A/B test

Linguists have long debated the topic of whether the language you speak affects and changes the way you think, or indeed creates it, but Stanford researcher Lera Boroditsky believes that it does, and about a decade ago her studies did indicate some surprising things about how language can change the way a person perceives space, time, and relative location.

I won’t go into them here in detail since that’s not the point of this post, but there is an aboriginal tribe in Australia that gives spatial directions in absolute terms, based on compass directions — “What are you holding in your northwest hand?” Consequently, not only are they always aware of their location relative to the compass points, but they think of time this way as well. Ask them to arrange a series of photos in chronological order, and they will do it from east to west no matter which way they’re facing.

If you think about it, that makes perfect sense: Time measured from sunrise to sunset; from dawn to dusk.

She did also notice some cognitive changes when they taught English speakers to use the same kind of terms as other languages. For example, they’d ask their subjects to think of durations not as “long” and “short,” but in terms common to Greek and Spanish speakers: little, a lot, and big. They also had English speakers think of time the way Mandarin speakers do — not horizontally and left to right, but vertically, from top to bottom. Yesterday is up and tomorrow is down. Once they started to think in these terms, English speakers started to perceive time vertically as well.

Different languages can change personalities, too. Someone who is shy and reserved in one language may be outgoing in another, and their degree of fluency may also affect the type and depth of change. It’s also a matter of whether someone is bilingual but monocultural, or bilingual and bicultural. In the case of the former, it’s generally a speaker of language A learning language B in their own A-speaking country, largely free of cultural influence from B. For example, a native-born American studying Japanese, but only in the U.S. in school.

In the latter case, the speaker of A will grow up either in the original country of the A language and culture before moving to learn the B language in the B culture, or will grow up in the B country with parents and possibly grandparents who grew up in the culture of A. For example, someone who was either born in Turkey or born to Turkish immigrants to Germany, who either learned only Turkish during their early schooling and then German after emigrating, or who grew up in a household in Germany where Turkish was the primary language, but learned German in school.

I know from my own experience that my personality changes when I speak Spanish. Me hace mucho más coqueto. It makes me a lot more flirtatious. And while I’m technically bilingual but monocultural, the culture of Southern California is so heavily influenced by Latin America in the first place that it takes actual effort to be monocultural here. Then again, the western third of the U.S. used to be Mexico before we manifest-destinied the shit out of it, and two whole continents belonged to the natives and their expansive empires before the Spaniards and Brits toddled along and screwed that up.

Yeah, in English, I tend to digress to lecture a lot. I don’t do that in Spanish so much, either, unless it’s explaining some fascinating thing I discovered about the language to a fellow learner.

Onward!

Another aspect of language is the one that creates group personalities, and part of successfully joining any particular group is picking up on their own specific terminology and slang. Not knowing the terms will immediately peg a person as an outsider. This is very true of improv, and at ComedySportz we jokingly say “We are not a cult,” because some of our warm-up games certainly sound like we are.

But if you eavesdropped on a conversation between a couple of improvisers and had no experience, you’d be totally left in the dark hearing terms like Bunny Bunny, 185, Canadian cross, heel and face, “lean into it,” space work, VAPAPO, Harold, scene game, jump out game, head-to-head, brown-bag, groaner, piano torture, and (#) things.

Some of those terms are even unique to ComedySports and improvisers from other companies might not know them unless they’ve seen CSz shows. Now, if you’ve read my previous post, you probably know where this is going.

Since I started working in the field of health insurance, I’ve been learning a completely different set of words and expressions, a lot of them initialisms or acronyms, and by now I can reel them off by memory: AEP, Part D, MAPD, Plan F, Plan G, effective date, “Original” Medicare, Med Sup, HIPAA, ePHI, open enrollment, re-shopping, CMS (with a whole different meaning than in the internet world), guaranteed issuance, birthday rule, SEP, and on and on.

In all likelihood, unless you’ve ever been on Medicare, worked in a related field, or have helped an older relative navigate its rapids, you probably don’t know what many or any of those terms mean. I sure didn’t just over a month ago. Now, I’m rattling them off fluently with my co-workers.

But, at the same time, I’m now taking on more and more responsibility for explaining the things that I legally can to clients who phone in (I’m not an agent, so can’t recommend plans, or quote prices, or that kind of thing), and the calls are becoming more frequent since we just sent out a massive mailing to let everyone know that it’s time to re-evaluate their Medicare Part D, which is the insurance that covers their prescriptions. Long story short, insurance companies change their formularies, or lists of drugs that they cover, every year, and announce the changes effective January 1st on October 15th. These can make huge differences in cost, especially if a plan suddenly drops a particular drug, or another one has a price increase for a certain tier.

Thus begins the AEP, or annual enrollment period, which runs from October 15th to December 7th. Have I bored the hell out of you yet? It’s actually a lot more fascinating than it might sound, and for me it’s a good insight into the monster we’d be up against with any attempt to make Medicare for All work, especially if it maintains its weird four-part structure.

This brings me back to the language thing, though. In essence, I’m helping people understand a foreign language that I’m only just learning myself, and when I’m on the phone I can already feel my personality change. For one thing, I speak a lot more slowly than I usually do, and my entire manner slips much more into friendly but neutral customer service voice.

