There is nothing wrong with you.

As the fog rolls in here in San Francisco (note: It really does that. It straight-up rolls in. Trip me out.), and as I sip wine in my generous friends' gorgeous sixth floor apartment, and as I recover from my wonderfully sweaty randomly-selected yoga class that just happened to be taught by this month's Yoga Journal cover yogi (who, as it turns out, happens to be a beautifully compassionate teacher), I am moved to comment on the neuroses of the denizens of my demographic. Let's call us "college-educated women younger than the baby boomers;" I'm going to include Gen X, Gen Y and even some precocious millennials under this rant's umbrella.

The US is currently embroiled in three overseas military conflicts. We've been downgraded. Unemployment soars, and a bunch of people with no discernible economic theories to stand on are making crucial financial decisions for our country. And what are we doing instead of taking the reigns from media moguls proven to have no shred of morals or decency?

Apparently we're worrying about our glasses of wine, our parenting skills, even our fucking tendency to worry. (Wow, apparently we shouldn't worry because it'll make us crazy to worry, so that worry about becoming crazy should effectively motivate us to stop worrying. Right.)

Click the links to find out what I'm referring to, then consider this:

We have got to stop pathologizing every single fucking thing we do. Or like. Or are.

The thing that's getting to me right now is how unsatisfied we all seem no matter what we are able to accomplish. Every met goal is an afterthought; every outstanding desire is an obsession. Nothing we enjoy can be trusted. Every passion is a sickness. Every pursuit is an imperfect waste of time.

Women, and increasingly men, have to break the cycle of neurotic self-perfection if we're ever going to participate actively in the political and social progress of this planet. And to me, it's not really about those cliched directives to cast off the shallow narcotics of reality television and smartphone addiction; in fact, it's very much about figuring out ways to make our political voices loud and strong regardless of how few accomplishments we've racked up or how not-seriously-as-adults our grandparents insist upon taking us.

We are doing just fine. Our personal lives and individual selves will never be perfect. We can't keep waiting for our ideal lives to pan out before we put ourselves out there as authoritative voices ready to participate in the decisions that ultimately dictate the organization and priorities of our society.

And perhaps today, in light of our economic woes, I'm focusing more on the public sphere. But mostly, I'm concerned with our personal senses of well-being and satisfaction. I urge everyone: Be brave and radical enough to accept what you are today as enough. Stop digging around in your life for the flaws to focus on, and stop churning out "content" for women's magazines and blogs about how imperfect you/we all are. Get out of your head and find what's real.

Me, I'm trying. But sometimes the fog socks my heart in too.

the day that things change

I've been waiting for almost three months now for something to change.

I don't know what I'm expecting at all, whether it's a seasonal shift or an internal transformation or an epiphany or what. Something, though. Something is rotten in Denmark, and by "Denmark" I mean "the soul," and by "something is rotten in" I mean "I'm trapped in a very dark night of."

Word puzzles! Fun for everyone!

Creativity is first about seeing. On some level, the skill is to notice before you attempt to distill. Understanding the universe differently from everybody else is supremely alienating, and yet it is a condition we all share: our maddeningly discreet perspectives. Yesterday I went into a big white box of a museum and saw things that enabled me to see all things new, just like fashion week helps illuminate the beautiful absurdity of what people wear every day, just like comedy and jokes twist and twist and twist us.

I honestly don't know if I'm that funny, even after all these years of trying. I'm pretty funny, I think, but I've lost something primal. Maybe that's supposed to change. Maybe some monster of hilarity will rear up inside me and bring forth the performances that will at last double the people over.

Work, self, life. All the things I'm supposed to know how to do to take care of myself in this world have crumpled up and thrown themselves at the trash can, and now it's starting to leak out onto the things I'm supposed to do for other people. And all I really want is to make a teensy bit of money making other people feel happy, validated, delighted, amused, happy. Laughter that heals, that builds up rather than tears down.

3 months 9 years 30 years in, and I'm still waiting for my big break, the internal one, the one where I pluck myself out of the boring normal life and make myself a big deal to me.

All I can do is puzzle on.

a new year

This is the place where I write things for minimum public consumption where I don't make myself be funny or try too hard. So get ready for some SINCERE ASS SHIT, people!

A lot of humans and hipsters seem to be talking about the end of the world. The Mayan Apocalypse (not a thing), birds falling out of the sky, and other signs from the Tweetosphere. Ashton Kutcher is apparently all about the "end of day," where he will somehow save his loved ones from marauding mobs through graceful feats of power yoga. (Here's the problem with that: most people don't actually act like dicks in actual emergencies.)

We are all going to die. I sincerely doubt that it will all be at the same time, but you never know. Also, things will definitely change. Maybe we'll lose the bees or run out of oil or elect Snooki president. The future is a veritable cornucopia of shitty possibilities.

