The saddest part about any sportsman’s death

To be honest, news of Kobe Bryant’s death on Sunday didn’t really hit me that hard. Sure, it’s sad, especially because his young daughter died with him — along with seven other people I don’t see anyone publicly mourning. But I’m not a sports fan in any way, shape or form. I consider organized sports to be a huge waste of time and money. So Kobe was only ever in my consciousness as some guy who — I think — played for my home team, and I don’t even know whether he was active or retired. And it was… basketball, maybe?

Now that paragraph is going to infuriate a lot of people, but that’s kind of my point, and the point of this piece. The only time I ever see straight men of the uber-masculine “he-man” sort show any kind of emotion is when a beloved sportsman dies or suffers some kind of tragedy. And yes, it’s always a sportsman, never a sportswoman.

Case in point: the sports media couldn’t have given two wet warm shits about HIV and the AIDS crisis until Magic Johnson announced in 1991 that he was HIV+. Suddenly, it was wailing and gnashing of teeth, and to all of those sports reporters AIDS was the worstest thing ever. Ironically, Magic is still alive, but it took this very weird cult-like behavior around sports figures to start to turn the tide.

And it’s only certain sports. Contrast the reaction to Magic Johnson with the reaction to Greg Louganis revealing, in 1995, that he was HIV positive. He didn’t get the same outpouring of bro love. Instead, he was criticized for daring to injure himself and bleed into a pool in 1988 when he knew that he was HIV+. (No, Magic did not receive any criticism for fucking a ton of women after he was diagnosed. That got crickets.)

By the way, Louganis is also still alive.

Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses. You might recognize that first word as the name of the capital in the Hunger Games series. The idea is to provide meager nourishment and spectacle in order to distract people from the real issues of the day.

And organized sports certainly provide the circus, along with the illusion of nourishment. But what about the deaths that should have given everyone pause in just the first three weeks of this year?

Qasem Soleimani – was it legal or not? Hans Tilkowski, Luís Morais, and Khamis Al-Dosari, all sportsmen who died way too young, but you don’t care because they’re not American and played soccer. Silvio Horta, who wrote for TV and film. Neil Peart, oh yeah, I’ll give you your bitching and whining over that. Elizabeth Wurtzel, bros say “who?” Edd Byrnes, actor we’ve all forgotten. Buck Henry, actor and writer we should not have forgotten (“Introducing Lord and Lady Douchebag!”), Christopher Tolkien, son of J.R.R. and keeper of the LOTR stuff; Efraín Sánchez and Pietro Anastasi, two more footballers. Er, sorry. Soccer players; Hédi Baccouche, former Prime Minister of Tunisia; Terry Jones, Welsh actor and comedian of Monty Python fame; Jim Lehrer, American journalist.

And yet… the straight white male world only loses its shit over the loss of a person whose talent was bouncing and throwing a ball.

Pardon me for intentionally trivializing, but it really is infuriating when any celebrity death goes into bread and circuses mode and distracts from the really important stuff going on. Yes, let’s take a moment to be sad about it — but let’s not allow it to make us forget all of the far worse things happening right now.

Yeah, Kobe is dead, and I’m sorry for his friends and loved ones, but for all of the impact he actually had on my life (total: zero) I’m not going to waste a lot of time thinking about it. And if it seems like the time I took writing this article was focused on… thinking about him, no, it wasn’t. It was more invested in thinking about all of the other people we’ve lost in the first 26 days of 2020.

Sunday Nibble #1

Because weekends are hard but I want to keep posting, here’s a snack-sized bit to enjoy with your Sunday morning tea/coffee/milk/CBD/whatever.

Sometimes, words in one language automatically look inappropriate in another, and today I give you the Spanish word… leer.

In English, it’s one syllable, and means to stare at someone inappropriately. “Don’t leer at me, dude.”

“He leered at her so much that she called HR.”

“Notice: Leering at patrons or artists is not accepted here.”

The word should also not be confused with the always proper noun Lear: “He landed his Lear Jet on Tuesday;” “The Bristol Cities Community production of ‘King Lear’ premiers on Thursday.”

In Spanish, “leer” is two syllables, and pronounced a lot like the English word “layer,” except with the emphasis on the second syllable: lay-AIR. In Spanish, it means “to read.”

It also happens to have a couple of variations by conjugation that, while pronounced differently, are spelled out lazy and without accents and look like other English words, mainly “leo”, the astrological sign; “lei” that Hawaiian airport gift thing;  leia, that Star Wars princess; lea, where cows hang out; lean, how you like your meat; Lee, a common name.