And yes, it’s a lot different than my phone personality when I was doing customer service for the Dog Whisperer’s website or when I’m dealing with customers who call the ComedySportz L.A. office or box office because, again, those are different worlds and different languages.

I’ve also quickly learned to become much blunter with people who aren’t clients. It’s amazing how many sales calls the office gets, especially with sales people who try to do so in the guise of already having some sort of business or client relationship with the boss, and he taught me a great question to ask: “Are you calling to buy something from him, or to sell him something that will increase his business?”

Not that this will get them through, but at least I’ll take a message instead of hang up on them.

The real trick, though, is to not get caught up in the confusion that a lot of callers have — and they’re totally right to be confused, since this is either entirely new to them if they’re just turning 65, or because every so often there’s one sudden big change (like this year) and I’m dealing with a number of people anywhere from their mid-70s to mid-90s. A lot of them at that age don’t like change, so they just try to shut it out. Plenty of them don’t mind change and don’t shut it out, of course, but I don’t seem to get those calls.

The end result of it all, though, is that I find myself in the same split-personality world I was in way back during my first office job right out of college, before I went into that almost-exclusive entertainment-related career: normal person by day, creative freak show by night. Bilingual and bipersona, to coin a phrase. The secret is being able to switch back and forth.

Reboot

If I were ever to get a tattoo, it would be a phoenix rising from the ashes, because more than any other mythological animal, this symbolizes the regular pattern of my life.

Long-time readers may have noticed that last June, my posting frequency dropped off, and my last post was almost exactly two months ago, with my review of The Play that Goes Wrong. Ironically, this post comes a few days after I returned to the same theater where I saw the aforementioned play, the Ahmanson, to see John Leguizamo’s critically-acclaimed Latin History for Morons.

The reason for my sudden radio silence is that sometimes life catches up. I posted about it in the excerpt from Chapter Thirteen of my book. Long story short, the company I’d worked at for ten years imploded, and I was laid off in September, 2017, although I freelanced for them through March 2018. It was this sudden unemployment with a generous severance on top of having saved up a lot, though, that gave me the time to write the first draft of the book between September 2017 and February 2018.

Of course, in my first draft of Chapter Thirteen, I solved all my problems, got over my depression, and everything was great… except, what I didn’t know at the time, was that the recovery was temporary, and that chapter is going to need a huge rewrite and/or become a, “Hey, if you want the full story on this one, read the sequel.”

At the time, I was lining up a lot of freelance clients, and getting a lot of promises of work, and everything seemed great. This is also when I got more involved with my improv company ComedySportz L.A., moving onto their staff as Box Office Dude after I applied for a full-time position as Office Administrator, but it was one of those cases of, “We’d already picked someone internally, but you impressed us for asking, so here’s this other thing.”

So… for a while, things were still kind of fun. I was getting unemployment, had a lot of money in the bank, and was bringing in grocery and entertainment money from the Box Office gig. ComedySportz L.A. also hosted the ComedySportz World Championships that year, so I wound up an insider fast, and pretty soon was working every box office shift. I also got to meet a bunch of great improvisers from all over the U.S. and a few from the UK, and even got to scrimmage with them in an evening of non-stop improv games.

It was great because it left my days free and I was still picking up freelance gigs here and there. The pay at CSz wasn’t great and the hours were far from full-time, but between that, unemployment, and freelancing, I was kind of breaking even-ish. I’d managed to Tarzan-swing my way all the way to the end of 2018, and an unexpected boon that came at the start of 2019 kept me going.

What I haven’t mentioned yet is that this entire time I was applying my ass off on job sites for fulltime work in what I’d been doing — content creation and editing, writing, proofreading, SEO, and so on. A lot of the time, when I’d see a referral on Big Name Job Site, I’d go find the listing on the company site instead, to make sure it wasn’t stale old crap, and then apply directly.

And… my god, the ghosting in job applications is as bad as it is in dating apps. Here’s a simple clue, both for HR people and thirsters: If you’re not interested in someone, say so. “Thank you, but we decided to go in a different direction.” “Hey, nice photo, but you’re not my type.” It’s simple, it’s factual, and it’s not an insult. But it does tell the hopeful applicant to stop wasting their time.

The other waste of time? Online job boards. Sometimes, even personal connections don’t work, particularly if you’re making a big jump from one career to another.

Remember: I’ve worked in entertainment or creative fields, or adjacent to, almost my entire adult life. I started right out of college in an office job for one of the big entertainment unions, but wound up being fired after a department split and new pig of a manager whose biggest issues with me were probably that I was openly gay and didn’t have tits. This almost exactly coincided with me finding out that my first ever produced full-length play was going to be done by South Coast Rep, which was a huge deal. This is called “starting at the top.”

After the whirlwind of fame and fortune from that production, I bounced around, with only one muggle temp gig as an accountant for about a year and a half. Otherwise, I received a fellowship for a screenwriting program sponsored by Universal Studios and Steven Spielberg’s Amblin’ Entertainment, worked as listings editor for a specialized LGBTQ community directory that was the first ever on the internet, worked for Spelling Television as a script coordinator for Melrose Place, 7th Heaven, and the show you’ve never heard of, Safe Harbor. I even wrote for 7th Heaven briefly (as in one episode that I still get residuals for), which amuses people who know me, because it’s got to be the biggest sensibility mismatch of all time.