I'm not too worried about any of these things coming true. I am, however, deeply upset about all the people thinking, talking, and even flippantly snarking about these dark scenarios. To me, the obsessive anxiety is an indication that people feel extremely helpless right now. So many are out of work or otherwise underemployed in their own lives, and they're simultaneously overcommitted and feeling hyper-responsible for every aspect of their existences. The media has middle-class Americans convinced that we're all capable of controlling -- and therefor are ultimately responsible for -- our appearance, our health, our safety, our prosperity, the well-being of our families, the way our kids turn out, the happiness of our partners, and ten million other things that are ultimately not entirely in anybody's control. Unreasonable expectations beget heightened states of anxiety. Pretty soon, everywhere you turn reveals a sign of doom.

As I said earlier, it's just a fact: we are all going to die. The question, totes obv, is how are we going to live? Are we going to fret and fear and retweet the signs of terror, including all the ones we have no expertise or ability to do a damn thing about? Or are we going to pour our human energy and creativity into solutions to our daily problems and an appreciation for what we do have?

I think modern Americans really like to feel unsafe. It makes us feel morally okay about all the casual harm we do, for one thing, and it's easier to avoid the existential questions of what life is about if our only focus is staving off death. As much as anyone in history, we are safe. And yet we are so worried. We choose anxiety over the alienation that comes from relinquishing social and personal expectations. We choose the living death of worry over authentic engagement. But I believe we can all break free. Through becoming part of a community, through generosity, through authentic connections, through political and social activism, through charity, through art, through it all, we can find ways to fill our lives with meaning, even as we hold the existential knowledge that our impact is ultimately probably pretty minuscule. It's a tough row to hoe, but we can do it.

Finally, the chatterverse of the internet has become a place where too many people just blow off steam and project their shitty attitudes out into the world. I'm kind of lonely and sad too, and I'm terrified that my life isn't going to matter (quasi-comforting upshot/downshot: it's definitely not going to, if looked at on a big enough scale). But come on, grownup adult people. Stop freaking out kids and the mentally ill with your doom-and-gloom vibes. Given all the obnoxious white noise about the End of Days lately, I am extremely grateful that Twitter and Facebook were not around before Y2K. So thank you, Mark Zuckerberg, for being born in 1997 or whatever.

we must legalize marijuana. and all drugs.

The criminalization of drugs in this country has created several actual humanitarian crises. I'm talking life or death, freedom vs. imprisonment, human rights AND civil rights.

First, the body count from the horrific drug wars in Mexico continues to mount. Our nation and its wealth creates an insatiable demand for drugs, and our anti-drug laws mean that crime syndicates are the only ones capable of capitalizing on our vast market. And, thanks to our remarkably relaxed gun laws, we're also providing arms for the drug gang foot soldiers. The staggering murder rate and gruesome violence in Mexico is a direct result of the way drugs are currently fully criminalized yet frequently consumed in the United States.

Second, the rate at which we imprison our own citizens in this country is, in my opinion, our greatest national shame. The number of drug offenders in state prison has increased 13-fold since 1980 because of the war on drugs. And that's just one shocking fun fact among many.

Sincere efforts to legalize (not decriminalize, but LEGALIZE) drugs in this country are often laughed off as the half-baked pipe dreams of burnt-out hippies and wacko libertarians. This stems from a combination of the tone of media coverage and, primarily, our extremely blasé middle-class relationships with drugs. We do them and get away with it. Many of us have seen loved ones get wrapped up in drug addiction, but we also know alcoholics and cigarette smokers who've suffered bodily harm at the hands of their legal vices. Personally, the fact that there are people serving prison terms right now for things that I myself have done and don't feel remotely bad about means that I have a responsibility to correct that injustice in my society. Our national drug use statistics compared with incarceration rates demonstrate how disproportionately we prosecute poor and minority citizens for violations of these laws. It's gross inequality. Legalizing marijuana isn't some laughing matter. It's about liberty and justice at their most fundamental levels.

Finally, in discussions of legalization, the issue of public safety often comes up, particularly traffic safety. If we are in fact primarily concerned with making driving as safe as possible, then we should criminalize cell phone use. Period. All the time, for everyone. That's the logic. Since people have cell phones, they will and do drive while using them, causing tons and tons of accidents; ergo their use, like all drug use, should be illegal. Just to be safe.

In closing, here is a short bibliography:
* Mexico drug war story from the new yorker (abstract only)
* the marijuana policy project
* info from the sentencing project
* info on race and the drug war

who will speak for the weirdos?

I am worried about our nation's young weirdos.

