Benjamin Rubenstein's Blog, page 6
January 3, 2017
In a Word
My first published piece of creative nonfiction literature also happens to be quasi poetry. Here is me, in a word.
As published in apt
Favorite drug: OxyContin. Second favorite drug: Cinnabon. Most painful drug: chemotherapy. Second most painful drug: Cinnabon. Drug I consumed most: Benadryl. Person who has consumed most Benadryl in world history: me. Number of uses of Benadryl: infinite.
Favorite food: pizza. Favorite topping: pepperoni. Practice never followed: kosher. Feeling experienced during bar mitzvah: nervousness. Substance wished knew about during bar mitzvah: whiskey.
High school sport: tennis. Sport too short to succeed at: all. Sport too tall to succeed at: none. One and only thing short people are better at than tall people: lifespans. Percentage chance fabricated the last sentence: fifty. Favorite teenage activity: driving. Favorite musical artist when driving: N’Sync. Sentence you should keep to yourself: previous. Keep reading In a Word
As published in apt
Favorite drug: OxyContin. Second favorite drug: Cinnabon. Most painful drug: chemotherapy. Second most painful drug: Cinnabon. Drug I consumed most: Benadryl. Person who has consumed most Benadryl in world history: me. Number of uses of Benadryl: infinite.
Favorite food: pizza. Favorite topping: pepperoni. Practice never followed: kosher. Feeling experienced during bar mitzvah: nervousness. Substance wished knew about during bar mitzvah: whiskey.
High school sport: tennis. Sport too short to succeed at: all. Sport too tall to succeed at: none. One and only thing short people are better at than tall people: lifespans. Percentage chance fabricated the last sentence: fifty. Favorite teenage activity: driving. Favorite musical artist when driving: N’Sync. Sentence you should keep to yourself: previous. Keep reading In a Word
January 2, 2017
My first published piece of creative nonfiction literatur...
My first published piece of creative nonfiction literature also happens to be quasi poetry. Here is me, in a word.
As published in apt
Favorite drug: OxyContin. Second favorite drug: Cinnabon. Most painful drug: chemotherapy. Second most painful drug: Cinnabon. Drug I consumed most: Benadryl. Person who has consumed most Benadryl in world history: me. Number of uses of Benadryl: infinite.
Favorite food: pizza. Favorite topping: pepperoni. Practice never followed: kosher. Feeling experienced during bar mitzvah: nervousness. Substance wished knew about during bar mitzvah: whiskey.
High school sport: tennis. Sport too short to succeed at: all. Sport too tall to succeed at: none. One and only thing short people are better at than tall people: lifespans. Percentage chance fabricated the last sentence: fifty. Favorite teenage activity: driving. Favorite musical artist when driving: N’Sync. Sentence you should keep to yourself: previous. Keep reading In a Word
As published in apt
Favorite drug: OxyContin. Second favorite drug: Cinnabon. Most painful drug: chemotherapy. Second most painful drug: Cinnabon. Drug I consumed most: Benadryl. Person who has consumed most Benadryl in world history: me. Number of uses of Benadryl: infinite.
Favorite food: pizza. Favorite topping: pepperoni. Practice never followed: kosher. Feeling experienced during bar mitzvah: nervousness. Substance wished knew about during bar mitzvah: whiskey.
High school sport: tennis. Sport too short to succeed at: all. Sport too tall to succeed at: none. One and only thing short people are better at than tall people: lifespans. Percentage chance fabricated the last sentence: fifty. Favorite teenage activity: driving. Favorite musical artist when driving: N’Sync. Sentence you should keep to yourself: previous. Keep reading In a Word
January 1, 2017
My Curated 2016 Review
There’s too much content: you post too many tweets that don’t offer value to anyone whom you don’t call “Mom,” and you post too many photos of your baby sitting on a carpet. I’d like to create a movement for 2017. In this movement all adopters will be thoughtful in what they share with the world. We will share less, though what we share will have more impact on others.
Be prepared, though, to become less popular, because social media rewards those who post the most. You will not gain as many followers as you did in 2016. People may forget you exist (until you post that killer photo of your baby sitting on the carpet with his smile just right), but don’t worry because two minutes after anyone not named Justin Bieber posts anything we forget they exist.
If you adopt this movement then you will see two benefits. (1) You’ll gain headspace from no longer having to constantly think, At what angle should I capture my baby sitting on the carpet? (2) You’ll improve the lives of others by giving them a tad of inspiration, joy or amusement.
Let’s call this movement curated and I’ll start now: here are my single bests of 2016.
Best Photo
Dec. 30 was my birthday and I spent the day with two of my favorite people, whom I call Mom and Dad. We went out for my favorite food (pizza) and saw my second favorite movie of the year (Passengers). It was a good day. It was a great day. Mom captured my seven-month beard. I do not know how much longer I can keep this beard and it needs to become part of historical record (meaning in your mind for two minutes).
Best New App
In the spring I began meditating with Headspace for 20 minutes a day. I’m a serial committer so I’ll now meditate daily, forever. Headspace has taught me focus and flow: meaning, when it takes me hours to respond to your email or text it’s because I’m trying to remain undistracted so I can complete my work, and not because I do not like you.
Best Book I Read
I realized I love literary fiction after reading The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing. In the book nothing blows up, nobody gets murdered, and yet l became consumed by those characters. And that’s just it: life isn’t about what you do but rather about how deeply you connect with others. (I mean, it’s a little about blowing up your gingerbread house with firecrackers, but that’s a small part.)
Best Movie I Watched
The characters in Hell or High Water grow on us slowly, like an unattractive first date. The film shows us who they are instead of telling us. We see their positive attributes as well as their faults, and realize everyone has both. Plus, g-damn the ending is awesome.