After that, I passed through Warner Home Video and Dreamworks Animation SKG in long-term temporary assignments, then wound up at the Dog Whisperer’s own web company as a “two day” emergency temp thing. Except that they liked me, kept asking me back, and then hired me full time about two months later.

So now we’re caught up, and back to that whole “particularly if you’re making a big jump from one career to another” thing. I even signing up with a traditional temp agency, and despite my experience, they refused to even see me because their clients didn’t want people with no “office experience.” Well, where the hell do they think people in entertainment-related fields work? Hint: all of my full-time entertainment jobs were in actual offices. Only the productions, which were 99% theatre, took place in, well, theaters.

But the lack of “Yes, and” from all these applications finally got me to such a point of desperation that I applied for a grocery stocker job with a certain large, local chain whose parent company rhymes with Ogre and the chain itself rhymes with Alf’s. They gave me a phone interview and offered me a position, which would have meshed with my box office schedule. The problem is that they were offering less than small company minimum wage (by about 20 cents an hour), and they probably used some “This store only has X employees” BS to justify it despite being a huge chain. Although how they can get away with paying less than minimum is beyond me. No wonder the checkers are talking about striking again.

Another chain, which rhymes with Nader Blows, pays a lot more to start, but I didn’t get to them before circumstances intervened. Just as I was about to pull the trigger and sell my soul to a grueling and stupid night shift weekdays, late shift weekends, no life ever routine, the summer bailed me out, because ComedySportz suddenly needed someone to help them coordinate enrolling high school students for their annual summer improv camp, and wrangling the paperwork (i.e. the parents), followed up by the same process for preparing for the start of the new High School League season, so I was in the office a lot, and it got me through June, July, and August, since it became almost (and sometimes more than) a full-time job.

And then, the old adage “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” came true in spades. After all the fruitless job searching and résumé sending, an old friend’s wife referred me to a friend/client of theirs in desperate need of an administrative assistant in about the most non-entertainment, officey field there is: Insurance. Specifically, health insurance, and he specializes in guiding people through the maze that is Medicare.

I started the job on August 27 — exactly 12 days shy of two years managing to survive without any fulltime day job. And so… it’s back to a regular schedule and stability, and I hope that I’ll be posting here again more often. Of course, it might also interest you all to know this: I registered this domain and started this site while I was literally sitting in a hotel conference room, working as Check-In person and general assistant for a marketing seminar run by the two aforementioned people who got me this current job, and I did this right after I’d lost my fulltime job with the intention of using this blog as a marketing tool for the book and myself.

In the two years since then, it’s become so much more. It’s appropriate, then, that this latest Phoenix rise happens in September. Finally, I should also point out that while my site’s colors are definitely a nod to nostalgia for the naughts, they are also symbolic in this context. Orange represents the flames into which the phoenix falls, black represents the ashes of the abandoned and old, and white represents the purity of rebirth. Plus orange is my favorite color.

Image by Mystic Art Design.

The art of war

Ending just over a century ago, World War I, originally known as The Great War or the War to End All Wars, turned out to be none of the above, since it was eclipsed by its sequel, World War II — to date, the planet’s only nuclear war — which also outdid the first World War in terms of “greatness” if you take “great” to mean number of deaths. Also, obviously, the fact that there was a II to follow the I — and many other wars thereafter to the present day — means that World War I didn’t end any wars at all.

What’s often forgotten about the aftermath of that wr was the effect it had on the people who lived through it — sometimes barely — and especially the effect it had on the arts and culture, as well as the politics of the rest of the first half of the 20th century. It left a generation that was as stunned as the post-Vietnam generation. In fact, it gave us the original term for what we now call PTSD: shell-shock.

In the arts, it gave us things like Dada, which led to Surrealism, which were both efforts to deal with the absolute horror of what really was the first modern war. After all, WWI gave us the first aerial warfare with planes (after a brief prelude in Mexico), the first trench warfare and the first large-scale chemical warfare. It also led to the development of new techniques in plastic surgery. Hey, gotta figure out how to rebuild all those faces that got blown off, right?

But it was the art connection that really hit home, because I can think of three films that dealt with World War I that have really stuck with me — the first because of the way it manages to demonstrate the pure horror of that war and all wars, and the other two because they show, brilliantly, how that war went on to influence the arts and artists of that generation as they grew up after it.

The oldest film and oldest source is Johnny Got His Gun, based on a book written Dalton Trumbo in 1938 — or, in other words, right before the sequel to the Great War was released. Ironically, he was later blacklisted as a communist in the 1950s. The movie came out in 1971, at the height of the anti-Vietnam War protest movement. Both it and the book tell a first-person story about a young veteran of World War I who comes home with all of his limbs and his face blown off. He basically has no way to communicate with the world, and keeps reliving the war while telling us what he can sense — which is mostly the sounds and touches from the nurses around him.

It’s a very dark and hopeless story. This man has basically been condemned to be trapped in his own practically useless body which is just being kept alive because, well, it’s what you do for the wounded, right? He is denied euthanasia and can’t even commit suicide. Even though he finally manages to try to communicate in Morse code by banging his head on his pillow, he’s ignored — just like so many veterans of that (and other) wars have been.