Things are still very, very, very hard for LGBTQ youth. But the real bullying, I think, happens when there's a combination of factors in place. Being gay and being on the football team affords you the option to keep your mouth shut until you can get to college or to another city and, as YouTube tells us is, it gets better. It's not easy, but at least you see your young athletic body reflected in the aesthetic of the websites that promote gay men's culture. And if you come from a New Jersey high school with a ten-year-old Gay-Straight Alliance, you at least probably know that there are places for you in this world.

It's the weirdos, people. It's the geeky, nerdy, odd, socially wacked-out boys who want to wear nail polish but aren't quite pulling it off with that swagger some have. It's the kids who can't make friends, who can't talk to people, who suffer from crippling social anxiety, who attract bullying like magnets well into college. It's the boys who lisp and mince pretty much from birth, but it's also the boys who wear sweatpants to ninth grade and interrupt class with weird vocal sound effects they don't even notice they're making. It's not the girls on the softball team so much as the girls with the acne and the doughy round faces who hide behind their stringy hair and play Halo.

I've been to middle school and high school, and it seems to me like the very hardest thing to be in this world is very weird and not extraordinarily smart. If you like fantasy games and aren't also a math genius, the road ahead is extremely tough. And trust me, people will call you faggot and dyke along with every other slur they can throw at you just to show you that you're a reject, an outcast, that you are reviled. Inherently homophobic? Sure. But gay kids are far from the only victims.

So yes, reach out to the kids getting bullied and being called gay. Some of them really are gay, or will turn out to be gay. But plenty of them are not; plenty of them are just different. Maybe their parents are hoarders or schizophrenics or just shy social phobics hiding from the world in a dark domicile. Things are tough at home, love is scarce, and there are few places for these kids. The internet offers a kind of connection to the world, but an imperfect one at best. And there's no magical Castro or Chelsea or Park Slope for all the weirdos of the world to move to and find love.

So weirdos, let me tell you, as a person mercilessly mocked throughout elementary and well into middle school: it gets better. It does. You will find people like you, who like the things you like and share your interests. You will get dates and gain freedom and transport yourself to LARPing events and comedy clubs and Ren Faires and other places where freak flags fly freely. And you may never fit in at your high school, and you may never feel like society fully accepts you or speaks your language, but you will learn how to express yourself safely and comfortably, and you will be celebrated. You will make a life you love. And you will be happy, because you'll have bucked the narcotic pull of conformity and chosen the kind of life you wanted. That's far more than most people get to do.

Boogie Bitches

I just got a pamphlet from the Republican running in my district with a photo of the Democrat incumbent hanging out with Nancy Pelosi. This is intended to scare the shit out of me.

I'm sure Democrats are sending out big scary photos of Republicans making out with Sarah Palin at every opportunity.

Polarizing figures are a gamble in many respects. I personally find the Pelosi vilification vitriolic and sexist and often weirdly homophobic -- I get it, she's from San Francisco. But of course, the Palin vilification is at least equally sexist. She might be completely ignorant and full of crazy ideas, but so is Rand Paul, and he's actually running for office right now.

Infamy is fame in politics, and the way both sides toss around the other's female boogieman illustrates just how powerful these two women are. But it's also about emasculating the male candidates. "Your guy is Pelosi's little bitch!" "Oh yeah?! Well your guy is Palin's bitch!" Stupid sexist bullshit. But hey, that's politics!

Things I Have Learned from True Blood

1. All vampires are pretty gay...but then, everybody is pretty gay, as it turns out, so really that's a wash.

2. You can play rock-paper-scissors with werewolf-fairy-vampire. Werewolf overpowers fairy, fairy light-blasts vampire, vampire subjugates werewolf.

3. McMansions and other earth-killing development are really upsetting to ancient beings. Aside: Russell Edgington, please find the people who did this and eat them.

4. Werewolves dress like hipster-biker-tattoo-lumberjack hybrids. So Austin, Texas is populated mostly by werewolves.

5. Did I mention vampires are all pretty gay? As is everybody?

sleepless nights, unfamiliar homes and grief

I've been waking up in the middle of the night and staying awake for hours. I've also been shutting down and vegging out in front of the TV for hours every night. This is not normal.

Obviously the only constant is change, and for me the only constant for the past five months has been dislocation. I've been traveling, mostly for work, and during any stretches I've been home, my live-in-marital-life-partner (aka husband) has been posted in the jungle. I think I'm so adjusted to strange beds and loneliness that being home with him feels surreal, even jarring.

This fall presents a lot of opportunities to stay close to home, including lots of writing and plenty o' shows here in NYC. Still, I know that, given my career and my husband's, I should always be accustomed to travel and to being alone.