Best New Friend
No answer because I don’t want to get cut by people I don't name. So I’ll offer this photo instead. I adore my creative writing program at the University of Southern Maine, and this photo taken at my first residency in January represents the skills, memories and friends I’ve gained there.
Best Accomplishment
My favorite part of my job is interviewing people who work for my organization and writing about their lives. One such employee told me about escaping Cuba as a little girl to come live in America. The trauma of the experience blocked her ability to remember much of it. A while back—she thinks maybe eight to 12 years ago—she asked her mom to tell stories of the family’s departure from Cuba and to record them on cassette tapes. The employee’s mom agreed and doesn’t know that after all these years her daughter still hasn’t listened to any of them. The tapes remain in a container in a drawer in the employee’s bedroom. She has asked her mother, now 77, to record even more tapes and her mother again agreed, but she first needs her daughter to tell her where she left off in telling the story. The mother can’t remember. It’s been so long. The employee hasn’t listened because she’s afraid. “I know listening is going to make me really sad so I have to be in a place where I can listen to those tapes,” she told me.
She later told me that our interview and the story I then wrote about her may have given her encouragement to be brave enough to listen. Instilling that courage was my best accomplishment.
Best Quote
“What’s on the other side of fear? Nothing.” — Jamie Foxx on The Tim Ferriss Show podcast. I’m getting this quote tattooed on my penis to stave off the evolutionarily-ingrained fear of rejection.
Best Goal of 2017
Ask the kind of questions to understand the depth of others so I can appreciate them more; so I can empathize with them.
Most Valuable Thing I Can Offer You for 2017
Consume content like books and movies and photos of your friends’ babies sitting on the carpet not just for amusement, but to learn from them. How did it inspire you? What have you learned to do or not do from that experience?
Then, record what you learned. Why? Because just as you forget the tweet from two minutes ago, you forget lessons you’ve learned. After recording them you’ll always be able to refer to them and re-learn those lessons.
*I use Google Docs, which is web-based and not susceptible to your hard drive being blown up. I label the file “Journal [Year],” and each entry includes a date and a hashtag with a label (such as “dream,” “inspiration"). The hashtags categorize your content and will help you differentiate theme-based journal entries from other entries that just happen to have the word “dream.”
Best Piece of Writing
I want to name a shitty short story I wrote in my writing program, because I need to fully embrace that it is OK to write shitty first drafts. But instead I’ll say the story that is supposed to publish tomorrow, so come back.
Happy curating and happy New Year!
Be prepared, though, to become less popular, because social media rewards those who post the most. You will not gain as many followers as you did in 2016. People may forget you exist (until you post that killer photo of your baby sitting on the carpet with his smile just right), but don’t worry because two minutes after anyone not named Justin Bieber posts anything we forget they exist.
If you adopt this movement then you will see two benefits. (1) You’ll gain headspace from no longer having to constantly think, At what angle should I capture my baby sitting on the carpet? (2) You’ll improve the lives of others by giving them a tad of inspiration, joy or amusement.
Let’s call this movement curated and I’ll start now: here are my single bests of 2016.
Best Photo
Dec. 30 was my birthday and I spent the day with two of my favorite people, whom I call Mom and Dad. We went out for my favorite food (pizza) and saw my second favorite movie of the year (Passengers). It was a good day. It was a great day. Mom captured my seven-month beard. I do not know how much longer I can keep this beard and it needs to become part of historical record (meaning in your mind for two minutes).
Best New App
In the spring I began meditating with Headspace for 20 minutes a day. I’m a serial committer so I’ll now meditate daily, forever. Headspace has taught me focus and flow: meaning, when it takes me hours to respond to your email or text it’s because I’m trying to remain undistracted so I can complete my work, and not because I do not like you.
Best Book I Read
I realized I love literary fiction after reading The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing. In the book nothing blows up, nobody gets murdered, and yet l became consumed by those characters. And that’s just it: life isn’t about what you do but rather about how deeply you connect with others. (I mean, it’s a little about blowing up your gingerbread house with firecrackers, but that’s a small part.)
Best Movie I Watched
The characters in Hell or High Water grow on us slowly, like an unattractive first date. The film shows us who they are instead of telling us. We see their positive attributes as well as their faults, and realize everyone has both. Plus, g-damn the ending is awesome.
Best New Friend
No answer because I don’t want to get cut by people I don't name. So I’ll offer this photo instead. I adore my creative writing program at the University of Southern Maine, and this photo taken at my first residency in January represents the skills, memories and friends I’ve gained there.
Best Accomplishment
My favorite part of my job is interviewing people who work for my organization and writing about their lives. One such employee told me about escaping Cuba as a little girl to come live in America. The trauma of the experience blocked her ability to remember much of it. A while back—she thinks maybe eight to 12 years ago—she asked her mom to tell stories of the family’s departure from Cuba and to record them on cassette tapes. The employee’s mom agreed and doesn’t know that after all these years her daughter still hasn’t listened to any of them. The tapes remain in a container in a drawer in the employee’s bedroom. She has asked her mother, now 77, to record even more tapes and her mother again agreed, but she first needs her daughter to tell her where she left off in telling the story. The mother can’t remember. It’s been so long. The employee hasn’t listened because she’s afraid. “I know listening is going to make me really sad so I have to be in a place where I can listen to those tapes,” she told me.
She later told me that our interview and the story I then wrote about her may have given her encouragement to be brave enough to listen. Instilling that courage was my best accomplishment.
Best Quote
“What’s on the other side of fear? Nothing.” — Jamie Foxx on The Tim Ferriss Show podcast. I’m getting this quote tattooed on my penis to stave off the evolutionarily-ingrained fear of rejection.
Best Goal of 2017
Ask the kind of questions to understand the depth of others so I can appreciate them more; so I can empathize with them.
