One morning this week, I took both of Vicki‘s hands in mine, looked her in the eyes, and said “thank you for 10,000 loving decisions and 1 million loving words. I am grateful.”
I felt a rush of peace. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: happy people aren’t grateful, grateful people are happy. I owe someone else such a thank you, and they’re going to get it when It is safe to go out again.
If you owe someone A thank you, give it to them.
I was not expecting to be impressed by this book, merely entertained. I don’t remember who or what led me to it, but I’m glad I read it. It is sweet and wonderful. Cheryl Stayed was the writer of an advice column called “Dear Sugar,” and the book is a reprint of her advice. In general, I am a sucker for column collections, but this one more so than usual.
Unlike some advice columnists, she gives consistent advice, and, in my opinion, excellent advice. Two of my favorite nuggets from the book:
“You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.”
Also this: “You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough...”
More on protecting our elections. Definitely worth a read.
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Daniel Dern notes: How To Make a Blockbuster Movie Trailer
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From Angels’ Daily Message: “If you awaken with bitter thoughts about a time you felt mistreated, turn immediately to being aware of God’s Love that was there for you then, and is here for you right now, and will always be supporting you and flowing to you.”
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I belong to a chat group of former UPI reporters, which brought me this gem: “And one final thought: When I first discussed this column with North Coast Journal staff, I asked if I could use the F-word. They said they love the F-word, so no problem. But in three years I haven't had a need -- until now. To whoever shot that otter in the head. Fuck you.”
You may want to browse other Kelly columns. This column convinces me he likes the ocean almost as much as I do.
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Thank you, Janis Ulevich:
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In this special mid-week birthday mini-column (I turned 68 on Sept. 17). I am coming out as a Sapiosexual—a term I’d never heard until yesterday. I suspect many of you are as well.
I don’t know why this felt so urgent that it needed a special mid-week edition, but it did. I guess it’s just exciting to finally realize what I am.
I am moderately ashamed to admit I fell for one of those “IQ test” popup ads, this one on the New York Times crossword page. I came out at 120, 90th percentile (gifted). My dim memory of my childhood IQ test was that it was 130, 96th percentile (very gifted). This new score is within the range of error, since the Internet says either score could be plus or minus five points. Or perhaps I’m getting dumber. Still, not a number I feel bad about. And I did skip one question I forgot to go back and do.
While trying to assign a meaning to my score of 120, I came across this on the Internet:
“For almost one-in-ten people, the researchers found, high intelligence was particularly arousing. They found it a more attractive trait than looks and personality combined, new research finds. 'Sapiosexuals', as they are known, are as likely to be men as women and are very turned on by high IQs.”
I am a proud sapiosexual; have been for more than 50 years. My first girlfriend was a woman of average intelligence, but the woman I took to the prom was brilliant. Then, I accepted who I was, and my lovers have all been geniuses. I never tested any of them, but I suspect they all had IQs over 120.
I am sure they were sapiosexual as well. I have never been either good-looking, suave or athletic. I have wondered for years how I was able to attract such amazing women. And now I know.
The four women I have loved in my life all seemed so different; for a long time I wondered what we had in common. Now I know: it was their minds.
[Earlier this year, I wrote this poem for Vicki. Then I realized it was true of every woman I have ever loved, so I sent a customized version of it to several of them. God’s honest truth: I meant it about each of you. And now I know why.]
It has always been
your mind.
From the first moment we met.
I fell in love with your mind,
undistracted
by the physical world.
Proust was half right:
“It is our imagination
that is responsible for love,
not the other person.”
In your case,
it was both.
Because of your mind.
It has always been
your mind.
From the first moment we met.
There are very few ways in which I can empathize with G.W. Bush and D.J. Trump, but one of them is a certain reticence about our college transcripts. As MIT Admissions Director Pete Richardson once said to me, at a time when MIT didn’t actually keep or publish class rankings, “Well, Paul, someone has to be last in their class.” I was the only member of the class of 1974 whose verbal SAT score was higher than his math score—in part because 2/3 of my classmates scored 800 on the SAT Math. Not me, obviously.
It took nearly 30 years for someone to ask for my transcript; it was the California State Teacher Credentialing commission, which has a requirement that teachers must have a 2.5 undergraduate GPA. Because I flunked 18.02 (second-term calculus) twice and management accounting once, and because all my junior and senior grades were pass/fail because of the Undergraduate Studies Program I was in at Sloan, I didn't make the cut. The venerable Prof. Jay Forrester, inventor of magnetic-core computer memory and Sloan School professor, headed the program along with Prof. Leo Moore.
"You see I graduated, from MIT, right?" I asked the credentialing commission on the phone.
"Yes sir. Rules are rules."
"Turn all my pass grades into Cs, and I qualify to be a teacher."
"We can't do that. Someone from MIT will have to write to the commission."
Prof. Forrester, god bless him, was still alive in his 80s, still in his office 20 hours a week, still answering his email. "Just draft the letter and I'll be happy to send it," he said. "But just one thing."
"What's that?"
"I can't turn them into Cs. The USP was an honors program, so I will have to convert them all into As."
Which is what he did, which is why I was able to teach 8th grade US History for 11 years.
I found myself thinking of an old friend of mine, an IBM watcher whose company was called International Technology Group. It was in Santa Cruz, Calif. among other locations. There are a few Brian Jefferys on the Internet, but none of them are mine. I fondly recall our discussing his youth as a labor party organizer, when he would go door to door to encourage voters. Along the way he would sing The Red Flag (pelf is not a typo; it is an obscure, mostly English synonym for ill-gotten gains or filthy lucre)
It suits today the weak and base,
Whose minds are fixed on pelf and place
To cringe before the rich man's frown,
And haul the sacred emblem down.
My hope is that he’ll google himself someday, find this, and get in touch with me.
As you know, I rarely pan movies/books/plays (see item below), but I feel I have to issue a warning about the much-touted Netflix/Charlie Kaufman flick, I’m Thinking of Ending Things, based on the novel of the same name that I never read. The movie isn’t worth seeing. Thank God Netflix didn’t charge a premium for it. Then I would have wasted my time and my money.
I was sucked in because Kaufman previously wrote two of my favorite weird films: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Being John Malkovich. His dense, complex, unsettling scripts are clearly catnip to talented actors. And, usually, to film buffs.
In this case, all a waste. Perhaps, if you read the novel, the film would make some kind of sense (as was the case, for example, with 2001, A Space Oddesey). If you are desperate to see it, I suggest you can check out the Wikipedia plot summary, or the one I found at Den Of Geeks. It seems (like The Sixth Sense) that this film is may be more interesting on a second viewing. It is highly unlikely to be tolerable otherwise.
I haven’t disliked a film this much since Fellini’s Amarcord, whose title is an Italian word that means “I remember.” When I panned it in The Tech (“I wish I could forget”), I was informed by the distributor that mine was the only negative review in a U.S. college newspaper. Back in the pre-Internet days there was no way to prove that.
I doubt mine will be the only negative review of this disappointment.