As we move through life, we lose some things in ways that hit us hard and knock us down. Loved ones die, we get laid off, we move across the country. In those moments, we expect the concomitant feelings of loss and sudden change, and (hopefully) we give ourselves room to grieve and cope.

All the while, as we go along living and accomplishing things, other changes happen in the background; we don't notice them explicitly, but they alter our lives. I finally got a wave of emotions at about 5am this morning that seemed to tell me what's been waking me up in the middle of the night, and what I found as I peeled back the layers was a giant helping of grief. I miss bygone friendships. I miss the phases of my college life and my post-college twenties. I miss my salary and my really good health insurance, even as I celebrate my fun free-wheelin' career.

So I have to take some time to mourn as I adjust to all that's new. I'm not quite sure how to go about that, as is probably obvious from this redundant and fumbling post. But at least I see the grief now. At least I know what's pressing on my heart.

cultural chauvinism, jerusalem, mosques, video games, and I have work to do

So Summer 2010 has been far crazier than I thought summers could be in the post-summer-before-college era, at least according to thirty years of teen sex comedies. I've been running around like crazy, and a lot has changed, but I don't have a ton of time to write so I just need to scribble down some thoughts here. I'll use bullet points just like everybody in the post-PowerPoint-invention era.

* I still get a lot of hits on this post about Junot Diaz's novel. The post is obviously not a sincere request that he translate his dialogue into English. It is a hilarious anecdote about my gringa mother. I'm not some talk-dirty-to-me-in-English-or-go-home tea party Minuteman fucking asshole, as evidenced by the fact that I have actually learned Spanish. La intención es ser chistoso, ¿me entiendes? If you sincerely think that the post is a good opportunity to lecture me on why non-translated bilingual prose is an important and fully intentional statement about culture, you can sóplalo. Con la boca. La boca estúpida.

*In a related story, my live-in manfriend (aka husband) is playing a game called Red Dead Redemption. I call it Grand Theft Wagon. Incidentally, the game has lots of non-subtitled non-translated Spanish. It's pretty cool! Except you can't choose to join the anti-government rebels and you are forced to do a bunch of brutal missions for the oppressive military dictator. Still, ¡hay tanto español!

* I went to Jerusalem. The Dome of the Rock is essentially attached to the Western Wall which is about five feet away from the fifth Station of the Cross. Nuns bump into Arabs who in turn bump into Hasidim in the tiny alleyways. That's three of the holiest sites in the whole world, all right there. Is Jerusalem perfect? Far, far from it. But I for one believe in the peace process. And I know that we can handle an Islamic cultural center near the World Trade Center site. And by "we" I mean New Yorkers, who are accustomed to having neighbors from different cultures and who know that ALL OF LOWER MANHATTAN is pretty darn close to the World Trade Center site. That includes Islamic centers that already exist. And strip clubs. And leather bars. It's all right there, folks.

* I heard one opponent of the Islamic cultural center shout: "It's a Trojan Horse!" That'd be a pretty fucking shitty Trojan Horse, what with all this press and controversy. If some dude with monocle and a handlebar mustache wants to build the American Jesus Center for Puppies and Rainbows in lower Manhattan, that's when it's time to get suspicious.

just sayin'

I'm in Asheville, NC, tellin' jokes, vinyasin', and havin' epiphanies.

One thing I realized is that getting up early, walking briskly to yoga class, then eating salad and grains for breakfast feels GOOD. Also, staying out late with your friends, talking about comedy and drinking lotsa beers feels GOOD. Why do we always pit one against the other? We're strong humans; when we don't try to deny any part of ourselves, we can thrive in balance and always be celebrating.

I also realized something about myself, about how I seek people, how I talk to people, and what I do for a living (see above ("telling jokes")). I long to be known. I'm not sayin' known as in famous. I mean like, I have a deep deep desire to tell people who I am. I want others to know what I think, how I think, what I've been through, how I operate. I've worked hard to overcome so much in my mind and heart; I've macheted through the jungles of trauma and panic and depression and I've found a way -- one of many many ways -- all the way out. I want to share the conclusions I've worked for because I think other people might need to know this stuff, and I know others have wisdom that I lack and desperately need. In everything I do, every interaction I have, I try to be as honest and open and revealing about myself as I can be in the hopes that this frame of mind can bring about an exchange that can lead to more growth, more truth, more happiness for everybody involved. Is it arrogant? Maybe. I ain't sayin' I'm RIGHT, though. I'm just sayin', this is what I got. Let's start from a big place, a deep place, a place where you can begin to trust me because I'm being honest about where I'm coming from. And let's go from there.

I'm just sayin'.

