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There is a general principle in physics called the “observer effect” which asserts that trying to objectively measure something cant really be done without it affecting the system or object to be measured. That sounds like a very frustrating scientific principle to me (like trying to shoot arrows at a moving target that appears, disappears, and then morphs into different shapes when you attempt to focus in on it). I suspect the observer effect applies to talking about or trying to measure this crazy thing called love.
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After 35 years as a Clinical Psychologist and certified sex and marriage therapist, I can attest to the elusiveness of love as a scientific concept. So to is the difficulty involved in measuring or mathematically capturing love’s fundamental “essence”. I have referred to love as the “Bigfoot” of empirical constructs. In fact, trying to nail down a concise or all-inclusive definition for love (something that we all seem to know and desire but very few people ever fully master or perfect) is probably futile. ON a personal note I find it ironic and somewhat embarrassing that I’ve given dozens of lectures on the subject, counseled hundreds of people in sex and marital therapy and yet must admit to being a 60 year old divorced guy who still puzzles at how some people do it (manage to both feel and express love) and continue to do so throughout their lives. This is especially true about extraordinary compassionate and loving individuals like the Dalai Lama. Therapeutically speaking, sex problems are usually a piece of cake compared to love problems.
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As for the “observer effect”, just by being asked to think about and share my perspective on love I assume it will alter my viewpoint and change my thinking, maybe even my innermost feelings. Like listening to music or reading a poem, talking about love has a way of calling forth deeper emotions, old memories, and a symphony of images, smells, tastes, and romantic and/or erotic personal experiences…. particularly if you are over 14 years old and have a beating heart. For example, most of us can remember the specific music or songs we associate with being in love for the first time. Speaking of beating hearts, there has always been an intimate connection even in vastly different cultures between feeling “in love” and ones rapidly beating heart (that is not due to some preexisting cardiac condition or generalized anxiety disorder). True to its dualistic nature, getting ones heart “broken” by someone you love is similarly viewed by many cultures at various times in history as part of love’s ubiquitous and bittersweet legacy. Thus, to lose love is almost as potent and wholly unforgettable as realizing that one has fallen in love. To not talk about love in a passionate and personal way is to take reductionism and scientific empiricism to an absurd level, like what the pioneer sex therapists Masters and Johnson first attempted to do with human sexuality with their bright white lab coats and measuring instruments. If you know anything about it or watched the popular HBO series then you know what it got them… divorced like me.
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The point is that when it comes to love, I’m more interested in whole systems and synergy among its transacting parts not pure statistics. I care more about useful notions with everyday applications and not complex psychiatric diagnoses or research concepts that nobody can relate to. The real point and the critical question is what does it take to open ones passionate and vulnerable heart to another passionate and vulnerable human being and then generate (and continue to generate in reciprocal fashion) authentic love towards self and “other”? Ironically, to a child it may take no real effort or conscious thought process as many children seem capable of feeling and expressing love spontaneously. How and why then have so many of us “adults” forgotten how to do what we once did naturally and without having to read a dozen books about it? Unlike sex, I doubt there will ever be a little blue Viagra pill for love or phone app for that.
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One Interesting Approach: Based on a popular series of talks given by renowned Kabbalist Yehuda Berg, Kabbalah on Love offers a simple yet profound message: love is not something that is primarily learned or acquired, but an essence within, waiting to be revealed. Buried by layers of personal ego, fear, shame, self-doubt, low self-esteem, and other ingrained limitations, mature love can only be activated by sharing self fully (including ones vulnerable parts) and serving others unconditionally. Only then will the outside layers fall away and the essence of love reveal itself. Berg makes the distinction between love and emotional neediness, overdependence, or relationship addiction — which he sees as more self-centered byproducts of human ego — and reminds us that only after connecting with the “greater” love within (essence of God) and learning to love our own true (whole) selves can we truly love someone else. Unfortunately, many divorces result from marriage partners who (due to their upbringing, cultural influences and unrealistic romantic ideals) sought “completion” in their spouse rather than first recognizing the need to achieve wholeness in themselves.
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The Love Song in My Head: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QZjJU-mtFU
Dangerous New Sex Disorder
From the Mailbag This Week: Dear Dr. Mazer, I have a lot of shame over what I am about to tell you. I am a 30 year old male graduate student in English Literature. I had planned on pursuing a teaching career once I finish my doctoral dissertation. I have had the same gf for four years and we are engaged to be married. I saw Michelle Bachmann on Fox News just today and I now realize I have an unnatural attraction to her, especially when she has on tons of make-up, wears tight fitting dresses, and talks about God. This has happened to me before when I saw her picture online and I found myself googling her name, looking for photos of her and wasting time abusing myself instead of working on my thesis statement. What should I do and what in holy hell is wrong with me?? Jake (not my real name)
Dear Jake, You definitely have what we in the sex therapy business call a bizarre sexual paraphilia. Wikipedia defines a paraphilia as follows:
Paraphilia (from Greek para παρά = beside and -philia φιλία = friendship, meaning love) involves the experience of intense sexual arousal to atypical objects, situations, or individuals.[1] Paraphilic behavior (such as pedophilia, zoophilia, sexual sadism, and exhibitionism) may be illegal in some jurisdictions, but may also be tolerated in certain cultures (ie. anal sex with donkeys in certain impoverished Latin American countries lacking running water or petting zoos) . No consensus has been found for any precise border between unusual personal sexual tastes and paraphilic ones.
