, a month or a lifetime, the answer is yes. Absolutely. The amount of time I save in each parking lot, hallway, and grocery store is minimal, but it adds up quickly. 

It gets me back to the places where I want to be.

It gets me back to the people who I want to be with.

Readers scoffed at this notion at the time. They argued that I needed to stop and smell the roses. They suggested that there was value in the saunter. They insisted that rushing around every day wasn't the best way to live a life. They said that walking quickly through a grocery store was ridiculous. They implied that I was a little crazy. 

Their opposition didn't bother me at the time. I know what it's like to be at the tip of the spear. Leading the charge for change can be difficult, but the tip of the spear is where I have been for much of my life.

I'm accustomed to occupying the minority, albeit correct, position on matters such as these.  

Four years later, science finally supports my claim. 

Walking at an average pace was linked to a 20% reduction in the risk of mortality compared with walking at a slow pace, while walking at a brisk or fast pace was associated with a risk reduction of 24%, according to a new study. A similar result was found for risk of dying from cardiovascular disease.

I was, as you can imagine, not surprised. 

The study was a collaboration between the Universities of Sydney, Cambridge, Edinburgh, Limerick and Ulster. The researchers linked mortality records with the results of 11 population-based surveys in England and Scotland between 1994 and 2008 in which participants reported their walking pace. The findings appear in a special issue of the British Journal of Sports Medicine dedicated to walking and health.

I'll add that in addition to the possible longevity that results from a quicker walking pace, I stand by my original argument:

You'll also get more out of life by walking faster. Fewer minutes spent crossing through parking lots, walking down halls, and strolling through the aisles of a grocery store means more minutes spent doing the things you love and spending time with people you love. 

Even if these studies prove to be flawed and life expectancy does not improve with a quicker walking pace, walking faster means that the time that you do have will be better spent. Precious minutes will be saved. Do this every day, and those minutes quickly add up. 

Once you understand the value of time (by far the world's most undervalued commodity), you'll want to preserve every single minute possible.

And if you can gain an extra decade of life in the process, even better.  

The importance of an editor

Remember Brandi Chastain from the 1999 World Cup?

She's the soccer player who kicked the winning goal against China to win the gold medal for the Americans. After scoring the goal, she pulled off her jersey, exposing her sports bra and sending a sizable number of conservatives into amusing, ridiculous hysterics.  

Chastain was recently inducted into the San Francisco Bay Area Sports Hall of Fame. Her induction included a plaque that featured her image.

Here is a side by side comparison of the statue and Chastain. No joke. 

This makes no sense to me. 

How does anyone in charge of this award or Hall of Fame allow this ridiculous, hideous plaque to see the light of day?

This is why I love my editors. I'm blessed to work with at least half a dozen of them at the moment. I have an editor for my fiction, an editor for my nonfiction, and an editor my upcoming middle grade novel, as well as four different magazine editors at three different publications who I work with regularly.

On top of that, Elysha serves as an editor for my storytelling performances, and when I'm working with The Moth, I am blessed to work with producers who essentially work as editors while you are crafting your story.

On top of all of that, I have about a dozen friends who read my material before it even makes it to an editor, and these people are invaluable to me. Discerning, honest, and skilled, these friends make everything I write better. 

Creative people need editors. We need someone to say:

"That is not good."
"Those words stink."
"That story is boring."
"That ain't funny." 
"That idea is interesting but not right for this moment."
"This part makes you sound like a creep."
"No one cares that much about hermit crabs, so stop it." 

Someone needed to tell the artist who made that image of Brandi Chastain that he or she was clearly looking at a photograph of the wrong person. Or was drunk at the time of creation. Or needs to see an optometrist immediately. Or must secretly hate Brandi Chastain.

To Chastain's credit, her response to this atrocity was, "It's not the most flattering, but it’s nice.”

I would not have been so kind. 

Don't be embarrassed

About a month ago I had a health scare. After waking up with chest pains in the left side of my chest and finding it hard to breathe, Elysha called an ambulance, fearing I was having a heart attack.

A day-long stay in the cardiac care unit, a nuclear stress tests, and a follow up visit to the cardiologist have all determined that my heart is in excellent shape.

Just a pulled muscle in my chest.