Going completely out of my head

I took a circuitous route into the world of improv performance and although I’d had acting training as part of my minor in college and have appeared in various theatrical productions both then and in the more recent past, my primary focus was behind the scenes as a writer. I hadn’t had any formal improv training up until a few years ago.

Now, as an actor, I didn’t have a problem developing and holding onto a character, and as a writer I was creating them all the time, generally acting them out in my mind as I transcribed their words. Of course, it’s a lot easier to do it in these situations because you have the one luxury that improvisers don’t. Time.

So when I was playing an entire Shakespeare show with an Irish accent, I had the time to learn it and practice it and make it stick because it had become second nature. Likewise when I played a bear, or the trippy Spanish-speaking mystical Jesus stand-in in Tennessee Williams’s weirdest play, I had rehearsal time to make all of the discoveries in the text and the performance in order to hone the character.

Contrast that to improv, where if you’re lucky you might get a character prompt and have twenty or thirty seconds to think about it while the referee explains the game to the audience. More likely, though, you only get mere seconds, if that, as the ref turns to the audience for a scene suggestion and you won’t know what it is until they turn back and shout, “Your suggestion is earbuds. Players, are you ready?”

“Yes!”

Whistle. “Begin!”

And that’s all of the character development time we get. Early on, it would always trip me up and I’d wind up playing myself because I was too busy trying to come up with the “platform” of the scene — who, what, and where — for however many of us went on stage to start, or to fill in  if somebody provided part of the platform.

What? Create an entire character on top of that? Are you crazy?

As I’ve written about previously, I learned that my big challenge was letting go of thinking, but it wasn’t until our ComedySportz Rec League coach and improv mentor shared a particular technique with us that I suddenly started to make big breakthroughs.

It’s called VAPAPO, but I’m only going to discuss a couple parts of the acronym so you can get a taste. If you really want to know all about (and get some great improv advice that applies to life as well), you can go buy Jill Bernard’s Small Cute Book of Improv for only five bucks plus two dollars shipping. It’s only fair, since she created the method.

There’s a logical split between the two halves, with the APO being a more advanced and trickier take on the VAP, so I’ll just explain the first three letters and how they helped me.

In case it wasn’t clear already, VAPAPO is a quick character development technique, one that can be activated instantly at the top of any improv scene and quickly drop you into a character. And remember, it doesn’t matter what character you land on. It’s even good to surprise yourself, because that will take you further out of your head and lead to more discoveries and surprises for you and the audience.

So… what do the V, A, and P stand for? Voice, attitude, posture. Pick one, dive into it, and boom. Instant character.

And it really does work. We recently spent an entire workshop practicing each one of the letters, and I surprised myself with what I came up with. For example, Voice is simply that, and a great place to just play around. Experiment with what it’s like if you speak higher or lower; use an accent or dialect; alter the natural rhythm of your speaking between staccato and drawn out; whatever you can imagine. Then take whatever voice you landed on and live it the character it creates.

You’ll find that focusing on the voice affects everything else you do in the scene. For example, in one exercise, I started playing around with a very drawn out, Mid-Atlantic sort of accent, and it wasn’t long before it affected everything else, so that I was standing very upright with my chin in the air, literally looking down on everyone else, and boom — judgmental, elitist  critic of everything was born.

Of course, quite the opposite happened when I let my voice become very become very… stutter… and doubtful about… everything, doubling back, restarting, repeating, etc. And suddenly I found myself with very submissive and docile body language, though still a lot of energy. It’s just that all of that energy was suddenly be expended in self-defense, self-deprecation, and justification attempts of everything. Instant neurosis!

The second letter, A, is for attitude, which just means picking a general outlook on life. Is this person optimistic, pessimistic, hopeful, cynical, naïve, jaded, or whatever? Grab one and run with it. Now imagine how it can change a scene. Let’s say the other performer begins with, “Margaret, happy birthday. I made your favorite breakfast for my favorite daughter. Pancakes!”

Grab an attitude and stick to it, and you could reply with…

“Pancakes, mother? Seriously? You know I’ve eliminated gluten.”

“Pancakes? Oh my god, my favorite. I love you mommy! Did I mention that’s why I’m never moving out?”

“Pancakes. Waffles. Toast. Whatever. Brent dumped me. Life is bleak and meaningless…”

Or so many more, because in improv there are no right answers.

Note that not only do these give your character a strong point of view, they give the other improviser something to react to in an equally strong way, It’s a gift in both directions.

And this brings us finally to P, which is for posture, although you can also think of it as physicality. Basically, it’s everything your body is doing and, personally, I’ve found it to be my strongest “get out of my head” tool. If I just throw myself into some odd shape or movement and follow that, voice and character tend to follow automatically.