Jake, regardless of the last sentence which almost suggests a certain “relativity” or culture bound quality to having such highly unusual sexual preferences or urges towards inanimate or superficial objects, we can still conclude that your sexual compulsion is not only unhealthy but likely to end in great misery and eternal damnation. My guess is you have more skeletons in your closet and they may include keeping internet files of old high school videos and images of Sarah Palin and (God forbid) even Ann Coulter. I say this with all respect. You may have heard of the biblical injunction, “If thine eyes offend thee then pluck them out”. In your case I would surgically remove all your limbs and hanging appendages and have them bleached and sandblasted. You need professional help my friend and a high dose of Prozac or Paxil aint gonna cut it. I feel sorry for your gf as I fear it may already be too late for you and your divine soul. With Regret and Regards, Dr. Cliff Mazer
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Tell Me I’m Paranoid
This whole consumer tracking and digital media marketing thing is really starting to creep me out. Tell me I’m paranoid but I clearly remember pausing in front of the Thomas Bagel Thins while at Publix today. I couldn’t decide if I wanted Pepperidge Farm extra thin white bread or something off the beaten path like the wide variety of Thomas bagel and english muffin products which just happened to be on sale (2 for 1). I’ve been on a non-Paleo, non-gluten free carbo binge lately and I feel guilty for falling off the “no bread or bagels” dietary restriction I imposed upon myself after gaining 10-15 extra pounds since my previous birthday. As a result I lingered for quite a long time in the dreaded bread aisle and engaged in a protracted “devil versus angel” on my shoulder wrestling match until I was able to crawl out of the Octagon of Shame and break the stalemate with a box of low fat Triscuits. Later, while on my computer at home I start to notice all these Thomas Bagel Thin pop-up ads and banners on AOL and on Facebook. They appear to be following me as I go between tabs and use various search engines. Could these cagey bread barons be using NSA-like spy tactics and hacking techniques to access my personal data using proprietary facial recognition software, Big Brother snooping devices from the movie Minority Report, ie. pre-cogs, or trojan horse viruses slid through the cracks in my iPhone’s vulnerable firewall settings? Have they managed to follow me home using satellite sourced GPS technology and now are trying to wear me down and break my already pitiful reserve of self-control and Just Say No willpower? Even 300 Spartans and their uber muscular physiques wouldn’t stand a fighting chance against the all powerful Pillsbury Doughboy and his rising yeasty minions. Is it conceivable that “they” are intentionally hypnotizing me like a hungry hungry hippo by using strategically placed always moving food images and subliminal advertising? Why do I suddenly crave an entire Sarah Lee sour cream and strawberry cheesecake? It’s 15 degrees below zero outside and all I can think about is finding a 24 hour Kroger to buy the necessary food items to build a hickory smoked turkey sandwich on a Thomas garlic flavored bagel thin with Durkees dressing and a large bag of Baked Lays potato chips….and a Sara Lee cheesecake. I tried to reboot my Macbook Pro but when I attempted to empty the cache file all I saw was the word “cookies” flashing over and over and quickly retreated to my homepage and the relative safety of my undiscovered reader proof WordPress blog. Hiding out like this online I feel a lot like Anne Frank only a lot older and much fatter. This is not fair. If I see or hear a Tastykake corporate drone fly over my house tonight or tomorrow morning I’m surrendering without a bite, I mean fight.
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Anxiety and Me
by Cliff Mazer, Ph.D.
Beyond the sleep lab testing I also tried many of the tried and true methods for dealing with night time anxiety and insomnia. I kept a sleep diary, ie. Monday- no sleep, Tuesday-no sleep, Wednesday- delirium and possible psychosis…and no sleep, etc. I used relaxation tapes. I engaged in progressive muscle relaxation, auto-suggestion, and cognitive therapy, ie. “I am a wonderful, incredibly tired human being and my left leg is getting very heavy and going numb. Wait, do I have MS??” The basic problem with neurotic anxiety is that certain people just plain and simple think WAY too much. While other people accept many things as they are in this world, I often keep questioning out of force of habit both as a therapist and as a constitutionally curious and highly skilled neurotic person. But WHY am I aging more toward the top of my Baby Boomer body and much less toward the bottom? How is it possible to grow so much hair on my back and shoulders and butt but not at all on my head? Is my muscle soreness from the Statin drugs I take or from Lupus? I know it cant be from exercising too much. These are just a few of the questions that preoccupy me while the rest of the world is sleeping soundly. It’s not easy for a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology to finally bite the bullet and call his colleague the medically trained psychiatrist and fess up to having an anxiety problem and less REM sleep then my 15 year old client with ADD who accidentally took his Ritalin at midnite thinking it was Ibuprofen. It was from my shrink that I first learned about the wonders of Ambien.
Have you ever taken Ambien, the popular sleeping pill and gotten a good nights sleep only to wake up to mounds of garlic bread crumbs, a stop watch, an empty carton of orange sherbet and one of your neighbors you never met before in your bed? Ok, I am exaggerating again about the neighbor but the rest is the Gods honest truth. Ambien can have some interesting amnesiac-like side effects for a certain number of people. However, the good news is that the magic little pill works well if you dont overdo it (and be sure to hide your car keys from yourself if necessary).
Benzodiazepines (Ativan, Klonopin, Valium, Xanax) are sometimes useful for the more crippling forms of anxiety but also have a noteworthy downside. Once on a high enough dose it is probably easier to get off heroin or Krockodil than taper off Benzos. In other words, the pharmaceutical companies at that point have claim to your body and soul for life as well as your first born anxious-neurotic child. Ambien (Zolpidem), which is only used as a sleep aid is not quite as bad, addictively speaking, and works for many of us who just cant do as Samuel L. Jackson so eloquently narrates in his audio rendition of the childrens book, “Go The F#%$ To Sleep!” Caution: Never take an Ambien during the day by mistake. You will engage in strange behavior such as my son Eli who ended up having a deep conversation with the fresh vegetables in the produce drawer of the Sub-zero refrigerator. I kid you not.