Sometimes I wonder why I do the things I do: why I stay in touch with certain people, why I attempt to maintain relationships, why I get so riled up about injustice, why it hurts me so much to think about what Randites and born-agains believe. Today, after another frustrating experience with a person who is perpetually disappointed in me, I realized that this is all because of love. I believe in almost nothing else, and I am an ardent, fervent, devout believer. If love exists in a situation, it must trump everything else, including respect and comfort and safety and even mental health. I still love people who have hurt me, and I'm sure that I've hurt people -- perhaps very much -- in the insistent ways I've loved them. I suppose there are situations where people are better off without love, better off with nothing instead. It's just too hard for me to abandon my belief in this one thing, as it's all I have.

The only option for me is to learn to love from a million miles away, learn to love and do nothing, learn to love and free myself from the expectation of being loved back. Plenty of people love me back just fine. The rest can only do their best, and do what's best for them.

and today

And today I wonder if I can still be this girl that I am and not be such a fucking hack about it. Crying centers a person in the self all the yoga devotees talk about, the you that is not your job and is not your appearance, the you that is not your family and is not your diagnosis, the you, the self that is deep and rings like a bell and is true even though it's really not remotely marked with the indelible pixie dust of your own unique special little individual quirk and magic. Whatever it is at our core, perhaps it is unique and lovely, but it is not a soul. It is not a consciousness, and anyone who thinks they get to live forever and in ten million years they'll be up in heaven rooting for the Cowboys has completely missed the boat on what actually matters. We have a root, an animal being, a lizard brain that somehow melds with our smart parts and creates a silent strong drive for survival and peace, wisdom and conviviality, selflessness and cooperation, being over doing.

I'm scared to give my ego over to that hum within me; unfortunately it's the only part that knows how to write.

beyond me

In these past two years without a day job, I've been working to build my comedy career, but I've also been working on myself. After 12 years (on and off, but mostly on) of therapy, I've been flying free and by the seat of my crazy-ass pants. Thank the gods, sanity has not eluded me. I used to draw solace from working with my shrink, but these days I've transitioned to a more stable and healed source of peace found in yoga and meditation. I still know how to break open my journal every time my mood plummets or a panic storm threatens to strike. And yes, I've spent bleak winter days under the covers, aching with the wretched toothy remnants of depression and dreading a single day or month or lifetime lived in that plunging pain. But, I've made it through.

My career isn't perfect, but it's plugging along. I no longer measure myself by the industry's milestones. I don't care what industry you're in, you should avoid that phony ladder stuff, but in entertainment it's particularly insidious. So, I'm building my own way and forging my own path. And sometimes, I know I could hit the fast-forward button and get where I'm going a little quicker, but I've always been chasing the wrong goals -- money, fame, acceptance, blah blah blah.

Today a new perspective hit me like a ton of bricks...you know, the motivatey kind. Of bricks. I suddenly realized that the sooner I get my career moving, the sooner I'll be able to speak to the people I want to reach. My highest aspiration as an artist is to bring joy and self-respect to people who desperately need both. Once I get my ass in gear, I'll be reaching more people, doing more good, being of service, making others happy. And once I earn a bit more money, I can start making more significant contributions to the kinds of organizations I am committed to supporting.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not trying to suggest that my stand-up comedy career is a selfless Mother-Theresa-esque enterprise. But I'm just not built to accomplish serious significant stuff just for myself, for my own glory or financial gain or social power. I want to be a part of something... No, it's more that I know on a fundamental level that I am a part of something. I want to support what is healthy about our world, to lend my voice and my resources and my talents to the best and truest of human enterprises, so that we can all do better and feel better and be better. Maybe it's squishy and idealistic, but it's real to me, and it gives me a tremendous kick in the ass to keep going. And an authentic reason to push forward is something that we all need.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz........

OMG this blog is so BORING! It's just me reacting to the New York Times!!!!! I don't even want to read it!!!!!!!!

My creative imagination is coming back, thanks to Tom Robbins. I used to love all that shit, the acid-soaked weirdness of sixties novels, the magical realist brilliance of Marquez, the ghosts of Toni Morrison, the American mystic travelers who weren't about to argue with stuffed shirts over at the Grey Lady so much as just live life the way it ought to be lived. It's all well and good to talk and argue and march and vote; it's something else to step beyond the vanguard and live on the outside, damning and redefining the edge.

I can't believe I haven't had a day job in two years. TWO YEARS. Thanks to my meager comedy income, the largess of my husband's extravagant grad student stipend, my grandparents' incredibly valuable post-mortgage Brooklyn home, and the benefit extension afforded to married people, I have the blessed luxury of this time to be making half a living. I also have the now to contemplate, think, create, do. My life is starting to take shape in my head, and it doesn't happen in an office building.