Most Valuable Thing I Can Offer You for 2017
Consume content like books and movies and photos of your friends’ babies sitting on the carpet not just for amusement, but to learn from them. How did it inspire you? What have you learned to do or not do from that experience?
Then, record what you learned. Why? Because just as you forget the tweet from two minutes ago, you forget lessons you’ve learned. After recording them you’ll always be able to refer to them and re-learn those lessons.
*I use Google Docs, which is web-based and not susceptible to your hard drive being blown up. I label the file “Journal [Year],” and each entry includes a date and a hashtag with a label (such as “dream,” “inspiration"). The hashtags categorize your content and will help you differentiate theme-based journal entries from other entries that just happen to have the word “dream.”
Best Piece of Writing
I want to name a shitty short story I wrote in my writing program, because I need to fully embrace that it is OK to write shitty first drafts. But instead I’ll say the story that is supposed to publish tomorrow, so come back.
Happy curating and happy New Year!
December 17, 2016
I Like Literary Fiction and I Cannot Lie
This semester I read literary fiction for the first time in my life. In August the following idea entered my mind, in September I acknowledged it, and in October I asked others about this idea to see if I was being absurd or dramatic; to see if I was crazy:
Is it possible to learn more about life by reading literary fiction than through actual experiences?
Let me explain before you go looking to buy me a straight jacket for Hanukkah. We move through life with just one point of view—our own. We can try putting ourselves in others' shoes and seeing the world from their perspective, but that's nothing more than an exercise in building the capacity to empathize. Besides you, only Russian hackers can actually see the world from your perspective, and even that's only if your mobile phone is on your person. (Of course it is.)
More than any other activity besides hacking, reading may bring us closest to seeing the world from another's point of view. As Elizabeth Strout writes in her latest novel My Name Is Lucy Barton, fiction "reports on the human condition, to tell us who we are and what we think and what we do."
My question tore at me. If the answer is "yes" then what have I missed out on by not reading literary fiction most of my life? And if the answer is "no" then why have I spent my life in such un-fulfillment that I would even ask that question?
My writing mentor this semester, GrilledCheese, guided me. GrilledCheese said that reading and writing are actual life experiences, so not only do they teach us about life but they also don't compete with life. The two are complements.
So my question, Is it possible to learn more about life by reading literary fiction than through actual experiences? should be re-framed as, How do I use literary fiction to enhance my life experiences?
I saw the same ear, nose and throat doctor from before I had a memory through my teens. Typically my parents took me to see him every three months, though more frequently around the five ear operations he performed on me as a boy. And nothing or nobody caused me more pain than this man. He shot alcohol into my holey eardrums when they got infected; he cauterized and stuck needles through their membranes. Sometimes I imagined the bacterial infections, or the things he shoved into my head to treat them, going all the way to my brain.
Dr. Wadley was not abusive. His methods were just the standards of the time, and whatever he did saved me from deafness. Even as a boy I understood that he hurt me because he cared. I could see that he cared.
After my second operation he wrapped a bandage around my stuffed animal's head identical to the one around mine. Eight years later he attended my bar mitzvah, and three years after that he sent me frequent "get well" cards during my year in treatment for my first cancer.
When Dr. Wadley retired I began seeing his partner, who I still see—now about every four months, not three. The two doctors kept in touch and I asked about Dr. Wadley every time I saw Dr. PoorBrownsFan. Dr. Wadley had moved to southern Virginia, got very involved with his church, and was loving retirement, according to Dr. PoorBrownsFan. I liked the idea of my old ear doctor, who had looked like an aged Cal Ripken Jr., riding a lawnmower to cut the grass around his large property and no longer having to shoot fire into little boys' ears.
As years passed I inquired about Dr. Wadley less. That's what happens as we age. The recency effect takes hold and old memories of old friends get buried by new ones.
After finishing My Name Is Lucy Barton tonight, I thought of Dr. Wadley. That's what reading literary fiction can do to you. One minute you can be sitting on the sofa with a Kindle in your hand and the next you can be searching the internet to see if a man who had cared for you for half your life has passed away.
Dr. Wadley died in May of this year at 82 years old. I am sure I would have learned of his passing at some point. Maybe Dr. PoorBrownsFan would have informed me the next time I see him, even. But for whatever reason, my reading a great piece of literary fiction triggered in me the thought of Dr. Wadley; it connected me with actual life experiences.
If there is an afterlife then I'm sure Dr. Wadley is hanging out with his former Army buddies. Maybe imitating Cal Ripken Jr. in a heaven talent show. Definitely painting on giant murals because he deserves a large canvas after decades of performing miracles on tiny membranes.
Is it possible to learn more about life by reading literary fiction than through actual experiences?
Let me explain before you go looking to buy me a straight jacket for Hanukkah. We move through life with just one point of view—our own. We can try putting ourselves in others' shoes and seeing the world from their perspective, but that's nothing more than an exercise in building the capacity to empathize. Besides you, only Russian hackers can actually see the world from your perspective, and even that's only if your mobile phone is on your person. (Of course it is.)
More than any other activity besides hacking, reading may bring us closest to seeing the world from another's point of view. As Elizabeth Strout writes in her latest novel My Name Is Lucy Barton, fiction "reports on the human condition, to tell us who we are and what we think and what we do."
My question tore at me. If the answer is "yes" then what have I missed out on by not reading literary fiction most of my life? And if the answer is "no" then why have I spent my life in such un-fulfillment that I would even ask that question?
My writing mentor this semester, GrilledCheese, guided me. GrilledCheese said that reading and writing are actual life experiences, so not only do they teach us about life but they also don't compete with life. The two are complements.
So my question, Is it possible to learn more about life by reading literary fiction than through actual experiences? should be re-framed as, How do I use literary fiction to enhance my life experiences?