Of course, it does work the other way around, where the voice or attitude will tell the body what to do, but for be the advantage of working from the body up instead of the brain down is twofold. There’s the obvious and aforementioned getting out of my head, but the other advantage is that it’s often good to start a scene with some silent space work instead of just launching into the dialogue, so taking the posture/physicality approach kills two birds with one stone.

It gives you something to do and creates your attitude about it in silence while allowing a moment for the voice and character to emerge.

There’s an old joke from my stage acting days that usually emerged when doing period pieces that were not in modern dress, and it was this: “When in doubt, play the costume.”

Funny thing is, it works. Why? Because the costume can dictate your posture or physicality without you even having to try. Imagine that you’re playing in some Victorian era show that has all of the women in bustles, corsets, and high-heeled buttoned boots. Or that puts the men in high, tight starched collars, waistcoats and tails. That gives you a much different physicality than, say, a cast in jeans and T-shirts, or full Elizabethan regalia, or doing a nude scene.

In every single case, you’d move differently as a human and an actor. The trick for improvisers is that we don’t actually have the costume, we have to imagine it, but if the suggestion for your scene is, say, “hazmat clean-up,” what a gift from your audience is that? Because, from the get-go, you’re suddenly wearing one of those bulky hazmat suits, and everything else about you comes right out of that.

Or it should. And the best part is that even if you have three or four performers onstage all doing the hazmat suit thing, the experience of being in it will affect each one of them differently, so that you won’t get a cookie cutter. Rather, you’ll get a smorgasbord.

The following quote is apparently from Jill, but it came via my improv mentor and I can’t find a link back to an attribution for her, so please take this as another plug to buy her book, because it’s full of gems like this that, again, reply to the real world as well: “The fact that you don’t have the same life experiences or perspective as everyone else on your team is your superpower. The ways in which you are uniquely you are an asset. Improv that stays the same and draws from the same well is dull and will die out. You’re necessary. Shoot across the sky and illuminate the night.”

And that, dear readers, is how you get out of your head and experience the wonderful juggling act that is doing improv.

Family secrets

It’s strange sometimes the connections that social media can make, and one of the more interesting but also odder ones that happened recently on Facebook was when someone messaged me at random and said, “Hey, are you any relation to (First Name) Bastian who went to (Dead President) High School?”

Well, as a matter-of-fact, that person, let’s call him Will, happened to be my much older half-brother, so I replied that yes, I was, but had to inform this stranger that Will had died way too soon back in 1992.

This was when I found out that the stranger, let’s call him Don, was the son of the people who lived next door to the house my parents bought right after they got married — yeah, people used to be able to do that in L.A. — and I only didn’t recognize the last name because my parents always apparently mispronounced it.

Now here’s the thing I always have to explain about my family, but I’m sure I’ve brought it up here before. Both of my parents were married previously, to people their own age. In fact, to their high school sweethearts, so they were living examples of why that’s a bad idea. Mom very quickly had marriage number one annulled because he was an abusive asshole. Dad endured marriage number one for nearly 18 years despite her being an alcoholic shrew. Well, at least that was the issue once whispered to me by an aunt, my dad’s sister-in-law.

But the point is this: When Dad met Mom, he was the 40-ish professional and she was the 20-something waitress in the diner across from his office. They met because he always came in the same time every day for breakfast. They married, they had me, and then they moved to the West Valley. The end result of all of this was that I’m kind of a generation off on my dad’s side but right in the middle on my mom’s side, just like she was.

So while I technically have three older siblings, they’re all a lot older than I am and I never grew up with any of them that I can remember. Two of them were old enough to be my parents and the third happened to be a lot younger than those two. That’s one half-sister and two-half brothers, although I don’t know whether that counts as three siblings or one-and-a-half.

The one other thing you should know about Will is that, like me, he was gay, although being a generation before me, he was gay at a much less friendly time and yet was never in the closet, at least not with the fam. Growing up, I always knew about him and “Uncle” Larry, they were part of the family, and I understood, even when I was a really little kid, that the two of them had the same kind of relationship my parents did.

Oh… meaning emotional besties who lived together part, not the icky sex part, because I didn’t learn about that until later, obviously. But they came as a set. Will and Larry. Mom and Dad. Same thing.

Still, because he was a gay role model to me, he was the sibling I loved the most and looked up to, not to mention that whenever he was around, we just connected, because he was also a musician, he was funny and creative, and always encouraging. But, because he was already an adult when I fell out of mom and he had moved off on his own, we never really got the opportunity we should have had to connect. I also never got the chance to come out to him, and when he died way too soon, that door shut forever. Hell, I’d barely come out to myself when that happened.