I'm still figuring out what life is: what it means; how it's best lived - by all, by one, by me; what art is within it and around it; when it begins and what happens when it ends. I feel like once I've figured it out 5% of the way, then I'll be ready to have kids. Right now I'm hovering around 3.5-3.8% lucidity.

Anybody who's taken five minutes with this blog knows I'm a harsh critic, especially of myself. Sometimes I can let go. Sometimes I wake up and my skin isn't even crawling, I don't even hate the vehicle of my body or the discomfort of the present moment or the tasks and neuroses I have yet to untangle, and I can just flow. For some reason, this is one of those moments. I don't know if it's something I ate or the temperature or how much sleep I got, but this precious moment of open is upon me.

I remember the miserable godforsaken pathetic panicky twitchy insecure lump I was during my semester abroad. I'd been in eight hours of outpatient therapy all day every day for weeks ahead of my departure. Something about living my life in the correct order and getting to do what I felt I deserved to get to do without having to stop to fix all my broken inside parts made me force myself over to Spain. The people who helped me there will always, always mean the world to me, for I asked a whole lot and they gave. But I also remember one day just feeling absolutely, completely, totally okay. The discomfort of my constant panic attacks and internally itchy hatred of my own skin and my own thoughts rolled out like a fog, and everything became crystal clear. I thought maybe it would last; it didn't. I wasn't the dilatory student of Buddhism I am now, but thinking back I probably chased it a bit. But I also was able to stay there, experience it, be in it. Nothing brought it on; it was not like the euphoria of new love or the non-stop excitement of a big day that can bring about the same type of presence. It just...was.

What a gift.

I have that again today. And I am trying just to be.

the sound of one voice discussing

Dear John Tierney,

I have some thoughts on today's column. Declaring something when you have the page of newsprint all to yourself does not constitute a "discussion." That's you stating something publicly. People who disagree with you and do not happen to have their own paper-of-record column (or Ivy League Oval Office) must resort to other means in order to refute your false or (more often) half-cocked statements. I know, it's really hard when you think you're just bringing something to "the debate" and people get all yelly and angry, but guess what? IT'S NOT A DEBATE UNLESS IT'S A FUCKING DEBATE.

I don't know why we have to be subjected time and time again to the proclamations of dudes who don't even seem to know the definition of the word "debate" or "discussion" in the first place, but whatevsies.

Right now, I'm not going to argue that women are good enough at math and science to have greater representation in those fields and professions than we already have, although I believe that to be the important core truth of this whole argument. For some reason, the "debate" gets skewed by Summers and Tierney into being about elite positions at top research universities. I just don't think that's super relevant to how many, say, software engineers should, statistically, be women, if parity within the field based on individual potential and ability were achieved.

But I will argue with the way these dudes argue. See, I'm a student of women's studies. The kind of critical thinking that emerges from women's studies and critical theory and cultural studies makes people like me more likely to see flaws in controversial statements about gender (or race, or culture). Summers favored classics and econ over women's studies and Africana studies. Why? I think it's because he likes solid conclusions and formulas; he enjoys the safety and comfort of believing that social inequalities are, at least in some cases, based on fundamental FACTS.

See, dudes like Summers and Tierny believe they have the FACTS and that others who wish those FACTS weren't true are hell-bent on dismissing them, or at least muddying the waters with all our wacky "deconstructions." Eugenicists had some lovely science too, which to them seemed rock-solid. It turns out a real debate is about thinking critically on all levels in order to avoid the types of false conclusions that actually come from our social bias. Unfortunately, there's a lot to consider. It's hard. It makes coming comfortably to conclusions like "men are better at math" much HARDER, because it requires that terms be defined, statistics be questioned, and motives for making such statements of FACT be examined. However, when people like me say, "Hang on, that argument is full of holes," then we're squelching academic freedom, we're demanding people not state FACTS if those FACTS are not politically correct! Taboo! Tabooooo!!!

Maybe that's how it seems if you don't really get it. But for those of us who do, it's not about dismissing valid research or silencing debate in the name of PC bullshit. It's about examining the nature of facts, research, science, and society.

Here's a gem from Tierney's column:

Would it be safe during the “interactive discussions” for someone to mention the new evidence supporting Dr. Summers’s controversial hypothesis about differences in the sexes’ aptitude for math and science?

Well, it depends on your definition of "safe," dude. Would rocks be thrown? I hope not. But would the methods of this research be questioned? Yeah. Would the relevance of it to the overall goal of increasing female participation in math and science be questioned? Sure. Will people with passion and brains argue fiercely against harmful and biased conclusions? Fuck yes dude. Get ready for an actual discussion.