I saw the same ear, nose and throat doctor from before I had a memory through my teens. Typically my parents took me to see him every three months, though more frequently around the five ear operations he performed on me as a boy. And nothing or nobody caused me more pain than this man. He shot alcohol into my holey eardrums when they got infected; he cauterized and stuck needles through their membranes. Sometimes I imagined the bacterial infections, or the things he shoved into my head to treat them, going all the way to my brain.
Dr. Wadley was not abusive. His methods were just the standards of the time, and whatever he did saved me from deafness. Even as a boy I understood that he hurt me because he cared. I could see that he cared.
After my second operation he wrapped a bandage around my stuffed animal's head identical to the one around mine. Eight years later he attended my bar mitzvah, and three years after that he sent me frequent "get well" cards during my year in treatment for my first cancer.
When Dr. Wadley retired I began seeing his partner, who I still see—now about every four months, not three. The two doctors kept in touch and I asked about Dr. Wadley every time I saw Dr. PoorBrownsFan. Dr. Wadley had moved to southern Virginia, got very involved with his church, and was loving retirement, according to Dr. PoorBrownsFan. I liked the idea of my old ear doctor, who had looked like an aged Cal Ripken Jr., riding a lawnmower to cut the grass around his large property and no longer having to shoot fire into little boys' ears.
As years passed I inquired about Dr. Wadley less. That's what happens as we age. The recency effect takes hold and old memories of old friends get buried by new ones.
After finishing My Name Is Lucy Barton tonight, I thought of Dr. Wadley. That's what reading literary fiction can do to you. One minute you can be sitting on the sofa with a Kindle in your hand and the next you can be searching the internet to see if a man who had cared for you for half your life has passed away.
Dr. Wadley died in May of this year at 82 years old. I am sure I would have learned of his passing at some point. Maybe Dr. PoorBrownsFan would have informed me the next time I see him, even. But for whatever reason, my reading a great piece of literary fiction triggered in me the thought of Dr. Wadley; it connected me with actual life experiences.
If there is an afterlife then I'm sure Dr. Wadley is hanging out with his former Army buddies. Maybe imitating Cal Ripken Jr. in a heaven talent show. Definitely painting on giant murals because he deserves a large canvas after decades of performing miracles on tiny membranes.
November 8, 2016
I Quit TV But I Can’t Quit Watching Trump
As published in The Huffington Post
Episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia from 2014 remain un-viewed on my DVR, and I didn’t know the Oprah Winfrey Network existed until yesterday. I have quit TV, or to be specific, I have quit watching programming with story arcs.
I just don’t have the tolerance to commit to shows any more. I prefer watching movies because the story ends in two instead of 100 hours. I would rather research the health benefits of a squat toilet than starting a new series. But sometimes being out of touch with pop culture poses social challenges.
Last month, two coworkers and I were still in the office at 7 p.m. That isn’t unusual—we work in federal communications and sometimes the agency director or the president of the U.S. makes an abrupt policy change that forces us to scramble to inform the public. In this case, Alison, Margaret and I were definitely done working and we were also hungry. Before we could even get to the point of deciding which D.C. Chinatown restaurant to visit, I stood watching my friends banter about The Walking Dead. And Fear the Walking Dead. And Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yes, still). And shows I’d never heard of and can’t repeat because I forgot them as soon as their titles touched my tympanic membrane.
At first I chimed in to say things like, “Who is that?” and, “That’s the name of a TV show?” Then, I felt too inadequate to enter the conversation. I just stood there waiting until Alison and Margaret tired of standing. Thirty minutes later, we began walking towards the door and eventually to a little sandwich place. The thing is, my coworkers were never done discussing television.
TV is always one of the most popular topics of discussion for my friends. Even if initially my friends and I discuss something else at first, someone steers the conversation to TV. With shows at the forefront of their minds, that transition is simple.
Transforming from an active conversationalist to a bystander is annoying but I accept it because it means I can log more films. I accept never seeing a single episode of Westworld or Stranger Things or whatever the hottest new show is. But somehow going a day without seeing news on Donald Trump is unfathomable because this election has been the greatest real-life story arc of our time. Keep reading I Quit TV But I Can’t Quit Watching Trump
Social Media
During the first presidential debate, while in a room full of 15 others who say they are fanatical about politics, this was the scene from my perspective. See more of my Instagram photos.
Episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia from 2014 remain un-viewed on my DVR, and I didn’t know the Oprah Winfrey Network existed until yesterday. I have quit TV, or to be specific, I have quit watching programming with story arcs.
I just don’t have the tolerance to commit to shows any more. I prefer watching movies because the story ends in two instead of 100 hours. I would rather research the health benefits of a squat toilet than starting a new series. But sometimes being out of touch with pop culture poses social challenges.
Last month, two coworkers and I were still in the office at 7 p.m. That isn’t unusual—we work in federal communications and sometimes the agency director or the president of the U.S. makes an abrupt policy change that forces us to scramble to inform the public. In this case, Alison, Margaret and I were definitely done working and we were also hungry. Before we could even get to the point of deciding which D.C. Chinatown restaurant to visit, I stood watching my friends banter about The Walking Dead. And Fear the Walking Dead. And Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yes, still). And shows I’d never heard of and can’t repeat because I forgot them as soon as their titles touched my tympanic membrane.
At first I chimed in to say things like, “Who is that?” and, “That’s the name of a TV show?” Then, I felt too inadequate to enter the conversation. I just stood there waiting until Alison and Margaret tired of standing. Thirty minutes later, we began walking towards the door and eventually to a little sandwich place. The thing is, my coworkers were never done discussing television.
TV is always one of the most popular topics of discussion for my friends. Even if initially my friends and I discuss something else at first, someone steers the conversation to TV. With shows at the forefront of their minds, that transition is simple.