The second film, Savage Messiah, is one of Ken Russell’s earlier biopics. Released in 1972, it tells the story of artist Henri Gaudier-Brzeska. Gaudier was his birth name, but he had a rather unconventional relationship with a much older woman and took her name as a hyphenate way before it was even a thing, even though they never married.

Eventually, he marches off voluntarily to fight in World War I, and one of the scenes near the end of the film is one that has stuck with me since I first saw it in an art-house revival years ago. One character is reading a letter from Henri on the front that is glorifying the war, talking about killing the enemy. Another character, pitched as somewhat of an antagonist, says, “Whoever wrote that should be shot,” and the man reading the letter replies, “He was. This morning.”

And that is how we find out that this artist and sculptor is dead. It’s one of those rug-yank moments that works so well.

The final film, Max, came out thirty years after Savage Messiah, but is perhaps the strongest synthesis of the “how this war affected the arts” with “how this war got a sequel.” In it, John Cusack plays the titular character, a would-be artist who lost his painting arm in the trenches and so who is now just an art dealer and agent. He meets a young Hitler, portrayed by the brilliant Noah Taylor, and tries to mentor him, but it does not go well because Hitler cannot understand the human side of art while Max cannot see Hitler’s nascent fascism in his works.

One of the highlights is a Dadaist performance piece by Max in which he is lowered, apparently nude and with lost arm in full view sans prosthetic, into a giant meat-grinder while he talks about the war, tons of ground beef pouring out the business end. While the character of Max Rothman in 1918 may have been fictional, the film is still a very effective take on the emotional scars that this war left on everyone who had to live through the battlefield. Only the dead were left with just physical scars, and not emotional ones, although that’s probably not better.

Of course, there are a bunch of top-rated World War I movies, some made before, a lot made after; some of which I’ve seen, a lot of which I’ve haven’t, along with the long list of all World War I movies. Also, I can’t forget Black Adder Goes Forth, which basically ended a beloved series with (SPOILER ALERT) all of the characters rushing out of the trench to their certain deaths. But, c’mon. It’s a Black Adder series. That shouldn’t be a surprise at all, considering how the first one ended.

Finally, to really bring it full circle, Rajiv Joseph wrote a play about the start of World War I called Archduke which was pretty amazing and that played in Los Angeles at the Mark Taper Forum in 2017, exactly a century after the U.S. finally entered WWI.

Oh yeah. The other big effect of that war? It’s the one that solidified the U.S. as a world super-power after we fired the first shot in the Spanish-American War but before we stole the thunder from Britain and France by finally jumping in to end the First World War. That part is not necessarily good, though, either.

What films about war particularly move you? Tell us in the comments!

Power up

You could say that May 16 can be an electrifying day in history. Or at least a very energetic one. On this day in 1888, Nikola Tesla described what equipment would be needed to transmit alternating current over long distances. Remember, at this time, he was engaged in the “War of the Currents” with that douche, Edison, who was a backer of DC. The only problem with DC (the kind of energy you get out of batteries) is that you need retransmission stations every mile or so. With Tesla’s version, you can send that power a long way down the wires before it needs any bump up in energy.

Of course, it might help to understand in the first place what electric charge is. Here’s Nick Lucid from Science Asylum to explain:

But if you think that electric current flows through a wire like water flows through a pipe, you’re wrong, and there’s a really interesting and big difference between the one and the other, as well as between AC and DC current. DC, meaning “direct current,” only “flows” in one direction, from higher to lower energy states. This is why it drains your batteries, actually — all of the energy potential contained therein sails along its merry way, powers your device, and then dumps off in the lower energy part of the battery, where it isn’t inclined to move again.

A simplification, to be sure, but the point is that any direct current, by definition, loses energy as it moves. Although here’s the funny thing about it, which Nick explains in this next video: neither current moves through that wire like it would in a pipe.

Although the energy in direct current moves from point A to point B at the speed of light, the actual electrons wrapped up in the electromagnetic field do not, and their progress is actually rather slow. If you think about it for a minute, this makes sense. Since your battery is drained when all of the negatively charged electrons move down to their low energy state, if they all moved at the speed of light, your battery would drain in nanoseconds. Rather, it’s the field that moves, while the electrons take their own sweet time moving down the crowded center of the wire — although move they do. It just takes them a lot of time because they’re bouncing around chaotically.

As for alternating current, since its thing is to let the field oscillate back and forth from source to destination, it doesn’t lose energy, but it also keeps its electrons on edge, literally, and they tend to sneak down the inside edges of the wire. However, since they’re just as likely to be on any edge around those 360 degrees, they have an equally slow trip. Even more so, what’s really guiding them isn’t so much their own momentum forward as it is the combination of electricity and magnetism. In AC, it’s a dance between the electric field in the wire and the magnetic field outside of it, which is exactly why the current seems to wind up in a standing wave between points A and B without losing energy.

I think you’re ready for part three:

By the way, as mentioned in that last video, Ben Franklin blew it when he defined positive and negative, but science blew it in not changing the nomenclature, so that the particle that carries electrical charge, the electron, is “negative,” while we think of energy as flowing from the positive terminal of batteries.

It doesn’t. It flows backwards into the “positive” terminals, but that’s never going to get fixed, is it?