And then, this stranger contacted me on Facebook asking if I was related, and then confessing that he and Will had been best friends in High School, as well as something a bit more, because while this neighbor, Don, explained later that he didn’t even know what “gay” meant or was when he was in high school, he shared that kind of relationship with my bro, if only briefly, and before I was born.

As he explained it in a message to me, “I had no idea I was gay when I knew him. Actually I knew, but didn’t know what to call it. He was kinda my ‘teacher’ about things like that. I will always be indebted to him for helping me. I remember the night in front of a church in Canoga Park where he kinda ‘explained’ things to me, and showed me some things.”

And I have no idea what explaining and showing mean there, but I did get a long narrative recounting some high school adventures of the two and, damn… I discovered a side of my favorite died-too-young half-sibling that made me think, “Okay. Maybe not a role model.” He loved to play hooky from school, which is something I can honestly say that I never did or even contemplated except, of course, for the one time it was sanctioned on Senior Ditch Day in high school, but since it’s the school approving it, it doesn’t count as being truant.

But my god. These two cut school, they shoplifted, they threw spitballs and M&Ms in class, and tormented an English teacher. The only way my older half-bro could have been more different than me was if he’d been straight.

And these were all things that made me think, “Wait. I looked up to this one?” And, as Don told it, Will was clearly the bad influence in this situation. Plus he apparently did not get along with my mom, although she never tipped that off to me, although it is a common issue in step-family relationships.

Then I think about one of the big reasons he wasn’t around when we were adults. While I was still in high school, the somewhat successful salon he’d started suddenly closed, and he and Uncle Larry moved to Vegas. Apparently, they’d decided that not paying taxes (federal, state, or payroll) were a good idea. So, in effect, they played hooky yet again, except with a more serious set of consequences. All along, I’d thought that this had been Larry’s doing, but with this new advice from Don, I realize, “Nope. Probably Will.”

It doesn’t make me love him any less in retrospect. It just makes him more human. And makes me wish even more that we could have been more present in each other’s lives when we had the chance, but at least I’ve found a proxy who was there, and that’s one of the few benefits among the vanishingly small reasons to keep feeding social media.

Photo: First wife, half-sister, Dad; at least “Will” and I inherited his looks. Will moreso. He was a dead-ringer. Me, not quite as much.

Research everything, believe nothing

This will probably surprise no one who reads this blog regularly, but most of my fiction writing falls into one of two categories: stories based on real people or true events, and hard science fiction. I’m also a big fan of both historical and scientific accuracy, so I’ve developed the habit of fact-checking and researching the crap out of my fictional work.

It may not matter to a lot of people, of course, but if I see a glaring anachronism in a supposedly historically-based film or watch as they pull the magic element of Madeitupium out as a plot device in order to defy the laws of physics, then I will get pulled right out of the story.

A good case in point is the ridiculous dance scene in The Favourite. And it’s not just because the choreography on display would never have happened in the time period — the music is all wrong, too, in terms of instrumentation as well as certain chord progressions that wouldn’t have happened at the time, on top of not following the rigid rules of Baroque music of the era. But the even more egregious error in the film is that a central plot point is based on a bit of libel that was spread about Queen Anne to discredit her, but which is not true. If you want to learn more, it’s in this link, but spoilers, sweetie, as River Song would say. (By the way, apparently the costumes weren’t all that accurate, either.)

On the science fiction side, something like the finale of the 2009 Star Trek reboot just has me laughing my ass off  because almost everything about it is wrong for so many reasons in a franchise that otherwise at least tries to get the science right. Note: I’m also a huge Star Wars nerd, but I’m very forgiving of any science being ignored there because these were never anything other than fantasy films. It’s the same thing with Harry Potter. I’m not going to fault the science there, because no one ever claimed that any existed. Although some of the rules of magic seem to have become a bit… stretchy over the years.

But… where do I start with what that Star Trek film got wrong? The idea of “red matter” is a good place to begin. Sorry, but what does that even mean? There is only one element that is naturally red, and that’s bromine. Other elements might be mined from red-colored ore, like mercury is from cinnabar, but otherwise, nope. So far when it comes to matter, we have demonstrated five and postulated six forms: Bose-Einstein condensate, which is what happens when matter gets so cold that a bunch of atoms basically fuse into one super nucleus within an electron cloud; solid, which you’re probably pretty familiar with; liquid, see above; gas, ditto; and plasma, which is a gas that is so hot that it ionizes or basically becomes the opposite of the coldest form, with a cloud of super-electrons surround a very jittery bunch of spread out nuclei. The one form we have postulated but haven’t found yet is dark matter, which is designed to explain certain observations we’ve made about gravitational effects within and between galaxies.