Transforming from an active conversationalist to a bystander is annoying but I accept it because it means I can log more films. I accept never seeing a single episode of Westworld or Stranger Things or whatever the hottest new show is. But somehow going a day without seeing news on Donald Trump is unfathomable because this election has been the greatest real-life story arc of our time. Keep reading I Quit TV But I Can’t Quit Watching Trump
Social Media
During the first presidential debate, while in a room full of 15 others who say they are fanatical about politics, this was the scene from my perspective. See more of my Instagram photos.
November 7, 2016
I Quit TV But I Can’t Quit Trump
As published in The Huffington Post
Episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia from 2014 remain un-viewed on my DVR, and I didn’t know the Oprah Winfrey Network existed until yesterday. I have quit TV, or to be specific, I have quit watching programming with story arcs.
I just don’t have the tolerance to commit to shows any more. I prefer watching movies because the story ends in two instead of 100 hours. I would rather research the health benefits of a squat toilet than starting a new series. But sometimes being out of touch with pop culture poses social challenges.
Last month, two coworkers and I were still in the office at 7 p.m. That isn’t unusual—we work in federal communications and sometimes the agency director or the president of the U.S. makes an abrupt policy change that forces us to scramble to inform the public. In this case, Alison, Margaret and I were definitely done working and we were also hungry. Before we could even get to the point of deciding which D.C. Chinatown restaurant to visit, I stood watching my friends banter about The Walking Dead. And Fear the Walking Dead. And Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yes, still). And shows I’d never heard of and can’t repeat because I forgot them as soon as their titles touched my tympanic membrane.
At first I chimed in to say things like, “Who is that?” and, “That’s the name of a TV show?” Then, I felt too inadequate to enter the conversation. I just stood there waiting until Alison and Margaret tired of standing. Thirty minutes later, we began walking towards the door and eventually to a little sandwich place. The thing is, my coworkers were never done discussing television.
TV is always one of the most popular topics of discussion for my friends. Even if initially my friends and I discuss something else at first, someone steers the conversation to TV. With shows at the forefront of their minds, that transition is simple.
Transforming from an active conversationalist to a bystander is annoying but I accept it because it means I can log more films. I accept never seeing a single episode of Westworld or Stranger Things or whatever the hottest new show is. But somehow going a day without seeing news on Donald Trump is unfathomable because this election has been the greatest real-life story arc of our time. Keep reading I Quit TV But I Can’t Quit Trump
Social Media
During the first presidential debate, while in a room full of 15 others who say they are fanatical about politics, this was the scene from my perspective. See more of my Instagram photos.
Episodes of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia from 2014 remain un-viewed on my DVR, and I didn’t know the Oprah Winfrey Network existed until yesterday. I have quit TV, or to be specific, I have quit watching programming with story arcs.
I just don’t have the tolerance to commit to shows any more. I prefer watching movies because the story ends in two instead of 100 hours. I would rather research the health benefits of a squat toilet than starting a new series. But sometimes being out of touch with pop culture poses social challenges.
Last month, two coworkers and I were still in the office at 7 p.m. That isn’t unusual—we work in federal communications and sometimes the agency director or the president of the U.S. makes an abrupt policy change that forces us to scramble to inform the public. In this case, Alison, Margaret and I were definitely done working and we were also hungry. Before we could even get to the point of deciding which D.C. Chinatown restaurant to visit, I stood watching my friends banter about The Walking Dead. And Fear the Walking Dead. And Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yes, still). And shows I’d never heard of and can’t repeat because I forgot them as soon as their titles touched my tympanic membrane.
At first I chimed in to say things like, “Who is that?” and, “That’s the name of a TV show?” Then, I felt too inadequate to enter the conversation. I just stood there waiting until Alison and Margaret tired of standing. Thirty minutes later, we began walking towards the door and eventually to a little sandwich place. The thing is, my coworkers were never done discussing television.
TV is always one of the most popular topics of discussion for my friends. Even if initially my friends and I discuss something else at first, someone steers the conversation to TV. With shows at the forefront of their minds, that transition is simple.
Transforming from an active conversationalist to a bystander is annoying but I accept it because it means I can log more films. I accept never seeing a single episode of Westworld or Stranger Things or whatever the hottest new show is. But somehow going a day without seeing news on Donald Trump is unfathomable because this election has been the greatest real-life story arc of our time. Keep reading I Quit TV But I Can’t Quit Trump
Social Media
During the first presidential debate, while in a room full of 15 others who say they are fanatical about politics, this was the scene from my perspective. See more of my Instagram photos.
September 11, 2016
My 9/11 Shows That Cancer Patients Aren't Saints
I finally got a hold of my mom on the telephone on Sept. 11, 2001, just hours before I was supposed to receive my penultimate dose of radiation to treat my bone cancer. After nearly a year of treatment, I only had two days left. My mom said the National Institutes of Health was closed and I couldn't get radiation that afternoon. The NIH would probably be closed the next day, too, my mom said. Instead of feeling sadness for my country and for the thousands of Americans who were injured or killed, I felt anger that I would have to wait to call myself "cancer-free."
Cancer patients are often portrayed in the media and on television as physically and psychologically weak. But we aren't all weak, and even if we are some of the time, we aren't weak all of the time. Cancer patients are also often portrayed as saints, and that is equally inaccurate. As I sat on my couch watching CNN and eating cherry Twizzlers and stewing over having to wait two extra days to move on with my life, I was far from acting like a saint.
Today I'm thinking a little bit about cherry Twizzlers and a good bit about tomorrow's Redskins game. And I'm damn sure thinking about those who suffered and died on 9/11 and everyone else who have had to endure because of the attacks.