Or, you know, just bravely defend the FACTS that happen to support the dominant position of members of your own social group against the horrible tyranny of those of us who dare to criticize and argue. And knock yourself out with some more one-man "discussions."

blog-task-tic

In today's New York Times, the tech cover story is about technology stealing our lives. I have several extremely important thoughts about this series of articles and features, and this blog is the only place I can vent my urgent opinions about such ephemera, ergo I will do so:

1. Some dude named "Kord" is described as being compulsive about email, checking constantly and always being distracted by it. They liken this to drug addiction, or perhaps food or sex addiction. To me, in this guy's case, it's actually more like gambling addiction. Several times in his life, this Kord dude, who is in the business of starting start-ups (or doing start-ups or making start-ups or launching start-ups or whatever the gerund is), has received an email offering to buy his company/product for over a million bucks. So, by my thinking, just like the gambler who returns to the slot machines obsessively with the memory of the one time he hit the jackpot, Kord is conditioned to constantly check his email. It's called intermittent reinforcement, or reinforcement on a variable-ratio schedule. Look, I Googled it for you.

2. I seriously question the definition of "multitasker" throughout the article. The researchers seem to label people "multitaskers" if those people self-report to be always checking too many input sources, constantly getting distracted by online stimuli, or compulsively looking at the various messages on their mobile devices. The thing is, I'm not sure those people would call themselves "multitaskers." The article then goes on to point out that these self-defined "multitaskers" tend to suck at the actual practice of multitasking. I, however, turn out to be really really good at it. I would never define myself as somebody who must constantly check email or texts or fifty different websites, but I would definitely describe myself as somebody who is good at multitasking. So the definition of terms thing is a thing here, people.

3. Finally, there's this gem:

Researchers say there is an evolutionary rationale for the pressure this barrage puts on the brain. The lower-brain functions alert humans to danger, like a nearby lion, overriding goals like building a hut. In the modern world, the chime of incoming e-mail can override the goal of writing a business plan or playing catch with the children.

Ahh, popular science journalism's take on evolutionary bio and psych! Do you ever get old? No you don't!!!!

In this particular example, we can see a common problem: by implying that primitive man needed to be able to arrest his hut-building instantly lest he be eaten by a lion, the writer inadvertently suggests that this time in human history - hut-building days - was the origin of this distraction-prone tendency. Like perhaps only 2% of humans had the mutation that allowed them to get distracted appropriately, thus beating out all the other humans who would become lion meat while trying to thatch their roofs. Of course, that's ridiculous. Lizards get thrown off their rock-sitting or eyeball-licking or even boots-knocking by the introduction of a threat. The distraction thing is an old, old, OLD-ASS mechanism, and our ability to remain relatively focused on more and more complex tasks (and to return to whatever task got interrupted) is what developed on top of that, over thousands of years. Not every step of our cognitive evolution happened after Homo sapiens started lumbering around; not even close.

Of course, that's not exactly what the article is saying, but I would argue that it's a common problem in our popular thinking about evolution to figure out some lion-based reason we humans do something or have something or feel something, and then kind of vaguely give it a "well there you go then."

And that's just not sciencey enough.

for a friend and colleague

Even as I sit here, someone I know and love is experiencing the final moments of her life. Time seems so profound and crisp now, as I catch myself gazing out the window, back in the moment after a period of unknown duration spent listmaking and planning. The nature of time is strange and magical, and in a twinkling way it can extend itself, wrapping you in its lightest hum, passing slowly, gracefully, mercifully, imbuing the moment with a breathless delight.

Breathless.

May she exhale in a bliss.

writer's blog

The new theme of this blog is a blog-related pun in every post title.

I am working on a project. As it turns out, I have been working on this project for about four years. I am not a genius, but most people who write fun upbeat funny warm uplifting novels are not geniuses either. I have an idea and a plan, and I cannot continue. I keep trying, but I find myself blocked to such an overwhelming extent that I actually feel tremendous relief taking a break to write this blog post. Like, incredible amazing relief.

I have set aside a lot of time over the coming months to work on this project. Ever since I recommitted myself to its completion, I've managed just a couple of paragraphs. Now I have a goal, a dream, an entire plot, characters, action, resolution, and no discernible way to get it all onto the page. It feels like I'm being asked to perform surgery on myself. This book is like a tumor: it's large and ample and ostensibly complete, but it is not coming out without blood.

I don't generally shy away from creative endeavors. And I know that I don't ever have to show this thing to anyone, that if it turns out terrible I can just keep it to myself. But I also know, I KNOW, that I must do it. I must complete it. I can't really do much else until I get at least some kind of half-assed draft of this thing done.

So how the hell do I do it? And why is it so fearsome? Why does it hurt so much?

back in blog

After a long hiatus, I've decided to resume the quasi-daily practice of typing some shit and zooming it out into the universe. LUCKY EVERYONE!!!!