Which brings me to the other gigantic and egregious cock-up from the Star Trek film. This supposed “red matter” is able to turn anything into a black hole. It does it to a planet early in the film, and to a spaceship near the end. Okay, so that means that “red matter” is incredibly dense with a strong gravitational pull, but if that’s the case, then a neutron star could accomplish the same, sort of. It’s one step above a black hole — an object that is so compressed by gravity that it is basically a ball of solid neutrons with a cloud of electrons quivering all through and around it. Neutrons are one of two particles found in the nucleus of atoms, the other being protons. It’s just that the gravitational pressure at this point is so strong that it mushes all of the protons together enough to turn them into neutrons, too.

But the only way you’re going to turn a neutron star into a black hole is to slam it into another neutron star. Throw it against a planet or a spaceship, and all you’ll wind up with is a very flat and radioactive object that was not previously a neutron star.

That’s still not the most egregious error, though. The film subscribes to the “black holes are cosmic vacuum cleaners” myth, and that’s just not true at all. Here’s a question for you: What would happen to all of the planets in our solar system if the sun suddenly turned into a black hole?

  1. They’d all get sucked in.
  2. They’d all stay where they were.

Bad science in movies tells us that “A” is the answer, but nope. If the sun turned into a black hole right this second, all of the planets would remain in orbit because the gravitational attraction of the sun wouldn’t change. Well, not quite true. If anything, it might lessen slightly because of the mass given up as energy in the creation of the black hole. So, if anything, the planets might start to creep into slightly more distant orbits.

The real negative effect wouldn’t be the black hole per se. Rather, it would be the sudden loss of thermal energy, which would turn all of the planets into balls of ice, along with the possible and likely blast of high-power radiation that would explode from the sun’s equator and generally cut a swath through most of the plane in which all of the planets orbit.

Or, in other words, we wouldn’t get sucked into the black hole. Rather, our planet and all the others would probably be scrubbed of most or all life by the burst of gamma and X-rays that would be the birthing burp of the new black hole at the center of the solar system. After that, within a few months or years, our planet would be as cold and desolate as Pluto and all the other dwarf planets way out in the sticks. Even Mercury would be too cold to host life. Give it a couple million years, and who knows how far out the planets and moons and asteroids and comets would have drifted.

Why is this? Because nature is big on conserving things, one of them being force. Now, not all forces are conservative — and, in science, that word just means “keeping things the same.” (Okay, in politics, too.) You might be familiar with the concept that energy cannot be created or destroyed, which is a sort of general start on the matter, but also an over-simplification because — surprise, energy is a non-conservative force.

Then there’s gravity and momentum, and both of those are incredibly conservative forces. And, oddly enough, one of the things that gravity creates is momentum. To put it in naïve terms, if you’re swinging a ball on a string, the path that ball follows is the momentum. The string is gravity. But the two are connected, and this is what we call a vector. Gravity pulls one way, momentum moves another, and the relationship between the two defines the path the ball follows.

Because gravity is an attractive force, increasing it shortens the string. But since the momentum remains the same, shortening the string reduces the circumference that the ball follows. And if the ball is covering a shorter path in the same time, this means that it’s moving more slowly.

A really dumbed-down version (so I can understand it too!) is this: if G is the force of gravity and p is the momentum of the ball, and G is a constant but p is conserved once given, then the only factor that makes any difference is distance, i.e. the length of the string.

Ooh. Guess what? This is exactly what Newton came up with when he postulated his universal law of gravitation — and he has not yet been proven wrong. So if your planet starts out one Astronomical Unit away from the Sun, which weighs one solar mass, and is moving in orbit at rate X counterclockwise around the Sun, when said star foops into a black hole its mass, and hence its gravitational attraction doesn’t change (beyond mass loss due to conversion to energy), and ergo… nope. You’re not getting sucked in.

Oh. Forgot that other often confused bit. Conservation of energy. Yes, that’s a thing, but the one big thing it does not mean is that we have some kind of eternal souls or life forces or whatever, because energy is not information. Sorry!

The other detail is that most forms of energy are non-conservative, even if energy itself is conserved, and that is because energy can be converted. Ever strike a match? Congrats. You’ve just turned friction into thermal energy. Ever hit the brakes on your car? You’ve just turned friction into kinetic energy — and converted momentum into thermal energy, but don’t tell gravity that!

In case you’re wondering: No, you really can’t turn gravity into energy, you can only use it to produce energy, since no gravity goes away in the process. For example, drop a rock on a seesaw, it’ll launch something into the air, but do nothing to the total gravitational power of Earth. Drop a rock on your foot, and you’ll probably curse up a blue streak. The air molecules launched out of your mouth by your tirade will actually propagate but still fall to ground eventually subject to Earth’s gravity. And, in either case, you had to counteract gravity in order to life that rock to its starting point, so the net balance when it dropped from A to B was exactly zero.