Appearances
Visit my Cancerslayer table at this year's CureFest for Childhood Cancer event next Sunday afternoon, September 18, on the National Mall. (Photo, below: my Cancerslayer table at the 2015 CureFest event.)
See me in The Story Collider's next D.C. show on Thursday, September 29, at Busboys and Poets. The Story Collider is a show in which storytellers tell personal stories about the deeply human side of science.
Cancer patients are often portrayed in the media and on television as physically and psychologically weak. But we aren't all weak, and even if we are some of the time, we aren't weak all of the time. Cancer patients are also often portrayed as saints, and that is equally inaccurate. As I sat on my couch watching CNN and eating cherry Twizzlers and stewing over having to wait two extra days to move on with my life, I was far from acting like a saint.
Today I'm thinking a little bit about cherry Twizzlers and a good bit about tomorrow's Redskins game. And I'm damn sure thinking about those who suffered and died on 9/11 and everyone else who have had to endure because of the attacks.
Appearances
Visit my Cancerslayer table at this year's CureFest for Childhood Cancer event next Sunday afternoon, September 18, on the National Mall. (Photo, below: my Cancerslayer table at the 2015 CureFest event.)
See me in The Story Collider's next D.C. show on Thursday, September 29, at Busboys and Poets. The Story Collider is a show in which storytellers tell personal stories about the deeply human side of science.
August 31, 2016
Road Trippin' from D.C. to Portland, Maine, in a Nissan Maxima
In July I went on a road trip from Washington, D.C., to Portland, Maine, where I participated in my second residency in my fiction-writing program. Of course I made a video of my adventures. Enjoy. You can watch it on YouTube or directly below, if your web browser allows.
Appearances
I delivered a public speaking workshop to leaders from the Alpha Omicron Pi sorority at George Mason University on August 21. Want to compete against me to see who can speak with the fewest "ums," "uhs," and "likes"? Book me for your next conference or event for a showdown.
See me in The Story Collider's next D.C. show on Thursday, September 29, at Busboys and Poets. The Story Collider is a show in which storytellers tell personal stories about the deeply human side of science.
Appearances
I delivered a public speaking workshop to leaders from the Alpha Omicron Pi sorority at George Mason University on August 21. Want to compete against me to see who can speak with the fewest "ums," "uhs," and "likes"? Book me for your next conference or event for a showdown.
See me in The Story Collider's next D.C. show on Thursday, September 29, at Busboys and Poets. The Story Collider is a show in which storytellers tell personal stories about the deeply human side of science.
August 22, 2016
My Katie Campbell Story
We look down at the iPhone directing us from the Maryland home of Katie “Crush” Campbell and her husband to our writing getaway in West Virginia and the battery is almost dead and it isn’t charging even though the charge plug is snug inside and the plug’s indicator light is bright blue. “This always happens,” Crush says in the way I imagine a monk says anything.
“Do you know how to get to the cabin?” I say.
“Not exactly.”
Crush stops the navigation to save her phone’s battery for when we get closer and possibly really need it. Thankfully between us we have three phones. I look at my two smartphones. One’s battery is in the teens and the other has a relatively healthy 30 percent left. I put both in airplane mode.
Crush continues telling me about her latest treatment in Germany using her dendritic cells. I’ve known Crush for almost two years. When her rare breast cancer returned her oncologists told her modern medicine couldn’t cure her so she consulted experts around the world in both traditional and nontraditional medicine. Crush has absorbed all their knowledge and my immediate thought is that, this weekend, I am getting a $10,000 education on cancer for free. Since I have known her, Crush has taken on a treatment plan to destruct her cancer or, at the least, keep it status quo. The types of treatment I had thought were science fiction.
Crush drives down an exit she’s certain is the correct one. Before we turn GPS back on, I tell her we should visit a supermarket. I can’t keep track of what Crush eats, or if she eats—at this point I would not be surprised if she only consumes water mixed with exogenous ketones and scorpion venom. But I need food, and I need a few craft beers. I mean, shit, we are about to dedicate ourselves to writing, not bear watching, and I take this seriously which means I need creative energy.
“I think the grocery store is up ahead on this road,” she says.
“Are you sure?” I say.
“…Maybe you should GPS it,” she says, and I fire up my less energized phone and save our most resourceful one.
We find the Food Lion one mile away, on the same road like Crush had thought. Crush parks. Before we go in, she wants to call her friend who owns the cabin, in order to get the code to unlock the lock box which contains the key to the front door. Crush fingerprints her phone and nothing happens. Because the battery is dead. She doesn’t remember her friend’s phone number. Why would she? I don’t even know my brother’s phone number.
I unlock my phone, the one that is more dead than the other, and hand it to Crush so she can log in to Google and find her friend’s number. She finds it and, using my more lively phone, calls her friend and leaves a message. I turn the volume all the way up so I’ll know when he calls. We go inside.
In the produce aisle Crush cracks up when I toss a whole cauliflower and a bag of broccoli into the cart. Even she can’t eat platefuls of raw vegetables, she says. Then, I laugh at her investigating the ingredients in five different containers of hummus. Even though I’m Jewish, I hate hummus and I just hope my religion doesn’t kick me out for it.
My phone rings and we jump for joy anticipating we’ll have shelter tonight, and then we realize someone has to actually answer it first. I quickly hand it to Crush. Her friend tells her he talked to the property manager who thinks he knows the code. Her friend tells her he hopes the code is right. If not, at least for dinner we’ll have hummus and raw cauliflower and the rotisserie chicken I just carted. But do bears also like chicken? Maybe best not to open that yet.
I return my healthier phone to airplane mode. I don’t doubt that Crush will get us into that cabin tonight. Crush is the best planner I know and I sense that in every situation, she will be able to manipulate it so that everything turns out the way it should.