Cliff Mazer Ph.D. is a Clinical Psychologist and humorist who lives and works in Sandy Springs, Georgia. He has a thing for Pirates and other people with ADHD and insomnia. He blogs fairly anonymously on Facebook and WordPress at https://captaincliff.wordpress.com/ Contact: 404-932-7193
Submitted to Atlantic Magazine’s Anxiety Chronicles, Jan 2014
Who could possibly be more anxious than a neurotic Psychologist with an anxiety disorder? How about a Jewish Clinical Psychologist with anxiety and chronic insomnia? I’m sure few people are surprised to hear that there are many psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists who sit in their cozy offices and well-worn high-back leather chairs all cool, calm and collected during work hours but later morph into Woody Allen-like creatures who roam their kitchens and medicine cabinets seeking relief from their own panoply of panic disorders, anxiety issues, and sleep problems. Dont get me wrong, I’m perfectly fine while I’m working with clients. They tell me I am a fabulous therapist who really seems to understand their emotional problems. Of course I understand. I satisfy the diagnostic criteria of just about every psychological disorder in the DSM–manual. Maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m prone to exaggerating my own symptoms as I’m convinced each and every one suggests a fatal disease or inoperable brain tumor. Did I happen to mention my psychochondriasis and moderate to severe medical student syndrome?
Besides liking my clients and my job as a psychotherapist, my patients often help me to feel better about myself and whatever is wrong with my psyche, mostly by comparison to their overwhelming tsuris (yiddish for large mess of personal problems). Also, can you spell “schadenfreude” (I never can) which literally means “enjoyment obtained from the troubles of others“? I feel guilty about that but it doesnt keep me from empathizing appropriately or knowing how much of my fahklumpt and fachadick feelings are too much (negative countertransference). Yiddish, by the way, has more words for guilt and suffering than Eskimos have for snow. Having crippling guilt and high anxiety about treating people with anxiety disorders would clearly be one self-diagnosis too far, and as far as I know there’s no Yiddish term yet for that kind of uber-craziness.
In my case I dont have acute anxiety or panic attacks. While alarming to its many sufferers, I would probably prefer (in the Sophies Choice sense) to have the type of focused anxiety or phobias that respond well to cognitive-behavioral treatment, anxiolytic medications or a clunk on the head with a rubber mallet. Instead I have what we in the helping professions call generalized anxiety NOS (not otherwise specified). In layman’s terms it means there is no one specific cause to ones nervousness and more likely there are neurotic or psychological components to ones anxious feelings and negative thinking. What me worry? Yeah, that could probably be my motto after the work day is over. Over the last few years I have also developed a serious problem with sleep and I snore like a horse with a sinus infection. I know what you armchair doctors are thinking. I tried it all. I did the comprehensive “sleep study” along with all the other moderately overweight middle aged men who dutifully shlep to the outpatient medical facility/ faux hotel room with their favorite pillows in hand to be hooked up like Keanu Reeves in the Matrix. Meanwhile the wives and girlfriends were at home getting their first decent nights sleep in years. I cant say I was surprised that I couldn’t get much shut-eye that night with 57 different electrodes duct taped to my body and two stone faced lab techs staring at me through a glass window. Of course a World Class Neurotic (WCN) with anxiety such as myself spent most of my “Sleepless in the Sleep Lab” session thinking about the poor shlub on the You Tube viral video who keeled over and died right in the sleep lab…while two sleep lab technicians watched through the glass window. I guess they didn’t notice him sitting up suddenly, clutching his chest and falling off the bed in the faux hotel room.
Beyond the sleep lab testing I also tried many of the tried and true methods for dealing with night time anxiety and insomnia. I kept a sleep diary, ie. Monday- no sleep, Tuesday-no sleep, Wednesday- delirium and possible psychosis…and no sleep, etc. I used relaxation tapes. I engaged in progressive muscle relaxation, auto-suggestion, and cognitive therapy, ie. “I am a wonderful, incredibly tired human being and my left leg is getting very heavy and going numb. Wait, do I have MS??” The basic problem with neurotic anxiety is that certain people just plain and simple think WAY too much. While other people accept many things as they are in this world, I often keep questioning out of force of habit both as a therapist and as a constitutionally curious and highly skilled neurotic person. But WHY am I aging more toward the top of my Baby Boomer body and much less toward the bottom? How is it possible to grow so much hair on my back and shoulders and butt but not at all on my head? Is my muscle soreness from the Statin drugs I take or from Lupus? I know it cant be from exercising too much. These are just a few of the questions that preoccupy me while the rest of the world is sleeping soundly. It’s not easy for a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology to finally bite the bullet and call his colleague the medically trained psychiatrist and fess up to having an anxiety problem and less REM sleep then my 15 year old client with ADD who accidentally took his Ritalin at midnite thinking it was Ibuprofen. It was from my shrink that I first learned about the wonders of Ambien.
Have you ever taken Ambien, the popular sleeping pill and gotten a good nights sleep only to wake up to mounds of garlic bread crumbs, a stop watch, an empty carton of orange sherbet and one of your neighbors you never met before in your bed? Ok, I am exaggerating again about the neighbor but the rest is the Gods honest truth. Ambien can have some interesting amnesiac-like side effects for a certain number of people. However, the good news is that the magic little pill works well if you dont overdo it (and be sure to hide your car keys from yourself if necessary).