And it’s rabbit holes and research like this piece that makes me keep doing it for everything, although sometimes I really wonder whether it’s worth the trouble. When it comes to history, there’s a story that an Oscar-winning playwright friend of likes to mine tell and that I like to share. He wrote a play about the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, which was a group of  Japanese-Americans in WWII who were given a choice: Go fight for America in Europe, or go to our concentration camps. (Funny, none of my German ancestors were ever faced with the decision, “Go fight for America in Asia, or go to your concentration camps. Grrrr. But I do digress.)

Anyway… after one of the developmental readings of this play, he told me about a conversation he’d overheard from a couple of college kids in the lobby during intermission (this being about a decade ago): “Why were there American soldiers in Italy in World War II?”

And this is exactly why it is as important as hell to keep the history (and science) accurate. And these are things we need to fight for. Care about your kids? Your grandkids? Then here you go. Language. Science. The Arts. History. Life Skills. Politics. Sex Ed. This is what we need to be teaching our kids, with a healthy dose of, “Yeah, we’re kind of trying, but if you see the cracks in our façades, then please jump on, because it’s the only way your eldies will ever learn either.”

So… free education here. Questions accepted. No tuition charged. And if you want the media you’re eating up corrected, just ask.

Image: Doubting Thomas by Guercino (1591 – 1666), public domain.

A moving experience

Sometimes, it takes a nudge from outside to make basic changes. Once I’m settled in a place, I tend to not change things around a lot. Maybe it’s a reaction to my mom’s habit of rearranging all the furniture every couple of years growing up. Yeah, nothing is more disconcerting than coming home from elementary school and finding out that your dresser and bed have totally changed places and the living room looks completely different.

Honestly, I don’t know how she managed it on her own during the day, especially since the living room had that low-pile gray carpet that specialized in friction. Unless she was having the next-door neighbor come over and help, I could never figure out how she’d manage to move things like a very heavy rocking sofa, a solid oak coffee table that also weighed a ton, an entire sectional with a full-size sofa, love seat, and square bit that fit between them, and on at least one occasion (but only one) the entire dining room table (eight feet, maple, extendable to ten feet with leaves) and the hutch, which was probably pushing seven feet tall.

But she’d just suddenly get a jones to change everything, and Dad and I would get the surprise when we came home in the afternoon.

Now, it’s basic human nature to fear becoming our own parents, especially if our parents are majorly dysfunctional. Fortunately, mine weren’t, although they still had some quirks that I decided I’d rather avoid.

For my father, it was his seeming lack of strong emotions. In fact, the closest I ever saw him come to expressing them was on the way to my mother’s funeral. You know. His wife. His second wife, the woman he loved and doted on for far too short a time. She died just over three months past their 26th anniversary. Since I’m no bastard, you can do the math on the other part. And he was married to her a lot longer than he was to wife number one, who was a lot older than my mom.

And yet…  he barely showed any emotion in public or even in private throughout the whole thing. Not to the family, not to me. Oh, he’d have the occasional moment of pausing in silent anguish, but then he’d visibly stuff it down. And I tried to emulate that for too long until one day I realized, “No. This isn’t how anything works,” and if I tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve now, to me that’s a good thing, because people will always know how I feel. Granted, I’m generally an even-keel kind of person, but if I get emotional about something or someone, it’s going to show.

As for my mother, since she grew up Catholic with all of the attendant guilt, her big thing was body shame. While I was growing up, the worst kind of violence on cable TV was okay for her, and okay if I was in the room, but show one inch of skin in the bathing suit area, boom. Turn that show off. It’s filthy or, as she’d put it, “Oh, this is one of those nudie movies.”

Seriously, what adult says that?

So, yeah, I had those issues for a while until I got over them, which was a lot earlier than I got over the emotionally distant thing; mainly, as soon as locker rooms and showers were a thing after gym class, and I realized that being naked didn’t bother me and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Which may have triggered some sort of “Mom isn’t always right” thing in my head? I don’t know. But combine that with this seeming idea in my parents’ head that I would grow up to be a professional, make a ton of money, marry a woman who would stay at home and take care of all that domestic shit, and the end result was that they didn’t teach me how to do any of that “girl” stuff (cough) and, anyway, other than being kind of able to cook, my domestic skills have always been… lacking.

Oh, I eventually taught myself to be a hell of a cook and baker because A) I like food, and B) It impresses the hell out of dates. But as for housekeeping beyond doing a mean load of laundry, it’s not my forte at all, and when it comes to rearranging the furniture, for years my attitude has always been “Why bother?”