But all of that was a long-winded intro to what the Germans did on this same day three years later, in 1891. It was the International Electrotechnical Exhibition, and they proved Edison dead wrong about which form of energy transmission was more efficient and safer. Not only did they use magnetism to create and sustain the energy flow, they used Tesla’s idea of three-phase electric power, and if you’ve got outlets at home with those three prongs, frequently in an unintended smiley face arrangement, then you know all about it.

Eleven years later, Edison would film the electrocution of an elephant in order to “prove” the danger of AC, but he was fighting a losing battle by that point. Plus, he was a colossal douche.

Obviously, the power of AC gave us nationwide electricity, but it also powered our earliest telegraph systems, in effect the great-grandparent of the internet. Later on, things sort of went hybrid, with the external power for landlines coming from AC power, but that getting stepped down and converted to operate the internal electronics via DC.

In fact, that’s the only reason that Edison’s version wound up sticking around: the rise of electronics, transistors, microchips, and so on. Powering cities and neighborhoods and so on requires the oomph of AC, but dealing with microcircuits requires the “directionality” of DC.

It does make sense though, if we go back to the water through a house analogy, wrong as it is. Computer logic runs on transistors, which are essentially one-way logic gates — input, input, compare, output. This is where computers and electricity really link up nicely. Computers work in binary: 1 or 0; on or off. So does electricity. 1 or 0; positive voltage, no voltage. Alternating current is just going to give you a fog of constant overlapping 1s and 0s. Direct current can be either, or. And that’s why computers manage to convert one to the other before the power gets to any of the logic circuits.

There’s one other really interesting power-related connection to today, and it’s this: on May 16, 1960, Theodore Maiman fired up the first optical LASER in Malibu, California, which he is credited with creating. Now… what does this have to do with everything before it? Well… everything.

LASER, which should only properly ever be spelled like that, is an acronym for the expression Light Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation.

But that’s it. It was basically applying the fundamentals of electromagnetism (see above) to electrons and photons. The optical version of electrical amplification, really. But here’s the interesting thing about it. Once science got a handle on how LASERs worked, they realized that they could use to send the same information that they could via electricity.

So… all those telegraphs and telephone calls that used to get shot down copper wires over great distances in analog form? Yeah, well… here was a media that could do it through much cheaper things called fiber optics, transmit the same data much more quickly, and do it with little energy loss over the same distances.

And, ironically, it really involved the same dance of particles that Tesla realized in figuring out how AC worked way back in the day, nearly a century before that first LASER.

All of these innovations popped up on the same day, May 16, in 1888, 1891, and 1960. I think we’re a bit overdue for the next big breakthrough to happen on this day. See you in 2020?

What is your favorite science innovation involving energy? Tell us in the comments!

23 and me (and thee)

Warning: after you read this, you’re going to start seeing the numbers 23 and 5 everywhere. Sorry.

When I was 23 years old, I first encountered and read the very trippy book The Illuminatus! Trilogy by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson. I’ve mentioned the latter several times here, and probably will again. Along with several others, he became one of my major writing influences early on.

Now, the thing about me coming to read the book for the first time when I was 23 is that it seemed to come about completely by happenstance. I mentioned to a coworker, who was a Wiccan, that I’d just turned 23, and she said, “Oh, you need to read this book.” I did a little research into it, thought it looked interesting, and headed down to the Bodhi Tree, the now-defunct Melrose Avenue bookshop that specialized in all things new age and esoteric.

The thing is massive — something like 800 pages, I think, and was published in trade paperback format, which is the bigger size in comparison to mass-market paperback. Trade paperbacks are close to the dimensions of standard hardcover books.

Anyway, I started to read it, and the book hooked me immediately. Why not? I was 23, and it was full of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. It also affectionately mimicked and imitated the styles and structures of things like Joyce’s Ulysses and the cut-up technique preferred by William S. Burroughs. Threads of the story weave in and out of each other in constant interruptions, the identity of narrator keeps changing by passing among omniscient third person to first-person from the characters — some of whom seem aware that they are characters in a novel, maybe — and the whole thing plays out as a neo noir detective mystery wrapped around a psychedelic conflation of every far right and far left conspiracy theory of the time, with a healthy dose of science fiction, fantasy, and eldritch horror.

Besides Joyce and Burroughs, H.P. Lovecraft and his universe receive various nods, and one of the protagonists (?) travels about in a golden submarine that evokes both the Beatles and Captain Nemo at the same time.

One of the running ideas in the book is the mystical importance of the number 23, which pops up constantly in the narrative. This also implies the importance of the number 5, which is the sum of 2 and 3. This is also why, in later years, it was tradition for Wilson to always publish his newest book on May 23rd.

There are some very interesting facts about the number, actually — and it shouldn’t escape notice that Wilson’s last initial, W, is the 23rd letter of the Latin alphabet. Those facts do go on and on, too. Here’s another list that has surprisingly little overlap with the first.

William S. Burroughs was obsessed with the number 23, which is mentioned in the novel, and many works created post-Illuminatus! capitalize on the concept by using it. You’ll find 23s in things like the TV show Lost, various films including Star Wars Episode IV, and two films that specifically deal with it, the American film The Number 23 and the German film 23, although the latter would be more properly called Dreiundzwanzig.

There are, of course, also plenty of examples of the number 5 doing interesting things as well.