Here's something important:

I didn't initially call the ambulance or even tell Elysha that I was struggling to breathe. I sat downstairs in the early morning hours alone, in pain, and in fear that I was being silly. I worried that I might be overreacting. I didn't want to make a big deal out of nothing.

I was afraid to be embarrassed. 

I'm not sure how long I would've stayed downstairs alone, wondering what to do, had a woodpecker not started pounding on the house just before 6:00 AM, causing Elysha to awaken and ask me to come upstairs.

That was when I told her about my pain. That was when she called the ambulance. 

Later, in the cardiac care unit, as the tests began indicating that I wasn't having a heart attack, I started to feel a little ridiculous. I had made a mountain out of a mole hill. I had wasted a lot of people's valuable time on what amounted to be a simple, pulled muscle.

I started to feel embarrassed.

As a nurse shaved my chest in preparation for my stress test, I apologized to her. I said that I was sorry to waste all this time and effort when it looked like I was fine. I told her how I didn't want to call the ambulance for this very reason. 

She stopped shaving.  She looked into my eyes. She said, "People die because they don't call 911 in fear of embarrassment. They sit at home, trying to decide if what they are feeling is real, and then it's too late. That happens more than you know. You have kids. Right?"

"Yes," I said. "Two."

"Then you don't have time to worry about being embarrassed. You need to keep yourself alive. Forget embarrassment. You did the right thing. I wish more people would."

I didn't tell her that Elysha was the one to call the ambulance, and that she actually called without my knowledge. I was still debating if my pain warranted a trip to the hospital when Elysha appeared and said the ambulance was already on its way.  

That nurse was right. When it comes to our health, "Better safe than sorry" seems especially applicable. How sad and foolish of people - myself included - for worrying about being too healthy to seek medical treatment, especially when it's related to the heart.  

There is no room for embarrassment when your life may or may not be on the line. 

My friend, Steve, recently told a story at Speak Up about experiencing chest pains and deciding to seek medical treatment. Steve was still in his twenties at the time. He was the former starting tight end at the University of Connecticut with a real chance at the NFL before an injury and bad luck derailed his football dreams. 

Steve was a world class athlete. If anyone had a reason to dismiss some chest pain as nothing, it was Steve. Instead, he went to the hospital, and doctors discovered an almost complete blockage of an artery affectionately known as the widow maker. He underwent surgery immediately and is alive and healthy today. 

Steve has two kids, too. Thank goodness for them and his wife that he wasn't too embarrassed to seek help.

Thank goodness my chest pain turned out to be nothing. 

Don't ever be embarrassed to seek medical attention when in doubt. The only embarrassment I feel about that day now is the embarrassment over being worried about being embarrassed. 

The problem with crossword puzzles

I've never done a crossword in my life. Like Sudoku, I hated the idea of working on something that yields nothing in return when I'm finished. 

Yes, my vocabulary might improve, and I'll exercise my brain a bit, but I could just read a book instead and get all that a story or nonfiction title has to offer in addition to those vocabulary and brain benefits.  

But Elysha introduced me to the New York Times crossword app, which has short, daily crosswords that are timed. 

Timed means that not only is accuracy under scrutiny but also speed. 

Timed means completing one can be turned into a competition.

I like competition. I like competition against myself, and I like to compete against others, including Elysha. I also like the fact that Elysha is indisputably better at completing crossword puzzles than me. Her times are often half of my own, and I have yet to beat her. 

Recently, she asked how long the latest crossword took me to complete, and when I said, "Almost four minutes," she responded with the sweetest, "Oh..." possible. 

I like this. I love to chase a frontrunner.   

So for the past month, I've been doing the daily New York Times daily mini crosswords. The first crosswords of my life. It always takes less than five minutes, and I've admittedly learned some new words along the way.

It's also been fun, and I'm improving. This morning I completed the puzzle in 1:01.

I have yet to crack one minute, which Elysha cracks almost daily.

But I have a complaint. As a newcomer to this world of crossword puzzles, one aspect of these puzzles is complete and utter nonsense:

The two word answer.

Like today, for example. The clue was "On the ocean." The answer was "At sea."

This is nonsense. Balderdash. Hooey. Poppycock. Malarkey.  