Benzodiazepines (Ativan, Klonopin, Valium, Xanax) are sometimes useful for the more crippling forms of anxiety but also have a noteworthy downside. Once on a high enough dose it is probably easier to get off heroin or Krockodil than taper off Benzos. In other words, the pharmaceutical companies at that point have claim to your body and soul for life as well as your first born anxious-neurotic child. Ambien (Zolpidem), which is only used as a sleep aid is not quite as bad, addictively speaking, and works for many of us who just cant do as Samuel L. Jackson so eloquently narrates in his audio rendition of the childrens book, “Go The F#%$ To Sleep!” Caution: Never take an Ambien during the day by mistake. You will engage in strange behavior such as my son Eli who ended up having a deep conversation with the fresh vegetables in the produce drawer of the Sub-zero refrigerator. I kid you not.
There are a million reasons people cant fall asleep or stay asleep. As my friend the shrink explained it, the older you get the harder it seems to turn off the mental computer and go into “sleep mode”. I’m sure the 32 different digital devices in my bedroom all blinking out of synch and beckoning my immediate attention dont exactly help either. Daytime anxiety and nighttime neurosis only makes the whole thing worse. “Wait, it’s 3:25 AM, I better check my Facebook page to see if anyone else liked my most recent status update”…….or “hey, I wonder if somebody has linked to my blog (otherwise known as my undiscovered posthumous memoirs) in the middle of the night….?” Bottomline, the more you think, obsess, or do late at night, the less you sleep…. and the less you sleep the more anxious and neurotic you get the next day when you wake up. Sometimes I just stay up all night and count vicious circles.
Riiight, so here’s what made me anxious last night and kept me up after I wrote this article about my anxiety. In my final paragraph was it more correct to say awaken, awoken, or ewok (the latter only out of complete frustration and mild psychosis due to sleep deprivation) ? The grammatical as well as literary arguments online about this obscure topic are endless and inconclusive. Insomniacs apparently debate with each other about such things when they are not busy watching the QVC channel and buying stuff while high on Ambien. Eventually I gave up and just said “wake up”. Honestly, I wish I could sleep and wake up normally and I also wish I could NOT end up ruminating about furry Star Wars characters at 4AM. Meanwhile, I couldn’t go the f@#% to sleep and now I worry if this article will ever get published…and if it does will it be good or bad for business…..Oy Vey!
Riiight, so here’s what made me anxious last night and kept me up after I wrote this article about my anxiety. In my final paragraph was it more correct to say awaken, awoken, or ewok (the latter only out of complete frustration and mild psychosis due to sleep deprivation) ? The grammatical as well as literary arguments online about this obscure topic are endless and inconclusive. Insomniacs apparently debate with each other about such things when they are not busy watching the QVC channel and buying stuff while high on Ambien. Eventually I gave up and just said “wake up”. Honestly, I wish I could sleep and wake up normally and I also wish I could NOT end up ruminating about furry Star Wars characters at 4AM. Meanwhile, I couldn’t go the f@#% to sleep and now I worry if this article will ever get published…and if it does will it be good or bad for business…..Oy Vey!
Cliff Mazer Ph.D. is a Clinical Psychologist and humorist who lives and works in Sandy Springs, Georgia. He has a thing for Pirates and other people with ADHD and insomnia. He blogs fairly anonymously on Facebook and WordPress at https://captaincliff.wordpress.com/ Contact: 404-932-7193
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Goodbye 2013, Hello 2014 (WTF?)
As this year Stardate 2013 ends I feel compelled, not by the power of Christ, but by my own overblown ego to say something important. Unfortunately I really don’t know anymore what is significant enough that it needs to be documented for all eternity in my CaptCliff blog archive, sometimes better known as my personal literary dustbin.
Plus, it’s hard to compete with a Piranha feeding frenzy in Argentina and Christmas doorbuster sales at Walmart where people kill each other over skinny jeans and sequined iPod cases. Dont get me wrong. Part of me itches to go shopping and buy something that I dont need. Just like losing connectivity to the internet or Facebook for a few days, at times I suffer from an irrational fear of falling behind and realizing too late that I’m the last person on Planet Earth with an iPhone 3 and a flat screen HDTV that is NOT “smart” or bluetooth-enabled. Worse yet, I dont even know what that means. I like to think of myself as an iconoclast and a unique individual but more and more it seems we are living in the Chinese Year of the Herd Animal, and I’m the weirdo who is way out of step (see my “Cadaver CanCan” art project above).
On the positive side I realize there are many people who care about me including Facebook friends who may be complete imposters/catfish and others who love me and tell me stuff I want to hear, ie., that I am moderately clever, even occasionally funny. I now know how to look at both sides of life. For all the hair I’ve lost there is plenty more growing in my ears, on my back, and in places I cant mention in public. I know this might seem to be an unusual way of demonstrating wisdom and positive perspective, particularly since it means I now resemble a stooped Neanderthal. However, maybe that’s the point. As we grow and age we also regress and redress our more primitive, immature and less thoughtful selves….. like the time (around age 13?) I cut off my sister Julie’s lip with a scissors or the incident in which I amused my children on July 4th by lighting fireworks in the nude. Believe me I have many regrets and a pot full of lessons learned. Speaking of pot, does anybody have any cuz I’m all out and it’s almost New Years… Just kidding. Here’s one honest truth and one Cosmic question I still have after all these years. Allow me to put this in list form. It’s something I like to do for no known reason:
1) Truthfully, the annoying people who try to tell you to “slow down and enjoy life”, to take long deep yoga breathes, and to not just gobble down your food but chew it thoroughly…they were right. In the vast swirling Universe that we can imagine only in amazingly beautiful psychedelic Hubble telescope enhanced photographs, there is only light and love where we live, where we look and in what we “make” of it all. When I think of my life, my family, and my friends far and wide, I feel less alone and more connected, not by advanced electronics but by spirit and soul. What I mean is that love and compassion go way beyond something material and lasts longer than my Best Buy extended warranty on my once fancy but now worthless stereo VCR. People in my life are never forgotten and my sentimental feelings (due to my sentimental nature) about them last forever. If I do forget them it’s only because of emerging senility and brain atrophy. You cant blame me for that. 2) Cosmic question: When we die, where do all my bad jokes go? Do they get recycled by other class clowns, half-assed comedians and New Age wise guys or is there a landfill for old out-of-date humor? If there is such a magical place it should be called Bada Badum Ching and it should be a peaceful place in space-time with an excellent view of the expanding universe. The only sounds to be heard would be distant rim shots in far away galaxies and crickets eternally chirping. Lots and lots of crickets.