So here I was, reading this amazing brain-bender of a book at the young age of 23, and I started to wonder whether there was any truth to this idea. You know what happened? I started seeing the number 23 everywhere. It would be on the side of taxis and buses — bonus points, sometimes I’d see 523, 235, 2355 or similar combinations. It would show up on receipts — “You’re order number 23!” It would be one of the winning numbers or the mega number for the current lottery winner. The total when shopping would end in 23 cents, or else 67 cents, meaning that I’d get 23 cents in change.

Wilson eventually gives up the secret to the secret, although not in this book. He does offer another interesting exercise that worked for me at the time, although probably not so much anymore since people don’t tend to carry change around any longer. He referred to it as The Quarter Experiment, although I think of it as “Find the Quarter,” and it’s exactly what it sounds like. When you’re out and about walking around, visualize a quarter (or local coin in your currency of similar size, about 25mm) and then look for one that’s been dropped on the ground.

Back in the day, Wilson claimed success with this and, sure enough, so did I. It’s worth it to click the link above and read the explanation, as well as the several ways to interpret it. (It’s also worthwhile to check out and do the other exercises listed, but especially number four. Too bad the list didn’t make it to five.)

But, again, people just aren’t as likely to drop quarters because they probably only trot them out to do laundry, especially with most parking meters accepting debit and credit cards now. A lot of public washers and driers are also doing the same, so we may be swiftly approaching a day where the only likely place someone might drop some coins is in front of one of those grocery store change converter machines.

Still, you can probably do this experiment fnord with any other object likely to be dropped, like a pen, or a receipt, or keys.

After I finished my first read of Illuminatus!, I went on to read almost all of the rest of Wilson’s oeuvre, both fiction and non. He wrote a number of books outlining his philosophy, like Prometheus Rising and Right Where You Are Sitting Now, as well as his Cosmic Trigger series, which is a cross between autobiography and philosophy, and the amazing novel Masks of the Illuminati, in which James Joyce, Albert Einstein, and Aleister Crowley walk into a bar in Geneva and things get trippy. I’ve always wanted to adapt this one into a play or film and, in fact, it was influential in the creation of my own play Three Lions, which involved Crowley, Ian Fleming, and Hermann Hesse. (Available for production, if you’re interested — here’s the first scene.)

Okay, Wilson has got too many works to cite individually, so just go check out his website for the full list. Meanwhile, this is where we’re going to go meta and full circle.

I’ve re-read Illuminatus! multiple times, and in fact started another read-through about (d’oh!) five weeks ago. Every time through it, it’s a completely different work and I get different things out of it. When I was 23, it was one story. Each of three times after that, it was another. Now, it’s yet again completely different and I just realized that this is, in fact, my fifth pass through the text.

So it was weirdly appropriate when I found out that a friend of mine from our improv company was going to turn 23 on April 30. That date itself is significant because a large part of the present story of the book takes place in April and May, but on top of that I suddenly had the chance to return the favor that my coworker had done for me oh so long ago, so I gifted my young friend a dead-tree copy of the anthology version.

Hey, I survived that journey and I think it made me a better person. Might as well share the love, right? My only hope is that somewhere down the line, after he’s read it a bunch of times, he’s in the position to pass the torch to another 23-year-old.

Pictured: My photo of the covers of my original U.S. paperback versions of the books, which I was lucky enough to find in a used bookstore for cheap a few years back. Interestingly enough, that bookstore is called Iliad Books, and it used to be next door to a video rental place called Odyssey. Both of those also figure into the fnord book. Yes, it’s quite the rabbit hole.

Not pictured: my autographed by RAW himself original edition and my later “checkerboard” cover version from the 90s.

The spoiler paradox

In the last few days, I’ve accidentally stumbled across big spoilers for both Avengers: Endgame and the most recent episode of Game of Thrones. Now, I have friends who have posted online that if anyone spoils either or both of those things for them, then the person doing the spoiling is going to be unfriended.

Here’s the funny thing, though. According to a study done by Nicholas Christenfeld, a psychology professor at UCSD in California, although most people say that they hate spoilers, in reality, they actually enhance enjoyment, whether somebody was part of a particular fandom or not.

One of the most archetypal examples, perhaps, is the film Citizen Kane. I’m going to spoil it in the next sentence, so brace yourselves. “Rosebud” was his sled. (It was also William Randolph Hearst’s nickname for something else, but that’s beside the point.)

Oh noes! Movie ruined, right? Probably not. I’d had it spoiled for me long before my first viewing of the film in a high school movie history class, but it didn’t matter. Why not? For me, it was because I got to enjoy watching how the characters in the movie figured out what I already knew, as well as to enjoy all of those moments when they went down the wrong path thinking they were right.

A follow-up study by Christenfeld confirmed this even more. And think about it for a moment. Shakespeare is still being produced and adapted to this day, and so are a lot of other classic plays, but everybody knows how they end. Unless you’re maybe a middle-schooler who hasn’t read it yet, you know who dies in Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet. But it doesn’t matter. You know who Keyser Söze is, or what’s in the box in Se7en, or who Luke’s daddy is (or Kylo Ren’s parents, for that matter.)

That doesn’t make these things unwatchable. And here’s another way to look at it. How many times have you re-watched your favorite film or TV episode/series or play? Did knowing what was going to happen wreck that experience in any way at all?