I understand that the two word answer might seem normal if you've lived with crosswords for a long time, but as one who just arrived in this new world and has an unvarnished, objective view of the landscape, I'm here to report that two word answers are lazy, sad, shortcuts to real clues. 

This is a crossword puzzle. Not a crosswords puzzle. One word crosses another.  

Every time a crossword creator writes a two word clue, an angel's wings fall off and the once- righteous being plummets to the depths of hell. 

Two word answers are the worst. 

And this is not sour grapes. I've gradually grown accustomed to the stupidity of the two word answer in the same way I had grown accustomed to the stupidity of the Electoral College and laugh tracks. Two word answers are not delaying my crossword completion.

They are just tearing at the fabric of my soul. 

Phone on your face

Elysha was on the phone, talking to a storyteller when Charlie called from upstairs. We had put him to bed moments before, but he apparently needed something, so Elysha handed me the phone and asked to finish explaining our rehearsal process with the storyteller while she check on the boy.

I took her phone, placed it to my ear, and suddenly felt uncomfortable and stupid.

"This is so weird," I told the storyteller. "I'm pressing a phone against the side of my face. I can't believe that people still do this."

For years, I have been either:

Avoiding phone calls altogether.Putting phone calls on speaker.Conversing via FaceTime or Skype. Most often, speaking to people on the phone via my bluetooth headphones.

Pressing a phone against the side of your face is weird. Perhaps in the days when phones were mounted to walls and were longer and more contoured for the face, this didn't feel so odd and limiting, but holding a small rectangle between your ear and mouth is bizarre. 

I understand that I feel this way because I stopped doing it this way a long time ago, but nonetheless I'm here to tell you it's still weird and uncomfortable. 

Objectively so. It's just an odd way for two humans to communicate. 

Also, by using my headphones, I always have two hands free when talking on the phone. If I'm on a phone call that I expect to take a while (longer than a minute), I'm always doing something else: folding clothes, pulling weeds from the cracks of the driveway, picking up toys, cleaning out the refrigerator, or some other mindless, necessary chore. 

I can't imagine losing the use of a hand in order to press glass to your cheek.

Happily, Elysha quickly returned and we placed the storyteller on speaker in order to listen to her story.

Crisis averted.  

Well, maybe not a crisis, except when I think about all those millions of people in the world, pressing rectangles to their faces everyday when so many better options are available to them. 

Speak Up Storytelling: Episode #3

Episode #3 of Speak Up Storytelling is now ready for your listening pleasure. 

On this week's episode, we talk about finding and crafting stories in your everyday life using my strategy "Homework for Life." 

Elysha gets a little annoyed with the moment that I share. 

Next, we listen to the incredible story by Mansoor Basha about the 1990 invasion of Kuwait by Iraq and it's echoes years later. Then Elysha and I discuss the strengths of his fantastic story as well as suggestions for improvement.

Finally, we answer listener questions about telling a story at The Moth and humor in storytelling, and we each make a recommendation.  

If you haven't subscribed to the podcast in Apple podcasts (or wherever you receive your podcasts), please do. And if you're not one of the 17 people to rate the podcast and 5 to review it in Apple Podcasts (who are the best people ever), we would love it if you did.

Ratings and reviews help listeners find our podcast easier, and it makes us feel better about ourselves and our work. 

Our first review, by the way, came from a woman named Kate who is my former third grade student, Elysha's former fifth grade student, our former babysitter, and now a teacher beginning her career in the same school where Elysha began her career. 

Remarkable how your former students can sometimes remain a part of your life long after they have left your classroom. 

Jurassic Park on the left. The Goonies on the right.

Weird. Right?

People don't like you because you complain all the time.

People don't like people who complain all the time. 

I explained this to my students after hiking The Freedom Trail in Boston with them. "I was so proud of you," I said. "In past years, some students complained a lot. Complained about being tired. Complained about walking. One kid once told me he had a terrible time because all we did is walk around and look at stuff."

The worst, I told them, is when someone complains about something that can't be changed. The length of the walk. The heat. The hills. "People don't like complainers."

This is one of those universal truths that everyone knows is true and yet is so often ignored. If it's a 10 year-old kid, I can understand. Kids lack wisdom and perspective. They're still learning. 

But adults? 

I really don't get it. 