P.S. Happy New Year everyone and, by the way, is anyone interested in buying a huge alphabetized collection of VCR movies and audio cassette tapes? I put a lot of time and effort into collecting them and imagining their tremendous “value”. They’re going cheap.
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Cannibalism: Latest European Food Fad
Among the European nations, Germany is apparently the world leader in “people who eat people” (cue Barbara Streisand music).
That’s right, you heard me correctly. I’m not referring to zombies or roving bands of Game of Thrones Teutonic barbarians chanting pagan blood rituals. I’m referring to average German citizens living ordinary lives as policemen, office clerks, computer programmers and architects. The only difference is that they’ve developed a persistent preference for eating one another. I suppose they could be considered Euro-cannibals. I know Germans can get pretty kinky and adore pulsating electronic music, their fancy cars, and homemade sausages and meat pies but I had no earthly idea that a portion of the populace was now engaging in both individual and flash mob renditions of Sweeney Todd.
By utilizing social media platforms these culinary “outliers” are able to locate one other and meet (meat?) in a civilized fashion before chowing down on each others liver with fava beans and a bottle of good Chianti. By talking first online or meeting informally for cappuccino mit schlog these contemporary cannibals are able to “smell each other out” and come to mutually agreeable terms. It’s kind of like a first date on Match.com but far more permanent. Maybe there’s even a phone app for it now like Tinder. Swipe right to roast. Left to ghost……
Simple “nibblers” or those only interested in “finger foods” can be distinguished from hardcore Man-eaters who tend to comply with their parents admonishments to finish everything on their plate. Other “trophy taker” types typically enjoy keeping select body parts on ice in the garage freezer. Finally, the Hannibal Lector intellectually oriented gourmands who want the full foodie tasting menu with seasonal smorgasbord of fresh internal organs are now able to obtain a veritable “Murder to Morgue” feast to which they are accustomed. Amazingly, a small number of these extreme eating enthusiasts are nice enough to prefer to only BE eaten rather than consuming others thus lowering their carbon footprint on Earth to absolute zero. How noble! Come to think of it, if more people donated their bodies to a bistro rather than to medical science we might reduce overpopulation AND have a viable alternative food source that is nutritious, protein rich and beats the heck out of those disgusting bugs Andrew Zimmern consumes like pumpkin seeds on “Bizarre Foods”. Summary: Soylent Green may in fact have it’s day in the sun as I for one never thought the food science geeks would develop a soy product that tastes “exactly like a filet mignon”. No fricken’way. Human beings on the other hand may just be the next thing on the global gourmet menu, ie., wagyu wrist tartare, chargrilled human hanger steak au poivre, etc. Along with this trend in Deutschland aimed less towards traditional fattening Bavarian fare and more towards lean cuts of carefully cannibalized customers, American chefs/ grill masters like Bobby Flay might want to zip up their pants and pay attention. Heck, if Bobby Flay ever chose to spark up the grill and try out this uber “hip” new trend he might actually get a chance to live up to his name…literally.
Dont believe me? Read this: http://abcnews.go.com/International/cannibal-cop-allegations-rock-germany/story?id=21058055
Upper photo: Wagyu Tartare, Blackbird, Chicago Illinois
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Robot Hand Jobs
The fundamental “Law of Robotics” (especially in sci-fi movies) is “Robots must obey humans and follow their commands. They must never harm or go against their human creators.” Anyone who has ever been in a relationship of any length knows how good that sounds….like music to their ears. Unlike machines, most people don’t like to follow orders or be told what to do and the closer the other person is to you the LESS likely they are to listen or carry out your so-called “command”. That may explain why we love our dogs so much and have very mixed emotions about cats. Dogs love to listen, pay attention, and have an almost perverse need for love and approval (not to mention bacon and doggie treats). Cats, on the other hand, are like 14 year old girls who just look up at you and think, “Leave me alone. Omg, what!???”
On Happy Endings With Robots
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Since the world is insane and insanity is just one way to cope with an absurd reality, I shall revisit the topic of sex with robots. Of course I’ve reported on this “engaging” subject before on account of the fact that men obsess about the possibility and secretly care more about it than whether NASA EVER lands men on Mars or if there’s a good phone app for their Roomba vacuum cleaner. Naturally, very few guys will admit this publicly and by mentioning it here on my CaptCliff blog I have just broken the Manly Code of Sexual Secrecy (MCSS). I’m a dead man walking….
Ever since AOL chat rooms allowed users to dial up (“You got mail!!”) and talk dirty with nameless/faceless strangers (often morbidly obese women in Omaha and strange kooky guys in Ohio or Florida) guys have waited patiently for the advanced robotics and innovative Sci-fi technology necessary to enable them to have real sex ….with fake people.
