Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 625

The dead writing about the dead

This was a trending topic on Twitter last night and posted many times.  For those of you who don't use the micro blogging platform, I thought it was worth sharing:

The New York Times had their Elizabeth Taylor obituary ready for so long that the writer of the piece, Mel Gussow, has been dead for six years.

Im not a Past Commander, but Ive got some pin-worthy material of my own

While judging the American Legion Oratorical Contest, I noticed a Legionnaire with a large, gold pin on his arm that read Past Commander.

A pin denoting a previous station in life. 

I like this idea a lot.

Rather than leaving behind previous accomplishments and positions of significance, why not  plaster them across your arm for all to see. 

I really like this idea.  

And so I made a list of some of the pins that I might consider including on my arm.  They include:

Former Little League All Star Retired Dungeon Master Failed telemarketer Former member of The National Grange of the Order of Patrons of Husbandry  Two-time lip syncing contest champion Former community theater actor One time criminal defendant Former lifeguard Failed Habitat for Humanity volunteer Former founding and solo member of a high school chess club One-time Ronald McDonald Children's Charities volunteer imposter Former third string middle school soccer goalie Former flutist, bassoonist and drummer (I also played clarinet, but what would that make me?  A former clarineteer?) Ex-step-brother Former banker Past science fair cheat Former raccoon owner One time homeless person Former and currently wistful fire engine chaser Failed bus patrol volunteer (I was fired from the position in third grade) Former member of the Poison fan club

Granted, a few of these pins might get a little large, but I can always add them to my legs when my arms get full.

Post traumatic growth

Martin Seligman, director of the Positive Psychology Center at the University of Pennsylvania, was speaking about posttraumatic growth on a recent edition of the Harvard Business Review

Posttraumatic growth refers to positive psychological change experienced as a result of the struggle with highly challenging life circumstances. It is not simply a return to baseline from a period of suffering; instead it is an experience of improvement that for some persons is deeply profound.

Seligman is working with the US Army in an effort to reduce the rate of  depression that soldiers experience following a traumatic battlefield incident.  He has discovered that if a person is told that the possibility of posttraumatic growth exists, the chances that the person will experience this growth instead of depression increase significantly. 

In short, you just have to tell people that traumatic experiences will make you a better person and it is more likely to happen.

Powerful stuff. 

Throughout my life, I have often said that if given the chance, I would change very little about my past, despite the high degree of difficulty that I have faced.  And for the most part, I still believe this.  The challenges that I have faced have made me the person I am today, and they have allowed me to grow in the same way that Seligman describes.  The multiple near-death experiences, the robbery, the arrest and trial for a crime I did not commit, the years of utter impoverishment, the temporary homelessness, the successful completion of college despite working more than forty hours a week, the anonymous, widespread attempt at character assassination and the traumatic  childhood all resulted in the resiliency, confidence and strength that I enjoy today. 

I would not be the teacher, the author, the husband and the father that I am without having faced and overcome these challenges.

Oddly enough, I am happy with the course of my life.   

But does this mean that I should wish the same upon my daughter? 

I have seen friends living lives of relative ease crumble at the first sign of trouble. 

I have watched colleagues collapse in the face of bitter struggle, having never faced a serious challenge before in their lives. 

I have witnessed the lack of perspective and balance that a lifetime of relative security can bring.

No parents wishes ill upon their child, but it was only through pain and turmoil that I was able to become the person I am today.

Should I hope that Clara experiences struggles similar to mine?

Should I wish for the same post-traumatic growth that I experienced?

Can she become a strong, independent, self-reliant, resilient woman if her path is free of turmoil?   

I'm not sure.

Perhaps the best I can hope for her are challenges that will test her mettle and  leave her stronger and more resilient but ultimately unscarred. 

An interesting life, perhaps.  That might be the best wish of all.  That might just about cover it.

The only thing I am certain about is the unexpected gratitude that I feel towards those who helped me become the person I am today. 

The universe, for placing unexpectedly deadly bees and surprisingly slippery roads in my path.

The police officer who decided that I was guilty before bothering to investigate.

The armed men who tortured and terrorized me on dark night in 1993. 