I have to assume that the constant complainers either:

Fail to realize that they are constantly complainingCan't help themselvesAre somehow convinced that complaining is acceptable and appreciated

Either way, it's a damn tragedy. Their constant complaining never get them any closer to a solution to their problems, and they often damage their relationships with others in the process. 

I assume that people who constantly complain are fundamentally unhappy people, and while I can sympathize with their unhappiness, I also know that the complaining only serves to make them even less happy. It's an ugly feedback loop that seems to never end. 

People are drawn to positivity. Optimism. Solutions. Forward momentum. We know this, but so often, we fail to put this knowledge into practice.

This is not to say that complaining about something is wrong or that you must exude positivity and optimism at every moment. We can't be happy and satisfied at all times. 

I get quite annoyed, for example, when stuck behind someone in line at a convenience store who is requesting an assortment of scratch tickets. 

If you're going to purchase $50 in scratch tickets and then immediately scratch them inside the store beside the rack of Cheetos, I feel like you should be forced to stand in a special line for really, really dumb people. 

See? I can complain, too. 

I've also been known to complain about household clutter, my family's inability to turn off lights when leaving a room, the shot selection of Marcus Smart, men who think that watches are objects worthy of even a second of discussion, drivers who adhere to "No Right on Red" signs when the intersection is empty, pickles placed beside my hot dog like a garnish, golfers who roll their ball into a preferable position on the fairway, speed tables in wealthy neighborhoods, and dress codes of any kind.

Complaining is not the problem. It's the ratio of negativity to positivity that I'm talking about. The frequency by which a person complains. For some people, the ratio of negative to positive comments is off the charts.

So I tell my students (and my children) to try to be self-aware. Ask yourself:

How often do I complain about things beyond my control? 

Listen to yourself. Try to be self-aware. 

Remember: 

People don't like people who complain. 

Objectively, I think we all understand this.

In practice, I'm not so sure. 

Resolution update: May 2018

PERSONAL HEALTH

1. Don’t die.

Heart attack scare turned pulled chest muscle only proved (after many tests) that my heart is super healthy. And yesterday's cardiologist follow-up confirmed it. 

2. Lose 20 pounds.

Two more pounds lost in May, bringing my total to ten. Halfway to the goal.  

3. Eat at least three servings of fruits and/or vegetables per day. 

I had three servings of fruits and/or vegetables on 22 of 31 days in May. 

4. Do at least 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 3 one-minute planks for five days a week.

I missed two weeks of push ups after my heart attack scare turned out to be a pulled chest muscle.

5. Identify a yoga routine that I can commit to practicing at least three days a week.

No progress.

6. Stop using the snooze button.

Done and highly recommended. 

Science is right. Snoozing is a terrible practice that you must end immediately. Get the hell out of bed once you are awake. You will feel a lot better.    

WRITING CAREER

7. Complete my seventh novel before the end of 2018.

My agent and I have settled on the next novel. Progress has begun. 

8. Complete my second middle grade/YA novel.

I've submitted my first middle grade novel to my editor and am awaiting word. I can't choose or start the next book until the first is complete. 

9. Write at least three new picture books, including one with a female, non-white protagonist. 

No progress. 

10. Write a proposal for a memoir.

My agent and I have decided upon the memoir, and progress has begun. 

11. Write a new screenplay.

No progress.

12. Write a musical.

The musical originally planned for a summer camp is no longer needed.

I have an adult musical in mind that my writing partner has been asking me to write for a long, long time, so perhaps this is the time.

13. Submit at least five Op-Ed pieces to The New York Times for consideration.

I've submitted one piece for consideration in May (a piece about Mother's Day) for a total of three so far. All have been rejected.

4. Write a proposal for a nonfiction book related to education.

No progress, though Elysha has told me what this book should be. 

15. Submit one or more short stories to at least three publishing outlets.

No progress.

16. Select three behaviors that I am opposed to and adopt them for one week, then write about my experiences on the blog.

No progress. I'm still looking for possible behaviors to adopt. Suggestions welcomed. 

17. Increase my author newsletter subscriber base to 2,000.

Just 11 subscribers added in May. A total of 111 added since January 1. At this pace, I will miss my goal of 2,000.  

If you'd like to subscribe to my newsletter and receive tips on writing and storytelling, as well as links to amusing Internet miscellany and more, please subscribe here:

Subscribe

Sign up with your email address to receive news and updates.