Truth be told, the fantasy of sexing it up with androids has been around much longer than AOL. Those of us brought up in the late 50′s and 60′s (and later) will remember sexy robots in science fiction movies and TV shows such as Star Trek, Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Blade Runner, AI, etc. The killer robotic Terminator chick doesn’t really count because she was too likely to turn her hand into a long razor sharp ninja sword and plunge it into your naive as shit head. That’s just not sexy. Our male robot fantasies were often preceded by innocent encounters in early childhood with animatronic figures at Disneyland, several World Fairs and a handful (so to speak) of futuristic exhibits at science museums. I know its hard (so to speak) for the average reader to imagine how a talking parrot at the Enchanted Tiki Room at Disneyland or the cast of characters at Mr Lincolns Hall of Presidents or even the obnoxious and mind numbing Chuck-e-Cheese dancing/singing props could give rise (so to speak) to florid sexual fantasies but that would take a lengthy discussion about hormones, puberty, and temporary insanity. I will even guess that many of my female readers (or both of them) will be left thinking , “EWWW!! …are you freakin’ kidding me??” Trust me on this, yes. Like pitch dark outer space and treacherous snow-covered mountains in Nepal or Tibet…man contemplates going sexually where no other man or horny 16 year old teenager has gone before. According to extensive sex research that also includes farm animals, kitchen appliances, soft furniture, various household pets, and God only knows what else……If you don’t believe me read the original Kinsey Sex report. I did during my clinical sex therapy internship and half the time I wanted to throw up.
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Bottomline: The future is now and some sick bastard research scientist and Artificial Intelligence software engineer (usually a nerdy Japanese or German guy ) have finally figured out how to make a robot that gives a proper hand job (see web link below). A beta version looks more like something at an old Dave and Busters video arcade that you drop a coin in the slot and then cautiously “belly up” to the bar…so to speak. Talk about a serious industrial accident waiting to happen…
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Personally I think I’ll put off buying this particular Christmas or Thanksgiving Doorbuster item until they get all the electronic bugs out of the operating system and make it look less like Arnold Schwartzeneeger’s robotic limb attached to what appears to be a As Seen on TV “shake weight” or my Ronco plastic egg beater device. I realize I may greatly regret that decision later on. On the other hand (so to speak) I cant wait for the live infomercial with the manic dude with ADHD selling this contraption like hotcakes on QVC.
P,S.> HOLY CRAP I WAS ONLY HALF-SERIOUS. THESE PEOPLE ARE FOR REAL: http://yunchtime.net/?p=780
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Gifting Pipes and Sacred Boxes
It’s not always clear to me why I choose to give a certain peace pipe or sacred box to someone. If I know the person’s spirit animal or totem then it’s sort of a no-brainer. Other times it seems just part of the “I-thou” relationship and spiritual process contained within my particular craft/healing art. I like that there is something in my life that is mindful and creative but without too much planning or conscious thought. Somewhat like “free association” in psychoanalysis I just let the choice come to me and listen to what my inner voice has to say about it. Joede’s pipe and box today were a mixture of both. I know Joede is all about dragonflies, so the box I stumbled upon in my collection was right, even tho my rational mind started jabbering with neurotic thoughts like, “But that box is too big! She wont be able to take it back home to Chicago or to her place in Arizona”. I just told my “inner neurotic” to shut the fuck up. The pipe I selected for her was somewhat surprising, even to me. It was an first generation CaptainCliff tribal peace pipe with bamboo, fabric scraps, and an interesting stem and custom pipe holder. I see Joede as not only a gifted healer and a spiritual person but also as an inspiring female role model with an unusual amount of creative energy, organizational ability, direction, and purpose. In terms of being a “doer” and a “straight-shooter” she reminds me of my father who just passed away and as my eulogy reflected (but probably wasn’t understood by many people) Joede represents the opposite energy of my often conflicted/disorganized ADHD personality. My father loved Joede very much. The bamboo peace pipe’s stand was a found object I adapted and has a triangular arrowhead shape connoting a clear sense of “direction”. It also suggests the right or moral way to go. in life. Knowing Joede, I suspect the right way is the path with heart, with love, and with personal integrity and passion. I like that the peace pipe, a universal symbol of peace and spirituality is standing on a base that implies the importance of taking direct action, purpose, and especially unity.
In Kabbalah it says we “give by receiving” and we also “receive by giving”. By giving to Joede this piece of intentional art, I also receive the empowering energy of my lifelong connection to her and the deeper qualities that the ritual object represents. Of course if you wanted to you could also smoke pot in the pipe and get pretty high. We are all unique beings and therefore so are the various artistic forms and creative expressions we choose to sooth, heal, and strengthen both self and others and in so doing create reciprocal energy and intention.
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My Dad Was Like An M and M Candy
My Dad was like an M and M candy and also was a great lover of jelly beans. He used to smell like Old Spice aftershave until he switched to Obsession by Calvin Klein. Although he was only 5’8” tall, somehow he seemed like an unusually big and strong individual who smelled really really good. While my father might appear hard or tough on the outside (perhaps even stern or stoic to those who didn’t know him) he was really much softer and sugary-sweet on the inside…just like the candies he was so fond of. He was 90 years old on August 11th, and I’m forever grateful for having been able to spend his last birthday with him at the ballpark eating chocolate cake with jelly beans and watching the White Sox lose…again.
Death and mortality for manly men and “tough cookies” like my Dad are difficult concepts to grasp. A part of me thought he would live forever like the big oak trees in our yard on Berkeley Road in Highland Park. When I think of my father I automatically associate his stout oak tree like physique with his strength, athleticism, august reputation and leadership among men of equal social status and a certain kind of traditional masculinity and well-dressed appearance that fit him to a T. His clothes closet, like the man himself, was well organized and ship-shape at all times. He used those wooden shoe holders and solid wood hangers and wouldn’t think to hang his nice clothes on cheap plastic. My Dad epitomized old-school masculinity and personal values. He didn’t use a computer. He didnt like to be driven in a car by other people and he preferred his hamburgers and filets charred on the outside but rare and tender on the inside, again sort of like his M&M candy personality. Of course if my mother let him he probably would have also liked a big baked potato with sour cream and DEFINITELY something chocolate for dessert. In general, my father saw the world as pretty black and white and you needed to decide which side you were on. He rarely equivocated and unlike some people and certain politicians he was NOT a flip-flopper.