I input our final address, the cabin, into my nearly dead phone. It gets us most of the way there and then that phone dies, but Crush recognizes the surroundings and knows where to go from here. Crush has been here many times before, and actually, I have been here once before but I’m incapable of finding my way to a location 100 feet away without GPS.
She and her husband seem to know everyone, and all their friends want to help them. In this case, her friend who owns the cabin, who would normally rent it out for substantial money during these May weekends, has donated it to Crush to use for the entire month. She is using it for a writing getaway, hence my invitation to join.
Crush finds the cabin. She turns into the driveway and parks. It is beautiful—a long, paneled structure with a giant wooden wraparound patio, and huge windows allowing me to glimpse into fancy rooms. I feel like Ernest Hemingway already.
We unload our computers, bags, food and of course my beers from Crush’s Prius and pile it all next to the front door. The lock box is on the knob. Crush tries the code her friend provided. No dice. She tries again. Shit.
I grab one of the beers but realize I don’t have a bottle opener. I’m such a worthless adult. Crush takes the bottle from me and bites off the cap. She’s beyond adult, and beyond human.
I de-airplane mode our last remaining phone so Crush can call her friend again. I lean on the balcony railing and search for bears, sometimes looking back at my rotisserie chicken next to the front door and wonder if I should open the container and dig in like a savage. I am hungry.
Crush’s friend must call the property manager a second time to get what we hope is the correct code. I check my phone’s battery. It’s in the teens. Crush joins me at the balcony and, way down below, we see the bright orange pieces from the skeets we broke against trees almost two years before when Crush’s friend donated the same cabin to us and 18 other young adult cancer survivors to use for a weekend getaway. Our friend Amazing Rachel had also been there.
I tell Crush one of my favorite Rachel stories. Rachel hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything. So while we were snacking and sipping on whiskey our first night at the cabin, I saw Rachel reaching into different bags of chips, grabbing one at a time, and licking the salt from them, one side and then the other. Rachel couldn’t swallow but still found the salt euphoric. Crush and I erupt in laughter.
My phone rings. I hand it to Crush. It is her friend who says he has a new code for her to try. She turns around towards the door and presses the buttons on the lock box in the order her friend instructs. Part of me is praying it works, part of me is thinking How cold would it get out here in West Virginia on an early May night if it doesn’t work, and all of me has no doubt that whatever happens, Crush will have a plan that will lead to success.
The lock box clicks. Crush opens the box, grabs the key to the front door, and lets us in. We have several hours left before bed to write our asses off. This is perfect.
We unpack and prepare our respective meals, grab our computers and sit on the couch in front of the fireplace. I am just beginning my fourth “packet” that I will have to submit for my fiction-writing program. Crush is writing what will become a book.
I start playing one of my favorite lyricless stations through my Bluetooth speaker, and we type away. In between the silence of us creating words on the screen, Crush tells me about her recent lack of energy and cough.
Deep inside me, something stings because I have seen this before. I have learned a life truth. Curing cancer is more than a moonshot. We're only humans, not even crocodiles or cockroaches, and we have the gall to exclaim we'll rid our species of the supreme king of disease. This life truth has taught me that although I feel grateful for my more than 13 years without cancer, I'll keep running from it; I’ll keep living a 99th-percentile-most-healthy-lifestyle on-the-planet so I never have to think about the possibility of recurrence. But if it comes again then I won't think, Damn I really thought I had outlasted those fuckers.
The sting disappears because this is Crush, the only person I’ve ever met who not only has learned of every method of survival but has actually tried them. She has a plan to publish a book, travel the world speaking and inspiring others, maybe raise a family, definitely crush cancer. Crush will definitely crush cancer. I have no doubt.
Katie CampbellJune 22, 1983 - August 20, 2016
“Do you know how to get to the cabin?” I say.
“Not exactly.”
Crush stops the navigation to save her phone’s battery for when we get closer and possibly really need it. Thankfully between us we have three phones. I look at my two smartphones. One’s battery is in the teens and the other has a relatively healthy 30 percent left. I put both in airplane mode.
Crush continues telling me about her latest treatment in Germany using her dendritic cells. I’ve known Crush for almost two years. When her rare breast cancer returned her oncologists told her modern medicine couldn’t cure her so she consulted experts around the world in both traditional and nontraditional medicine. Crush has absorbed all their knowledge and my immediate thought is that, this weekend, I am getting a $10,000 education on cancer for free. Since I have known her, Crush has taken on a treatment plan to destruct her cancer or, at the least, keep it status quo. The types of treatment I had thought were science fiction.
Crush drives down an exit she’s certain is the correct one. Before we turn GPS back on, I tell her we should visit a supermarket. I can’t keep track of what Crush eats, or if she eats—at this point I would not be surprised if she only consumes water mixed with exogenous ketones and scorpion venom. But I need food, and I need a few craft beers. I mean, shit, we are about to dedicate ourselves to writing, not bear watching, and I take this seriously which means I need creative energy.
“I think the grocery store is up ahead on this road,” she says.
“Are you sure?” I say.
“…Maybe you should GPS it,” she says, and I fire up my less energized phone and save our most resourceful one.
We find the Food Lion one mile away, on the same road like Crush had thought. Crush parks. Before we go in, she wants to call her friend who owns the cabin, in order to get the code to unlock the lock box which contains the key to the front door. Crush fingerprints her phone and nothing happens. Because the battery is dead. She doesn’t remember her friend’s phone number. Why would she? I don’t even know my brother’s phone number.
I unlock my phone, the one that is more dead than the other, and hand it to Crush so she can log in to Google and find her friend’s number. She finds it and, using my more lively phone, calls her friend and leaves a message. I turn the volume all the way up so I’ll know when he calls. We go inside.