Email Address













Sign Up

We respect your privacy.

Thank you!

18. Write at least six letters to my father.

One letter written in May, bringing my total to two. 

19. Write 100 letters in 2018.

Eight letters written and mailed in May. Thirty-one in total so far. 

20. Convert Greetings Little One into a book.

No progress.  

21. Record one thing learned every week in 2018.

Done! My favorite from May:

Lazzaro Spallanzani, a priest, physiologist and zoologist in late 18th century Italy conducted a series of careful and ingenious experiments on bats, first noting that blinded bats could fly and avoid obstacles just as well as seeing bats.

He built tiny goggles for the bats to wear in order to prove this.

He also shellacked bats to determine if their skin could somehow sense minute air currents that allowed them to see.

This is the same scientists who fashioned tiny pants for frogs to determine if the semen of male frogs had any role in the fertilization of eggs. 

Amazing.    

STORYTELLING

22. Produce a total of 12 Speak Up storytelling events.

Two shows produced in May: Infinity Hall and Hacker Theater on the campus of Miss Porter's School. Our 2018 total stands at four. It looks like we will produce exactly a dozen this year. 

23. Deliver a TEDx Talk.

Done! I spoke at a TEDxNatick salon event in May.

I've applied for two more TEDx conferences and await word. 

24. Attend at least 15 Moth events with the intention of telling a story.

No Moth events in May. Only three so far in 2018. 

On the bright side, I've won all three. Also, the summer beckons. It's much easier to make it to slams in the summer.  

25. Win at least three Moth StorySLAMs.

I won my 35th StorySLAM in NYC in February. I have not competed in a StorySLAM since.

One down. Two to go. 

26. Win a Moth GrandSLAM.

Done twice over! I won my fifth GrandSLAM in February and my sixth GrandSLAM in April.

27. Produce at least 25 episodes of our new podcast Speak Up Storytelling. 

Episode #1 and episode #2 are now available. Subscribe wherever you get your podcasts.  

If we don't skip more than five weeks for the rest of 2018, this goal will be achieved.

28. Perform stand up at least four times in 2018. 

I performed in at an open-mic night at a local comedy club and was also paid to headline a show in May (my first paid comedy gig!), bringing my total number of stand up performances in 2018 to three. 

29. Pitch my one-person show to at least one professional theater.

Done! My one-person show has been pitched and been accepted by the Speak Up, Rise Up Storytelling Festival. I'll be performing on Tuesday, August 7 at 9:30pm on their Main Stage.

You should come!

30. Pitch a new Moth Mainstage story to the artistic director of The Moth. 

No progress.

NEW PROJECTS

31. Write a syllabus for a college course on teaching. 

No progress, but I am frustrated, annoyed, and disappointed by developments with a local college in terms their curriculum for student teachers, so I'm doing a lot of thinking on this issue. 

32. Cook at least 12 good meals (averaging one per month) in 2018.

No progress. 

33. Plan a 25 year reunion of the Heavy Metal Playhouse.

No progress. 

MISCELLANEOUS

34. Pay allowance weekly.

Done! 

35. Ride my bike with my kids at least 25 times in 2018.

No progress. But the weather is finally ripe for bike riding. I hope to get the bikes ready this weekend. 

36. I will report on the content of speech during every locker room experience via social media in 2018. 

Done. I spent 21 days at the gym (including the locker room) in May, and I did not hear a single comment related to sexually assaulting women.  

37. I will not comment, positively or negatively, about physical appearance of any person save my wife and children, in 2017 in an effort to reduce the focus on physical appearance in our culture overall. 

It was pointed out to me that on Boy vs. Girl, the podcast I produce with Rachel Leventhal-Weiner, I told a story that included a description of the size of a man. His size, I felt, was relevant to the story (I was sitting beside him on an airplane), but it's true that I commented on his physical appearance. 

My first slip of 2018, though I clearly need to carve out a storytelling exception to my rule, since physical appearance is admittedly relevant to storytelling at times. When you're looking to create images in the mind of your listeners, physical description is sometimes required.  

38. Surprise Elysha at least six times in 2018.

I surprised Elysha twice in May.