Being a man of principle and purpose, my father didn’t have much use for abstract ideas, art or avante-garde theater unless it was ballet, Opera or Broadway shows like Oklahoma and West Side Story. He really loved that stuff….and good Jazz as well. The clarity of his tastes and his hyper-masculine preferences sometimes made me question my more complex and contradictory self. For example, I get easily confused by opposing viewpoints (about anything) if they are well reasoned and regularly lose my car keys, wallet, and even my car at the shopping mall. But my Dad always left his keys in the same place (usually a specific dish near the front door) and when it came to sports he first chose a side to play on and then threw the ball and swung the bat or tennis racquet as hard as he could. Like his baseball playing grandson Mitch, he almost always made contact and rarely struck out. I wont say he didn’t believe in bunts or “drop shots” but honestly, he rarely used them and probably considered them to be a tad “wimpy” . Similarly, my father hit the “ball of life” hard, fast, and low and played to win whether it was Monopoly, politics, chess, business or baseball. I know this because it took me forever to beat the guy in anything. He was practically in a wheelchair on oxygen when I finally was able to beat him in tennis and even then it was pretty darn close.
Over the last couple months at home in Atlanta I thought of my Dad quite often and also about his approaching fate. By the time you reach 90 years old, destiny pretty much stares you in the face on a daily basis. Being old, weak, incapacitated or dependent on others was not something my Dad ever liked one bit. He was as they say a “man’s man”. One night my eyes caught on a particular shelf in my son Eli’s room that displays some of the glass jars that my wife Rona hand decorated before she herself passed away in 1999. She was half my father’s age, only 45 years old when she died of lung cancer. Rona, like my mother was more into art and creative expression than say my macho father was. I probably learned from my mother how to express my more artistic side…but it didn’t really blossom until much later in life. By contrast, as a young child growing up in Highland Park my older brother Neal showed an early aptitude for art, design, sculpture, pottery making, photography, cooking, and completing very sophisticated plastic models. At the time I was busy playing with my plastic army men in the basement or back yard, grouping them together and then blowing them up with lighter fluid, cherry bombs and fireworks. I remember my Dad working very very long and difficult hours back then building his chemical business from the ground up while I was busy eating Twinkies and blowing things up. After a very long day at the office or following many out-of-town business trips he would sit in the study upstairs late at night and dutifully pay mountains of bills, carefully writing out checks, addressing and licking the stamps for each and every one. (Now my sister Julie does that particular task for my Mother and I really appreciate it). Meanwhile, our basement on Brittany Road was often on fire, either due to my wayward chemistry experiment or more likely me choosing to blow up one of Neal’s highly complex and sophisticated plastic models. I suppose after watching so many old movies on TV after school I thought that was what “real men” were supposed to do…work hard, do scientific experiments, win medals and blow stuff up. I didn’t really learn about the “softer”, receptive, or more feminine side of life until much later. In fact, my creative “Yin” side probably didnt surface until after I was married and had kids myself. My wife Rona and I would take all three boys into the basement of our big brand new East Cobb house in Marietta, Georgia (which I continually renovated into about 89,000 “bonus” rooms for no good reason) and she would paint glass jars while I would spray paint everything else in the universe. Like my maternal grandmother Lilian Glantz and her gold spray paint obsession, I didn’t realize that good antiques were supposed to remain untouched and left to age gracefully while taking on their own natural “patina” (see any episode of Antique Roadshow). Looking back on it now, even with my Ph.D. in Psychology I didn’t know much about my own psychological shadow parts and why opposites very often attract in art, science and sometimes even in a good marriage. I think maybe my Dad skipped over all the complicated psychological stuff and just chose to absolutely positively love my mother unconditionally. That’s something almost everybody remember about him. He worked hard, swung the bat hard and loved my mother unconditionally.
All I really mean to say by all this is that my father, Robert Mazer modeled a lot of good things for many many people. Many of them grew into mighty oak trees and successful human beings with a passion for life and for pursuing their own dreams. Personally I have been writing alot about my father lately, and that personal passion helps me to cope, heal and appreciate him even more. Through writing I increasingly realize which parts of my complicated personality are like my Dad, which aspects are more like my Mom and maybe even which traits are like Lawrence Hiken, Rona Mazer or even Yul Brynner.
Lastly, when I look at Rona’s painted vases I remember her short life and her efforts to come to grips with her purpose and mortality. The last thing that Rona ate before she died, I believe, was a banana popsicle. She loved them. The last thing my father wanted to eat before he passed away in my arms on Friday night was a little oatmeal and a banana. I choose to believe that Rona’s soul and my father’s spirit are still around today and can both be used to support my belief that we’re here, alive, and living life for a reason. While it might be different for each person, most of us are challenged to do what my father did which is to grow up like big and strong oak trees, to learn what we need to learn, to teach something important to others, to love someone unconditionally, to create something beautiful and/or wildly successful, and in the process pass on and cultivate those God-given strengths and talents in the people we were meant to. My Dad was like an “M and M” candy and also was a great lover of jelly beans. I love you Dad, Here is one of Rona’s colorful vases. I filled it up with M and M’s and jelly beans just for you.
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Dodgeball and the Dalai Lama: That’s The Way The Ball Bounces
If the Dalai Lama ever played dodgeball, I would bet dollars to donuts he would have been good at it. If you’re old enough you probably remember dodgeball from your childhood school . It’s the anxiety provoking “sport” in which the class (usually PE) is divided into teams and given a big bag full of those large red rubber balls that make a weird noise when bounced off the gym floor, a painted concrete block wall or your unsuspecting pre-pubertal head. THWACK!