Indeed, I can think of only two times I’ve rearranged the furniture since moving out on my own after college. Doing the nostalgia math on this, I’m reminded that I’ve lived in six places since the beginning, three with roommates, two without, and one most of the time with a roommate but the last few years without. I’ve only rearranged furniture twice, and only in the last two places.

In the place before this one, it was because an SO at the time got ambitious and was into furniture and design anyway, so he inspired me to completely reconfigure and redecorate the entire apartment — this was back when I could afford a two bedroom place in L.A. (Pause for raucous laughter.) But we did it up nice, with each room a different color theme, a feature wall in silver in the living room, a blue and white bathroom with an abstract brushstroke mural on the wall, a goldenrod kitchen, and so on.

For some reason, the landlords took umbrage when the city came to inspect, so I wound up having to move, not knowing that what they did was illegal. (Pro-tip: In rent controlled units in L.A., landlords cannot try to evict you for anything called out to be fixed by tenant or landlord on a city inspection. Bookmark that for yourselves.)

This brings us back to that opening sentence: “Sometimes, it takes a nudge from outside to make basic changes.” And city inspectors are about to descend on this place starting tomorrow. I haven’t repainted any rooms, but it did get me to rearrange the furniture, which turned out to be a lot less onerous than I’d thought it would be. That, and pack off a bunch of shit to storage, and to suddenly become my mother, because I did all of this rearranging on my own.

Lesson learned, and what I never got but which my mother obviously did (and she could have told me) changing the configuration of your living space changes your mind, often for the better if that change involves making things clearer and less cluttered, which was certainly the case this time.

And yeah. The physical act of moving bulky furniture all on your own really is empowering. Getting that couch from the south wall to the west wall on your own creates an enormous sense of “I did this!” And the satisfaction of untangling the inevitable gang-bang that all cables get themselves into under the desk and re-plugging them separately and neatly into both ends of their connectors is a visual and visceral symphony of delight.

In short, while I’ve tried since forever to avoid taking on this aspect of my mother’s personality, necessity (the mother of (re)invention) today made me embrace it and… goddamn. The best, simplest, and cheapest therapy is this.

If you’re feeling out of sorts or not fulfilled or somehow off in your life… rearrange your furniture. Really. Seriously. Do it. Now!

It will change your perspective in more ways than one. It did mine, and it was amazing.

Taste the rainbow: Food and drink that aren’t really that color

Color is a very important aspect when it comes to the human experience of food. You may think that it’s all about taste and nothing more, but all of the senses are involved to some degree. Smell is a big part of taste and the two are very closely related. Touch is also involved via the physical sensation in your mouth. That clam chowder may smell and taste fine and look good, but if there’s sand in it, it’s going to be the feel of it in your mouth that gives it away.

It can also affect whether you like certain foods. For example, while I love the taste of a lot of fruits, I’m not a big fan of the experience of eating them because of the texture. Something about peaches and other squishy fruits, grapes, and strawberries just puts me off, but blend ‘em up in a smoothie and I’m there.

But getting back to color, it can override all of those senses and change reality, especially if something is just the “wrong” color. For example, testing in reverse, scientists died a steak blue and fries green, then served them to subjects under lighting that made them appear their normal colors. The subjects rated the meal — generally, it tasted just fine — and then the special lights were turned off, revealing the true colors, at which point the meal they just ate and enjoyed became unpalatable.

This is because of another very important component of color and food that played into our survival, the same as smell did and does: If the color ain’t right, don’t eat it. It’s almost instinctual. If a food that isn’t supposed to be green turns any variation of that color through blue, don’t eat it. Likewise if any food turns gray, black, or white and fuzzy, throw it out untasted.

It can work in reverse, though, and food companies exploit this as much as they can — not only to get you to prefer their product, but to make the color consistent, whether the taste is or not. Taste and color are so intertwined, in fact, that there are a whole bunch of foods that come in false colors, were so manipulated that we only accept one color out of many, or were forced by governmental lobbying to only show their true colors. Here’s a tour through the rainbow of false-colored food.

Red

Those bright red maraschino cherries that pop up in everything from ice cream sundaes to mixed cocktails aren’t really that color at all. Maraschino cherries originated on the Dalmatian coast of Croatia, where they were brined in sea water and then soaked in a maraschino liqueur from Italy.

While they were brought to America early in the 20th century, during the Prohibition Era they couldn’t be soaked in alcohol so, instead, an American university professor from Oregon brined them with a calcium salt solution to bleach them white, later poaching them in sugar syrup and injecting them with red dye.

Yes, of course. Americans found a way to make a healthy fruit into a heavily processed and unhealthy garnish for both ice cream and booze. Yay… us?