In the produce aisle Crush cracks up when I toss a whole cauliflower and a bag of broccoli into the cart. Even she can’t eat platefuls of raw vegetables, she says. Then, I laugh at her investigating the ingredients in five different containers of hummus. Even though I’m Jewish, I hate hummus and I just hope my religion doesn’t kick me out for it.
My phone rings and we jump for joy anticipating we’ll have shelter tonight, and then we realize someone has to actually answer it first. I quickly hand it to Crush. Her friend tells her he talked to the property manager who thinks he knows the code. Her friend tells her he hopes the code is right. If not, at least for dinner we’ll have hummus and raw cauliflower and the rotisserie chicken I just carted. But do bears also like chicken? Maybe best not to open that yet.
I return my healthier phone to airplane mode. I don’t doubt that Crush will get us into that cabin tonight. Crush is the best planner I know and I sense that in every situation, she will be able to manipulate it so that everything turns out the way it should.
I input our final address, the cabin, into my nearly dead phone. It gets us most of the way there and then that phone dies, but Crush recognizes the surroundings and knows where to go from here. Crush has been here many times before, and actually, I have been here once before but I’m incapable of finding my way to a location 100 feet away without GPS.
She and her husband seem to know everyone, and all their friends want to help them. In this case, her friend who owns the cabin, who would normally rent it out for substantial money during these May weekends, has donated it to Crush to use for the entire month. She is using it for a writing getaway, hence my invitation to join.
Crush finds the cabin. She turns into the driveway and parks. It is beautiful—a long, paneled structure with a giant wooden wraparound patio, and huge windows allowing me to glimpse into fancy rooms. I feel like Ernest Hemingway already.
We unload our computers, bags, food and of course my beers from Crush’s Prius and pile it all next to the front door. The lock box is on the knob. Crush tries the code her friend provided. No dice. She tries again. Shit.
I grab one of the beers but realize I don’t have a bottle opener. I’m such a worthless adult. Crush takes the bottle from me and bites off the cap. She’s beyond adult, and beyond human.
I de-airplane mode our last remaining phone so Crush can call her friend again. I lean on the balcony railing and search for bears, sometimes looking back at my rotisserie chicken next to the front door and wonder if I should open the container and dig in like a savage. I am hungry.
Crush’s friend must call the property manager a second time to get what we hope is the correct code. I check my phone’s battery. It’s in the teens. Crush joins me at the balcony and, way down below, we see the bright orange pieces from the skeets we broke against trees almost two years before when Crush’s friend donated the same cabin to us and 18 other young adult cancer survivors to use for a weekend getaway. Our friend Amazing Rachel had also been there.
I tell Crush one of my favorite Rachel stories. Rachel hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything. So while we were snacking and sipping on whiskey our first night at the cabin, I saw Rachel reaching into different bags of chips, grabbing one at a time, and licking the salt from them, one side and then the other. Rachel couldn’t swallow but still found the salt euphoric. Crush and I erupt in laughter.
My phone rings. I hand it to Crush. It is her friend who says he has a new code for her to try. She turns around towards the door and presses the buttons on the lock box in the order her friend instructs. Part of me is praying it works, part of me is thinking How cold would it get out here in West Virginia on an early May night if it doesn’t work, and all of me has no doubt that whatever happens, Crush will have a plan that will lead to success.
The lock box clicks. Crush opens the box, grabs the key to the front door, and lets us in. We have several hours left before bed to write our asses off. This is perfect.
We unpack and prepare our respective meals, grab our computers and sit on the couch in front of the fireplace. I am just beginning my fourth “packet” that I will have to submit for my fiction-writing program. Crush is writing what will become a book.
I start playing one of my favorite lyricless stations through my Bluetooth speaker, and we type away. In between the silence of us creating words on the screen, Crush tells me about her recent lack of energy and cough.
Deep inside me, something stings because I have seen this before. I have learned a life truth. Curing cancer is more than a moonshot. We're only humans, not even crocodiles or cockroaches, and we have the gall to exclaim we'll rid our species of the supreme king of disease. This life truth has taught me that although I feel grateful for my more than 13 years without cancer, I'll keep running from it; I’ll keep living a 99th-percentile-most-healthy-lifestyle on-the-planet so I never have to think about the possibility of recurrence. But if it comes again then I won't think, Damn I really thought I had outlasted those fuckers.
The sting disappears because this is Crush, the only person I’ve ever met who not only has learned of every method of survival but has actually tried them. She has a plan to publish a book, travel the world speaking and inspiring others, maybe raise a family, definitely crush cancer. Crush will definitely crush cancer. I have no doubt.
Katie CampbellJune 22, 1983 - August 20, 2016
August 19, 2016
A Book Party: All It Takes Is One
Reclined on the patio chair with my feet propped on the other chair, hearing screams from the drunk man who lives in the tunnel down the street and the lyricless music playing through the Bluetooth speaker on the bistro table next to me, my attention occasionally altered by a plane taking off at the airport one mile away or the flickering television through the window of an apartment dweller across the way, I read Olive Kitteridge on my Kindle Touch going on three hours now. It is a Friday night and I am across the river from the most powerful city in the world and I am not texting friends "What are you up to tonight?" or flicking my thumb right or left on an LED screen. I sense that I have a complete absence of pain and discomfort. I sense that the world around me is huge, and the world described in the book's words are large, and that I am small, so small that I feel elated knowing there are few places I would rather be right now.
Media
I've now appeared in my first music video, for about three seconds (at the 1:20 mark). Diane Trivelli made this music video. She is the founder of the Arielle Anacker Cancer Foundation which raises funds to benefit cancer research and families victimized by childhood cancer.
Media
I've now appeared in my first music video, for about three seconds (at the 1:20 mark). Diane Trivelli made this music video. She is the founder of the Arielle Anacker Cancer Foundation which raises funds to benefit cancer research and families victimized by childhood cancer.