I gave her a Soda Stream for Mother's Day (continuing my string of kick-ass, almost-everyday-use gifts, including her ukulele, her Instant Pot, and her reportedly amazing hair dryer). 

I also surprised her with a refrigerator display on Charlie's last day of his fifth year of life.

Four down. Two to go.

39. Replace the 12 ancient, energy-inefficient windows in our home with new windows that will keep the cold out and actually open in the warmer months.

I've received some more reasonable estimates for this project. It might actually be doable.     

40. Clean the basement. 

I threw a lot of stuff away in May in preparation for a full cleaning later this year. 

It's looking good. 

41. Set a new personal best in golf.

I played several rounds of golf in May, including in the rain on Sunday morning. 

None of my rounds have come close to eclipsing my personal best. 

42. Play poker at least six times in 2018.

I hosted a poker game in May which went until about 1:30 AM. It should count as two games. 

One down. Five to go. 

43. Spend at least six days with my best friend of more than 25 years.

No progress, though we booked another wedding, bringing our total this year to three. 

44. Post my progress in terms of these resolutions on this blog on the first day of every month.

Done.

Have some shame. Move out.

Perhaps you've heard about Michael Rotondo? 

He's the 30 year-old man who was recently sued by his parents in an effort to get him to move out of their home. His parents claimed that their son does not pay rent or help with chores, and has ignored his parents' offers of money to get him settled.

Despite doling out five eviction letters, Christina and Mark Rotondo say their son still refused to move out.

Michael argued that legally, he was not given enough notice to leave.  

Two weeks ago Christina and Mark Rotondo won in court, and last week their son moved out. I'm not going to pretend to fully understand the dynamics of this situation well, nor should anyone else. It's probably a lot more complicated than it seems.

But what I know is this:

When my friends and I were 18 years-old and graduating high school, we could not wait to leave the home. Many of my friends went off to college or joined the military, and kids like me who weren't able to go straight to college moved into cruddy apartments with multiple roommates and multiple jobs in order to make ends meet. We slept on couches, converted closets into bedrooms, ate a lot of macaroni, shared the telephone with an upstairs neighbor, turned off the heat on all except the coldest nights, and struggled to make ends meet.

It was glorious.  

I didn't know a single person who wanted to or remained at home after high school.

Admittedly, I didn't have a choice. I was strongly encouraged to leave after graduating, and "college" was a word never spoken aloud to me by parent, teacher, or guidance counselor, so I never saw higher education as something for me.

But even if my parents had invited me to stay well beyond high school, I don't think I would've stayed long.

I was also sleeping in a damp, unheated, poorly-lit basement bedroom at the time, so my childhood accommodations weren't exactly first rate.

Still, I can't see me staying in that house for more than another year, no matter my circumstances. There comes a point in a person's life when the desire for independence and a willingness to take on the world become irresistible. 

Beyond that, there also comes point where shame should really take hold. At some point between the ages of 22 and 30 (and preferably a lot closer to 22), a person should start to feel the sting of embarrassment for not setting out on their own. Not testing their mettle. Not launching their future. And yes, this might mean finding roommates, taking on multiple jobs, and eating poorly, but these are things that every generation of young people endure.

These are the things that build character. Provide perspective. Strengthen grit and resolve.  

Get your ass out of the house and find a way to make it work. 

This is not to say that a person can't return home at some point. A messy divorce. An unexpected illness. A financial upheaval. If you have a home to return to, count your blessings and by all means get back on your feet. As someone who was briefly homeless, I know all too well how easily a person can fall from grace, and I understand all too well the fear of living on the street and wondering if you'll ever have a roof over your head again.

If you have parents who are able and willing to take you into their home, you're very lucky.  

But if you're a 30 year-old man and you're living in your parents home after they have told you to leave multiple times, and you still refuse, you've lost any sense of shame. You've lost the all-important ability to feel embarrassed by the choices you've made and the desire to extricate yourself from those choices as quickly as possible. 

Like a President who lies with impunity and feels absolutely no shame about being proven to be a liar again and again and again, the inability to feel shame over one's own behavior can lead to catastrophe.

In the case of Michael Rotondo, it means being evicted from your childhood home by your own parents.

In the case of our country, it means a devaluation and degradation of norms, an erosion in the faith of our free press, and a President who disgraces us on the world stage every damn day.