After being told several times by a gym teacher of ambiguous gender to “Stop messing around with the flippin’ balls” , Coach “Pat” would blow a loud annoying whistle and everyone would proceed to heave said projectiles at each other in an attempt to completely wipe out the other team. That’s right it’s a childhood game essentially about total massacre and plucky survival. Of course if you were an unusually agile or athletic kid you could often avoid the artillery barrage whizzing by your head. On rare occasions you might even catch the ball, thus putting the heavy-handed thrower “out”. However, for some reason the dodgeball was nearly impossible to hold onto and had the power of turning most normal players into “butterfingers”. It may have had something to do with the way the ball bounced…off anything. In this way they resembled those little “super balls” you could buy at a toy store like Toys R Us or get in a well-stocked gumball machine. At first those damn things were fun to play with. However, once a super ball got loose you could pretty much kiss it goodbye. My theory is that they were made of flubber and anti-gravity molecules. As far as I know they were the only substance in the universe that bounced higher on the second, third, or even fourth bounce. But I digress…..as usual.
As somebody who lacked a strong throwing arm in elementary school and was small for my age, it took me awhile to perfect my dodgeball defensive skills. Looking back on it, I specialized more in the “inner game” of dodgeball which was far more psychological and spiritual than anything else. For example, I worked hard at developing non-violent strategies like “blending in”, acting “invisible”, and making telepathic-hypnotic suggestions to big bullies on the other side. Like a ventriloquist in training and wearing an ill-fitting grey gym T-shirt, unusually short gym shorts and a creepy “jock” thing I would mentally concentrate and whisper to my oversized opponent (throw my voice), ie. “You will hit him. You will not hit me. I am not even here” and other Jedi type mind tricks well before Star Wars movies ever came out. I also would assume physically suggestive and submissive body postures intended to make myself look less threatening, i.e., like a crippled dwarf or some meek woodland creature lacking opposable thumbs necessary for grasping weapons. Hiding behind some other gawky Napoleon Dynamite-looking teammates or a morbidly obese schoolmate was similarly meant to convey the impression that I was either not there or not worth hitting. Since the key to dodgeball is to be the “last one standing” and not necessarily to just overpower the enemy with speed or merciless cunning like in many other vicious childhood games such as “Musical Chairs” (almost always won by highly competitive girls) I thought it best to play dodgeball like I played my life. That meant operating primarily with my own safety and survival in mind. If somebody was “picked off” next to me by a supersonic dodgeball to the gonads I would say to them with mock empathy, “Damn…sorry man!”, but I was probably thinking to myself, “Better him than me. I need to reproduce someday”.
Fifty years later I sometimes, to my own embarrassment, catch myself thinking the same thoughts when I hear about somebody my age (60-ish) keeling over from a massive stroke or heart attack. I certainly feel extremely bad about it but another more shadowy part of my mind thinks, ” it’s a dodgeball world out there, isn’t it?” I’m not real proud of my shadow thoughts, mind you….
Obviously my chicken-shit gamesmanship in fifth or sixth grade probably made me seem like a rather wimpy combatant among John Wayne Green Beret type peers, some of whom (especially if a few years older) ended up marching off to the Vietnam War never to be seen again but my generally self-centered survival mentality back in the day was quite simple; if pacifism increased my chances of not being mowed down like so much cannon fodder in the Sherwood Forest West Ridge/Red Oak school gymnasiums… then so be it. Of course after having children of my own (now young adults) I’ve changed my cold-hearted “me first” survival tune…somewhat. For example, I know for a fact that I’d take a dodgeball to the head for any of my three beautiful sons and maybe even their equally adorable but sometimes difficult to read partners, wives or girlfriends, especially if they remember to occasionally feed my ego, call every so often or send me a handwritten card on my birthday.
Addendum: So why do I think the pre-pubescent Dalai Lama would be a really good dodgeball player? It’s not because he might simply levitate or make his physical body disappear and reappear in another dimension where red rubber balls weren’t whizzing by his enlightened head. It’s more because he would likely employ deeper solutions to dodgeball’s symbolic portrayal of warfare and conflict such as the dharma of the 8-fold Noble path. I could even imagine the mini-me sized Tibetan Lama using Buddhist based understanding and advanced practice to “slow down time” and insert compassion and pure consciousness into a space where only anxiety, fear and emotional reactivity existed before. Thus, he would be able to do what the rest of us often cannot. He would not merely “pretend” to be a tree or a harmless creature to avoid being “hit” like I did so many years ago. Instead, he would become “all and everything” and both sides of the metaphysical coin including the dodgeball players (both strong and weak) and the pansexual drill sergeant PE teacher with the shrill whistle. In fact he would also become the bouncing rubber balls and the timeless spirit of the mysterious Universe we appear to inhabit together. He, the enlightened one among us would therefore become “everything and nothing” at the very same time and as a result nothing would really matter beyond its true essence and peaceful purpose . I mean think about it. Practically speaking, it’s very difficult to hit somebody right in the middle of their pure spiritual essence. You cant really put that kind of enlightened being “out” mostly because they already accept that their physical existence is temporary and impermanent. Hell, even if you got lucky and hit His Holiness with a dodgeball, he would be just fine. Like a wise honey badger human being he “just dont care” and knows that he has already transcended human suffering and the repeated cycle of life/death. Spiritually and theoretically I wish I could do that. I still suffer from anxiety, fear, anger, greed, sentimentality and lust. In the meantime, and until I manage to achieve anything resembling perfection, I’ll probably continue to reflexively assume the posture of a common South American tree sloth, use Jedi psychological tricks and hope I dont get slammed in the kisser by a rogue comet, a capricious coronary, a catastrophic cancer or a careening red rubber dodgeball.
Super ball commercial: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0_PjJBC8gU
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