Back when I started blogging, it took no guts. I was bored at work, and my workplace had a blog server, so I blogged for the time it took. Sure, I liked writing and spitting out my venom at the Bush administration, but then I got all uppity and into my branded image, and blogging itself also got uppity and funneled people into categories and rings and, ultimately, paying gigs based on their narrative bent or topic of choice. My husband was obsessed for a while with shaveblog. It's a blog about shaving. SHAVEBLOG. He still reads it sometimes. Who knew there could be so much to say?

So while I celebrate the hyper-specificity of some of the most devoted bloggers out there, I, for my own part, endeavor to bring back the random musings that encompass the wide world of everything. [Digression: apparently Blogger does not feel that "bloggers" is a word.] Blogging has come a long way since LiveJournal, but nowadays so much of it seems like a cynical attempt to get picked up for some other gig.

I for one am back again to blog for the love. I'll probably have even fewer readers than I did back in '03, but that's fine by me. I've got new goals, new problems, new thoughts, new ideas, a new agenda. And I've got A LOT TO GET OFF MY CHEST.

And away we go...

new york city, part 3

I'm back, baby.

When my mother moved me (quite literally kicking and screaming) from Brooklyn to Plano, I vowed to return to live in New York forever and ever the very first chance I got. I was nine years old, and the age of my independence was a solid lifetime away. Still, I promised myself and announced my intentions to any of my non-uniform-wearing, make-up-applying, cheerleading-practice-attending, non-Papist, God-fearing, Yankee-shunning fifth grade classmates whenever they would accidentally walk within earshot of my metaphorical stockade on the playground. (This is a shunning joke, people. Get it? Shunning? Maybe something about a big red B? For Brooklyn? Or B...loser?)

Alas, in the interceding eight years until my departure for college, my iron-clad loyalty to the Big Apple somewhat dissipated. While my yearning to flee Plano remained steadfast, I set my sights on New England for college. Exclusively. As in I didn't even apply anywhere south of Connecticut. Nothing in Texas, nothing in New York. I wanted to be far away from anybody in my family, including parents and grandparents and absolutely anybody on either side.

That first summer during college, I had a magical opportunity to live with some friends on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. My friend's well-to-do aunt lived in Massachusetts but kept a vacant apartment in New York, and we squatted there for the summer, in a stunningly fancy building where everyone hated us and nobody would talk to us but the doormen. I temped at a record label and flashed my fake ID around and went to live drum and bass shows and watched JFK Junior's funeral procession drive by my house and smoked cigarettes late at night on the steps of the Met and wrote poetry in the Shakespeare Garden in Central Park which was literally steps from where I lived. It was incredible. But it was also kind of miserable. I had the best gig with the temping, but some of my roommates had terrible jobs. We were all kind of crazy and depressed and anxious and self-conscious and unsatisfied with ourselves, resulting in a certain frequency of bad vibes. It was a thrilling and emotionally exhausting summer of 1999, and I lived in a far different New York than I had ever experienced as a kid.

And now, ten years later, I'm here again. New York City. Brooklyn, to be specific. Bay Ridge, to be more specific. In the house I grew up in, to be exact.

So a goal I set for myself at age 9 has at last been fulfilled at age 28. And of course, the reasons and motivations for being here would be entirely surreal and unrecognizable to my young self. Perhaps the myriad forces within me conspired to make that dream come true, even though I had let go of it entirely so many years before. Maybe this means I really can have what I want in life, that there is some consistency.

As I live, I'm terrified by the ways in which I leave behind goals and projects and ideas and philosophies that no longer seem relevant, and I wonder if that connection to the dynamism and ephemera of life and personality must be traded for any goal that requires steadfast dedication. It's a kind of commitment-phobia that I don't have in relationships: How am I supposed to know what job/project/city/lifestyle I'm gonna fall in love with in a week or a month or ten years?!?!?!

But this, this Brooklyn thing, it seems really good. It means I know myself, somewhere. It means I do things for myself, somehow, and not always consciously.

When I was nine, I wanted to be a writer. When I was 18, just before that summer I lived in New York, I got my tattoo, a quill pen on my ankle that always signified a promise to myself that I would make myself a writer. And now, here I am in New York, armed with my spec scripts and writing packets and screenplays and half-finished novel, (mostly) ready to do what it takes to go the distance. I think.

But probably I shouldn't think. Probably I should just live, and life will carry me towards the dreams if they run deep enough in my soul. And if I can manage not to push, then I'll arrive on the magical terms that bring joy, that daily happiness of a life lived dynamically, a gentle deference to the ways we all change and our needs change and our desires and goals, too, inevitably change. And I'll get where I'm going with a cliched-ass hackneyed trite bland aphoristic banal and true focus on the journey rather than the destination.

And then I'll really have what I want.