Orange

(And… the one color I can’t display here!)

Oranges aren’t really that orange and are actually ripe when they’re green but get dyed orange in most places except California, but that wasn’t what I was going to say anyway. And yes, there are no naturally orange cheeses, but since all American cheese looks spray-tanned anyway, that’s probably not worth going into. You can read up on it on your own.

Nope. The real answer is: “What’s up, doc?” Say hello to the carrot, which wasn’t originally orange at all — and is a great example of GMO food that is a staple of organic and vegan markets because all that GMOing was done a long time ago. And yes, selectively cross-breeding plants is genetic modification, just done on a much slower and less reliable scale. The advantage to the latter is that you have much more control over the results you get, and you get them much faster. But in terms of what’s happening in the plant’s cells, there are no differences at all. Two different plants swap different parts of their genome to create a new organism.

Carrots used to come in a lot of different colors, like corn, but the TL;DR of this one is that through a random linguistic accident, the leader of Holland became known as William of Orange (referring to a place, not a color,) and the Dutch were known for growing carrots. A century after William’s passing, they developed and then exclusively grew orange carrots in honor of William, and so a major food preference was born. Would you even consider a white or yellow or purple one a carrot? No. Probably not. What you think of as a carrot is a GMO created in tribute to a monarch. Yay…?

Yellow

This one is a little bit of a reversal because it’s a food that isn’t naturally a particular color, is considered to be that color now, but was barred from being it for decades because of dairy industry lobbying. I’m of course referring to margarine, which nowadays is either golden yellow, paler yellow, or even white.

But it wasn’t always so, and when it was first developed in the 1870s as a cheaper (and, through a modern lens, healthier) plant-based alternative to butter, the dairy industry lost their shit. They tried to limit the manufacturing and marketing, then settled on getting the government to say, “Hey, margarine makers, you can’t dye the stuff to look like butter.”

In their natural forms, butter is yellow/yellowish and margarine is white. The dairy lobby managed to get state laws passed saying that such non-dairy foods couldn’t be dyed or, in the case of New Hampshire and South Dakota, that it had to be dyed… pink.

The government also got into the game, taxing margarine at different rates depending up on whether it was colored or uncolored. You can read about the whole megillah here. The short version is that margarine isn’t naturally yellow, for a long time the dairy industry tried to keep it white, but margarine eventually won.

Green

This one is short and sweet (or sour and spicy) with two things you’d naturally assume to be green: pickles and wasabi. In reality, the former generally isn’t green enough and the latter isn’t green at all because, if you’re getting it in America, you’re not really getting wasabi.

While pickles come from green vegetables (cucumbers) they often aren’t “green enough” after the pickling process, which makes sense, since it involves brining them, and any brining process will bleach things out. What’s odd, though, is that the green color we expect is restored via several yellow dyes.

Meanwhile, what you’re getting in Japanese restaurants or with your sushi trays at supermarkets is not real wasabi at all. Real wasabi is rare and expensive, and even a pound of freeze-dried powder is ridiculously pricey — $187 a pound, or almost $12 an ounce. Forget getting the real plant, ground fresh, because it’s hard to grow, very rare, and once it’s picked, it’s flavor doesn’t last long at all.

So… what you’re getting instead? Horseradish, mustard, and green food coloring. Enjoy!

Blue

For this, we only need to go as far as a beverage called Blue Curaçao, which certainly is blue in the bottle but, in reality, is actually an orange liqueur. Going from orange to blue is a good trick whether you do colors in pixels (RGB) or paint (RYB) because, either way, pure blue doesn’t have anything in it to make orange. So I’m not going to investigate too hard to figure out how they do it.

Purple

Okay, to be honest, I couldn’t find a single real food item that’s dyed purple when it’s not originally that color, but I did run across the idea that there’s no such thing as Purple Drink, Grape anything, or so on. In fact, here’s a scary soda fact for everyone: without artificial coloring, every last soda on the planet would be clear despite the flavor, but this brings us back to the top. Sight is just as important as smell and taste when it comes to the flavor of things.

Most purple drinks — not purple. Probably the most obvious one on the list. But in any case, avoid if you can anything called Purple Drank.

And so ends our tour of the rainbow, and a short note for my fans. It’s been a fun series of constant posts since the day after Thanksgiving, but I’ve now caught up to myself. (Hint: the WordPress schedule post feature is amazing) so, anyway, I risk going back to real time, and there’s some real world stuff to deal with at the moment, not to mention it’s my birthday in two weeks, so… if I miss keeping up my trend for a day or two, indulge me. And thanks for reading, liking, and subscribing.

And, as always, if you want to click that tip jar up there and contribute, well… it is almost my birthday!