The answer, obviously, is “No.”

Another example from my life is Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None — which we first read in middle school English class, but at least we were fortunate enough to not be subjected to it until the book had gone through name changes in order to purge the title of not one but two absolutely racist terms. I didn’t manage to see the movie version until I rented it long after I’d read the book, but knowing who did it and how did not detract from the experience in the least. In fact, it made it more interesting because I was in the know, as I mentioned above, and seeing everyone else being totally oblivious to it all just made me, as an audience member, feel smart. (We’ll ignore the fact that this version changed the original ending. Argh!)

So, coming back to the present… a funny thing happened before I got around to watching Avengers: Infinity War. I had the whole gotdang thing spoiled for me — who got snapped away, who got killed before that, everything. Did it spoil my enjoyment of the film? Not one bit. Now, full disclosure: I am not a Marvel Fanboy. In fact, I’ve only seen a few of the movies, and really couldn’t care less about the franchise. Likewise, I never got into the Game of Thrones TV series (although I love the books), although I can appreciate them as art, and I do not begrudge their fandom one bit. Hey, if you like either or both, great. Just don’t look down on me for not being into them, and don’t give me crap for being a Whovian and Star Wars nerd. Deal?

(I will judge you if you’re a fan of gore porn horror movies, though. Seriously — what is wrong with you that you call that shit entertainment? On the other hand, since Titus Andronicus is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, did I just go full hypocrite? Or did I just say, “Hey, gore porn creators, class it up a bit, okay?” I mean, GOT did definitely steal at least one big dinner bit from Titus. Thanks, Arya!)

Now, back to one, as they say in the film biz. I know how Endgame ends, what happens to whom, and yadda yadda. Does that infuriate me or make me not want to see it or unfriend people? Oh, hell noes. It makes me want to enjoy the experience of seeing how they make those things happen. Same thing with the most recent episode of GOT. Ah, so she did what to whom? Bring it, and show me how.

“Spoilers” don’t really spoil anything. We only try to pretend that they do. But, as Professor Christenfeld has demonstrated, they most likely actually enhance the experience.

So when I tell you that I was really surprised when Tony Stark killed Jon Snow, don’t hate me. Thank me. I’ve just helped you enjoy both of those franchises even more.

Hindsight really is 20/20

There were three particular things that my parents did when I was a child that seemed random, but it wasn’t until years later that I had the sudden adult “A-ha” moment of realizing what was probably going on. By then, my parents were no longer around to ask, but I think I guessed their reasoning accurately.

The first one was me getting my Social Security card at seven years old.

Second was not long after that, and my parents decided to sell the suburban starter home they’d bought right after getting married in order to buy something fancier.

The last was a few years later, when my parents met with my dad’s uncles, none of whom I’d met before.

While these this may seem like normal family things, it wasn’t until I looked at other events that happened around the same time and had my “A-has.”

Getting social

First, the Social Security card. Before Ronald Reagan was president of the U.S., kids didn’t need SSNs. (I think the reason for the change was to prevent tax fraud via deductions for fake kids.) It was normal to only get one when you were going to start working, so the usual earliest age would be about sixteen for a high school job, although definitely by senior year, since it would be needed to apply for college and (gack!) student loans.

My paternal grandmother didn’t get hers until she was 35 — but that’s because that’s how old she was when they started issuing numbers. Did I mention that my dad was on the older side when I was born? I should, because that feeds back into the whys later on.

Anyway, one day we go to a government office and I’m clueless, so I just scrawl my signature on a form and that was that. Eventually, this fancy blue card comes in the mail with my name, signature, and nine-digit number on it, although my parents quickly lock it in their infamous “metal box” that lives in our linen closet, apparently a repository of Important Adulting Documents. (Insert ominous musical sting.)

Were they going to send me into child labor or something? Nope. This was not long after my dad’s older brother had a heart attack well before he hit his 60s. He survived, but I think it put some sort of fear into my parents. It wasn’t long after that a special “heart health” diet from my dad’s doctor became a permanent fixture on the side of our fridge — although the way my mom cooked, it was obvious that “heart health” back then meant something entirely different — lean red meat, alcohol, sugar, and sodium were apparently A-OK!

What I realized years later was that the only reason they got me an SSN was as a preventative measure in case Dad wasn’t so lucky with his heart and suddenly dropped dead. I had to have the number to get the Social Security death benefit, so they were really just looking out for me.

House for sale

As far as them deciding to try to sell the house two years later, it wasn’t until I realized this was right after my youngest half-brother from Dad’s first marriage turned eighteen. As in no more child support to pay — and Dad’s ex-wife had remarried right about the time he did, so he never paid much in alimony. He was free and could afford a bigger monthly payment.

Sadly, we never did sell that starter home and move on up to a fancy two-story house with a pool that would be worth millions now but which was, relatively speaking, ridiculously cheap then. I’ve often wondered how different my life would be if that had happened. I would have changed elementary schools, and every other school I went to.

Say “Uncle”

As for the third “A-ha…” My dad’s uncles — aka my great uncles — fascinated me as a kid for a lot of reasons. First, they were the only male relatives of that generation on my dad’s side I’d ever met. One of the four brothers died when I was two. Meanwhile, my dad’s dad had been in a mental hospital since forever and I wouldn’t have been able to meet him until I’d turned eighteen.