The anonymous cowards who attempted to ruin my career through slander and libel.

And even my parents, who forced me to grow up at an early age and take care of myself.

Without these experiences, I would not be the father and husband, teacher and writer, and mentor and confidant that I am today.

Post-traumatic growth.  It can make the most despicable people seem nearly angelic. 

How to eat a Cadbury Crme Egg

There is one and only one correct way to eat a Cadbury Crème Egg.  Allow me to explain. 

In case you have been living under a rock for your entire life, the Cadbury Crème Egg is a brand of chocolate constructed of two parts: a thick, chocolate shell and the liquid, candy interior. 

It is candy perfection, but it relies upon the consumer to ensure that this perfection is achieved.

The key to properly eating a Cadbury Crème Egg is to consume the egg in three equal bites.  If done properly, this allows each bite to be equally and appropriately delicious.

This is the key.   

In order to achieve three perfect bites, one must ensure that each bite contains equal portions of both candy components, for it is through the blending of these two components that perfection is attained.  To finish a Cadbury Crème Egg by consuming only the chocolaty tip of the egg, for example, would be to deny its potential perfection. 

It would be both wasteful and inane.

It would be a tragedy.      

This is why three is the ideal number of bites.  Three bites allows for the requisite distribution of chocolate shell and liquid interior in each bite.  This is essential.  To consume the chocolate exterior without simultaneously ingesting the candy interior defeats the purpose of the candy and fundamentally debases the entire experience. 

When in doubt, here is a good rule of thumb: 

If eaten properly, the consumption of a Cadbury Crème Egg should result in at least three sticky fingers. 

If your hands are clean upon the completion of a Cadbury Crème Egg, you have failed the candy. 

You have denied yourself an opportunity at perfection.  

I take my Cadbury Crème Eggs very seriously.

Our little devil

Please take note of the distinct change in my daughter between the two sets of photographs.

Here is Clara, innocently eating some ice cream.

 

Seconds later, here is Clara, clearly plotting the conquest of the planet. 

 

But can I sing the N-word?

I am not a person who would ever use the N-word.  While I don't support the recent revision of Huckleberry Finn that excludes the N-word, it is not a word that I would typically use in my own writing and would never use it in conversation. 

But I have a problem. 

What if the word is used in a song?

Up until this point, the question has been mute.  The use of the N-word in music is typically restricted to hip hop and rap, and I am not a big fan of either genre.  I am also been opposed to the consistent use of vulgarity in music, seeing it as an easy and cheap way to heighten the emotional quotient of a song.   

But now I have a problem.  Despite the vulgarity that infuses most of Cee Lo Green's F-You, I love this song.  I think it is funny and honest and almost perfect, and the recent remixes of the song that remove the profanity are neutering and terrible. 

For once in my life, I find a profanity-laced song incredibly enjoyable.

But the song also includes the N-word.

So the other day I found myself singing along to the song in my car when I came upon the verse that includes the N-word.

Was I supposed to stop singing?

Should I have replaced the N-word with a palatable alternative, as has been done in the recent edition of Huckleberry Finn?

Should I have bleeped the offensive word out?

Should I simply never sing the song?

What is a white guy to do when he wants to sing along to a song that includes the N-word?

I'm stuck.

All intents and purposes. And intensive purposes.

Until I was about twenty years old, I thought that the phrase "all intents and purposes" was "all intensive purposes."

And while I heard people say the phrase quite often, I never used it myself, simply because no purpose seemed so intensive as to describe it using this extreme a word. 

I can recall wondering on more than one occasion why so many people considered so many things so damn intensive, especially when the situations to which they were referencing were anything but intensive.

I can also remember feeling catastrophically stupid but also incredibly relieved at discovering the true meaning of the phrase.  

The world had suddenly become slightly less emotional. 

Any similar misunderstandings you'd like to share?

I get irradiated every night by my wife.

I stared at this radiation dose chart for hours. 

Well, maybe not that long.  But it kicks ass.

I have a full and complete understanding of the amount of radiation I am exposed to on a daily basis now, at least in my mind (though my iPhone is conspicuously missing from the list). 