He died when I was thirteen, but apparently it was on the horizon for a while, so I met my great uncle Glenn first, and he fascinated me because he was the oldest human I’d ever met: seventy-six. He’d been around to see so much history I’d only read about!

I remember Glenn coming to our house a couple of times, and then we went to have dinner with great uncle Rolland. He was the last born of the four brothers (well, four out of six who made adulthood) and was a decade younger than Glenn. I liked Glenn, but Rolland scared me for some reason. He just seemed… well, he seemed to have the same mean streak that my dad’s brother, the uncle who’d had the heart attack, had. He lived somewhere way out, like Gardena or Glendora or one of those towns that’s lost in the great urban-suburban sprawl that stretches between Downtown L.A. and the top of Orange County in one direction and between L.A. and Long Beach in the other. What? L.A. County is bigger than some countries. (97, to be exact.)

This was something else that gave me pause years later — that my parents drove that far to have dinner with him. See, my parents weren’t big travelers except for very special occasions. Hell, maybe it was an emotional thing? We lived less than five miles from where my dad’s brother and wife lived — literally the third freeway off-ramp after the on-ramp — and we only made that trip a few times, too. It was the same with other friends of theirs who didn’t live too far away, but we rarely visited.

But here we were, driving forever. And if you can’t make minor in-town trips for close friends or family, then what incentive, exactly, is making you go this far? I didn’t know then because during the dinner with Rolland, I distinctly remember being sent out of the room to “play,” which, of course, even at that age I knew meant, “Oh, they’re talking ‘adult stuff.’”

The content of that adult stuff became abundantly clear years later while my dad was in the hospital for the final time, I was in the house I grew up in alone, knew the location of the infamous metal box (and of the key) and took a look inside. That’s when I found the explanation for what had been going on.

I mentioned the bit about his dad being locked up in a mental hospital, but hadn’t known the reasons for it. I’d always assumed that grandpa was basically insane. But, according to documents in the box, he had abandoned his family twice, despite being ordered back by the courts after the first time. When he walked out the second time while his kids were barely teenagers that was apparently enough for Grandma, who managed to get a non-scandalous divorce (probably the only way to do so at the time) and then got his ass locked up. Why? Well, because, in that day, no sane man would abandon his wife and kids and, honestly, admissions standards for mental hospitals were a lot less stringent. (Q.V. American Horror Story: Asylum.)

Oh, wait, we also had mental hospitals back then. And in California, even after Governor You-Know-Who. (Insert Reagan call-back here.)

Anyway… around this time, grandpa had started to show signs of dementia, and of needing to be checked out of the mental hospital and into a nursing home, and my dad filed papers with the court asking to be exempted from any familial or financial responsibilities for this action, citing the above abandonment. I’m guessing that maybe his brother did the same, but this would have meant that the ball would have landed squarely on the shoulders of grandpa’s two surviving brothers, Glenn and Rolland. (Grandma avoided any responsibility via that long-ago divorce.)

So those meetings were probably some combination of my dad justifying his position and my great-uncles trying to resist or negotiate. Ultimately, I think my dad won, and my grandpa wound up being relocated to a nursing home not far from where Rolland lived. When my grandpa died, I didn’t see my father shed a single tear, although he lost it when his mom died — ironically two years to the day before my mom, Dad’s wife, did.

And, even more impressive, my dad managed to somehow win over the mean, nasty uncle although, to be fair, a degree of blackmail or coercion might have been involved, because certain jokes my dad and heart attack Uncle made back in the day pretty much telegraphed that the entire family considered Rolland to be an alcoholic, and this was back in the days when “Hey, that was funny!”

Or, in other words, not now.

How parents change

This got longer than I’d expected, but I hope that it inspires people to get introspective and ask themselves, “Okay, why did my parents do that thing they did when they did, and what didn’t I know then?” This is mainly because as humans we go through stages with our parents that play out like this:

  1. Birth to puberty: My parents are the bestest. They know everything. I love them and trust them and I want to be one of them when I grow up and marry the other one when I grow up and yay!
  2. Puberty through college: Gah. I hate these people. They don’t know anything and they are so uncool, and could they stop going through my stuff and telling me what to do, and I’m going to put a lock on my bedroom door, and I swear if they ever catch me pleasuring myself I’m going to scream and when can I just move the hell out of here and be me!?
  3. Sometime after college and before thirty: Oh, wow. I can talk dirty with Mom and she doesn’t care? Dad actually knows what he’s talking about when it comes to life advice? They like my SO more than me? Holy crap. They’re people… shit. They’re human. Goddamn… they had to do what to… whoa.
  4. Branch split: Get married and have/adopt kids: Yay! Free babysitters who seem to love to do it! Get married/partner up but don’t have kids: Yay! People we can have holidays with who love our partners (more than they love us… whut?) And they can cook!
  5. Branch split 2: After they die and you’re young: Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Why’d that happen? What do I do now? After they die and you’re old: Console the kids (if any) about losing their grandparents; console yourselves with or without kids that your parents had good, long lives, and did what they did for reasons. In either case keep their memories.

What apparently random decisions did your parents make when you were a kid that didn’t make sense until you considered them as an adult? Tell us in the comments!