It has turned me into one of those exceptionally annoying people who thinks he knows something that everyone else doesn't know but must know.

Which is why I have posted it here. 

THE RULES OF ALL DRINKING STORIES

This evening I posted the following on Twitter (and by extension, Facebook):

Drinking stories told by people over 30 are sad and pathetic.

I think I should clarify my exceedingly judgmental and overly accurate position on the subject.

The thought originated after listening to the 32 and 35-year old hosts of a technology podcast spent the first two minutes of their show talking about how they had spent the previous evening (St. Patrick's Day) drinking and describing how much Advil had been required in order to function properly the next day.

As I listened to this, I thought:

Really?  You're still getting drunk on a work night and bragging about it the next day?  And wasting my time in the process?

And so after some deliberation, I  present to you:

THE RULES OF ALL DRINKING STORIES

1.  No one will ever care about your drinking stories as much as you.

2.  Drinking stories never impress the type of woman who one would want to impress. 

3.  If you have more than three excellent drinking stories from your entire life, you are incorrect in your estimation of an excellent drinking story.

4.  Drinking stories must always be your own.  Telling someone else's drinking story reaches a level of separation that makes the story no longer tenable. 

4.  A drinking story told by someone over the age of 30 or whose spouse is over the age of 30 is a sad, pathetic and ultimately tragic event except under the following conditions:

The drinking story has surpassed all other drinking stories and has become the storyteller's absolute best drinking story of all time.  The drinking story is one that was formulated before the age of 30 and is one of the storyteller's three best drinking stories of all time. The storyteller is over 70.  Elderly drinking stories are acceptable in any form as they are rare and oftentimes hilarious.

5.  Even the best drinking stories are seriously compromised if told during the daytime and/or at the workplace.

Cancellation celebration

Since mid-January, my friends and I have been trying to organize a trip to Florida (and later Atlanta) for a weekend of golf.  With the snow piling up around us and what seemed like years before we would ever return to the links, a friend suggested the trip and I instantly agreed. 

Unfortunately, the limited availability of one friend in particular (and a retired guy no less) pushed back what had originally been an early February trip into late March and had shifted our original Florida destination to Atlanta.  

Lucky for him, things worked out just fine.  Two weeks ago we decided to call off the trip, fearing that we would be boarding a plane during the last week in March just as the golf courses in the area began opening for business. 

And that's exactly what happened. 

On Thursday, with temperatures approaching 70 degrees, my friend and I went golfing for the first time this season.  A local course opened 9 of its 27 holes and we took advantage of the good weather and squeezed in a round after work.

I can't tell you how happy it made me to play golf again.  Sometime in mid-January I awoke with the realization that I will probably want to move to Florida when I retire.  The change of seasons is nice for the first forty years or so, but after that, it's a drag.

Unfortunately, not everything about my golf outing was perfect.  Two weeks ago I discovered that my driver and hybrids had been stolen from my golf bag, either while it was in lying in the backseat of my car or sitting in my garage.  Having failed to replace any of the stolen clubs yet, I hit a 6-iron off the tee and still managed to shoot a 47, which would have qualified as one of my lowest scores of last season and one of my lowest scores of all time.  I had two pars and four bogies, and I even managed to hit the flag with my chip shot on the first hole. 

I'm not sure how to feel about this.  After fives months away from the game and hampered by the loss of three important clubs, I managed to shoot one of my best rounds of golf ever on a soggy, brown course.

This is either a sign of things to come or yet another ridiculous moment in my ridiculously inconsistent game.

I also had the good fortune of extracting my ball from a snow drift on the third hole, the first (and perhaps last) time that has happened in the four years that I have been playing the game.

I'm still distraught over the loss of the clubs and the audacity of someone to steal a man's driver, but the sub-50 round managed to ease my pain a bit.  My friend, Tom, has been telling me to throw away my driver for the past two years and just take an iron off the tee (this is the same guy who started me off by having me hit a 2-iron off the tee, so I never know if I should trust him), and while I'm not about to do that, it sure was nice to be sitting in the fairway on most holes.     

I'm assuming that it's all down hill from here. 

But it's golf, so it's still going to be great.