Robot Hand Jobs

Posted on November 27, 2013 by captaincliff
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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

Posted on November 1, 2013 by captaincliff

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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

Posted on October 21, 2013 by captaincliff

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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

Posted on September 30, 2013 by captaincliff
tibetan kidRed Ball --- Image by © Lawrence Manning/Corbisalg-dodgeball-jpg saving privateryan

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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Getting Back Our Mojo

Posted on September 19, 2013 by captaincliff
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MOJO
N.
1. Self-confidence, Self-assuredness. As in the basis for believing in oneself in a trying situation or life in general. Esp. in the context of a contest or display of bravery/skill such as going into battle,etc.
2. Good luck fetish / charm to bolster confidence, inner strength and personal meaning.
3. ability to bounce back from a debilitating trauma and negative attitude

“He lost his mojo when she dumped him…”
“He got his mojo back”.

MAELSTROM

n.

1. whirlpool, swirl, eddy, vortex, Charybdis (literary) a maelstrom of storm, surf and confused seas
2. turmoil, disorder, confusion, chaos, upheaval, uproar, pandemonium, bedlam, tumult Inside, she was a maelstrom of churning emotions.

Just as there is something called the “fog of war”, there is also something like a “fog of life” or “maelstrom” of emotional problems and mental illness. It is like a psychological and emotional sand storm that one gets “lost” in and eventually becomes foggy/confused about how life got so difficult including how one ended up where they are now, where they came from, and what they wanted out of life in the first place. The net effect of feeling so lost in this psychological and emotional way is a palpable loss of ones zest for life and meaning-purpose for living. It may feel like grief, agitation, confusion, anxiety and depression (and psychologically speaking it is) but on another unseen spiritual level that person has basically lost their “mojo” (see above definition).

Ones “mojo” is not something that’s easy to quantify because its not simply a persons self-esteem or self confidence, or even their diagnosable mental illness but also their natural strength, resilience, verve, life energy and (will)ingness to keep trying to “recover”. With our mojo working one keeps pushing forward including trying to recover from traumatic experiences and emotional problems as well as attempting to “re-find” themselves, their identity and their purpose for being alive. Without mojo people not only dont feel “happy” (even if they try to pretend that they are) but they feel burdened by having to keep trying. Often they also feel guilty and ashamed about the “burden” they believe they put upon others, like their family and friends. For the person who has lost their mojo there is pain and sadness in their eyes that even expensive make-up and a great tan cant hide. The eyes are indeed a window to the soul and without ones “mojo” the soul is injured somewhat like a ballet dancer with a broken ankle or a bird with a broken wing. In this case it is more like a broken spirit.  I suppose you could say that a person without their mojo is still “alive” but not truly living. The joy we normally associate with living life fully like enjoying music, nature, good food, travel, physical exercise and dancing is dramatically reduced, if not gone completely. That doesnt mean they are actively suicidal, which they may or may not be. It means that such a person has begun to “give up” on life, lost their “faith”, and stopped believing that things will ever get better or turn out ok. Like a broken ankle or even a badly sprained one, practically every effort to “get up”, get out or get “back up on the saddle” is met by an unexplainable resistance, physical and/or mental pain, and overwhelming fatigue. Paradoxically, as one tries to get better they predictably encounter emotional mood states, negative thoughts and physical sensations that conflict with feeling better, positive behavior change or overall “improvement”.  Such is the immensely frustrating “stuck in a deep dark hole” experience of those who are deeply depressed, broken in spirit and stripped of their mojo.

Without a doubt, depression degrades ones “mojo”. If Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz wasn’t such an unusually chipper, optimistic and upbeat person and instead had a serious depression or untreated bipolar illness, there is a much greater chance she would have meandered off the yellow brick road and gotten sidetracked in a roadside bar, a delapidated crack house, a dead end job, a difficult relationship, her bed, or maybe just the opiate-laden poppy field for like a year or two or ten. Actually, the real Dorothy (Judy Garland) loved her children dearly but struggled greatly with her own inner demons, substance abuse issues and clinical depression. For Judy Garland there were no ruby red slippers to click three times. The good news is that at some point and with good professional help clarity and complete recovery can be achieved. With focus, commitment, consistent therapy and hard work, a person can reemerge from the emotional fogbank and psychological sandstorm. After first surveying the wreckage (and the ramifications) of their emotional illness and their loss of mojo, one can not only pick up the broken pieces of their life but also transform them into new meanings and reclaimed purposes that reinvigorate the soul.

If you have ever watched Hoarders or Intervention on TV you can easily see both the symbolic as well as real life results of someone having experienced significant trauma(s), suffered subsequent mental/ emotional problems and spiritual/moral injuries to their soul that were never fully resolved or dealt with. It happens to the best of us. My point is simple. You cant just throw psychiatric-psychotropic pills at the psychiatric problem or use high-tech medical imaging technologies like PET scans and functional MRIs to identify the parts of the brain that are underfunctioning or overfunctioning. That’s admittedly interesting scientifically but not what makes a person whole again. Sometimes the medications make the necessary difference for someones eventual recovery, but other times they become an actual hinderance and makes things worse. Human beings, like Humpty Dumpty (only better) need to use various creative means and expressive methods to look at themselves (and at all their scattered broken parts) and begin to consciously put them(selves) back together again. This also means facing the dark, yucky shadow pieces of ones own psyche that we tend to avoid, minimize, ignore or shove off to the side (or sweep under the proverbial rug). Therapy is good. Therapy is great. But even once or twice a week psychotherapy for an hour is no panacea for obtaining a lifelong sense of emotional stability, serenity, inner peace and spiritual renewal. We are talking about uncovering deep personal traumas and moral injuries that rip away ones basic sense of safety, security, and attachment. In a way they are the psychological and spiritual equivalent to a soldier running over a large IED in Afghanastan or Iraq. The powerful blast’s devastating impact is felt throughout every fiber of ones being.

One way to start to “re-cover” our mojo and inherent resilient nature is to honestly ask yourself where it all started to go “south”. What “exploded” in your life and when? I dont know why people refer to bad things that happen in life as “falling apart” or going “south” but the general idea is to try to answer the basic question, “when did you first start to lose your “mojo” (see Urban Dictionary definition above). In addition, what happened after that, and how would you describe it in a long letter, honest email to a best friend, personal essay, or journal entry?

My Facebook friend Christine bluntly but lovingly (her basic style and I like it..ha) asked me to describe when my long slow disintegration happened. Dis-integration is an excellent way to say it too because we all start as whole human beings, beginning as beautiful newborn infants and then proceed to encounter various life events that change us, some for the better, some for what seems like the worse. Worse doesnt necessarily mean “bad”. It means something “damaged” our psychological “heat shield” (our positive protective defenses and coping ability) and unlike the Challenger Space shuttle, it wasn’t a just a chunk of hard styrofoam. If the emotional wounds and the psychological trauma is severe enough, and if our healthy defenses and resilience is not up to the “challenge”, the injury to our body/ mind/spirit/soul can be profound….. enough to lead to a temporary mental “breakdown”, something like a electrical short-circuit or psychological malfunction. At best it’s barely remembered (if at all) and at worst it can cause or result in (like the Space Shuttle) a catastrophic loss of self and/or sanity. I’m certainly not saying there isn’t a biological component to mental illness and that there arent hard-wired biochemical vulnerabilities in our brain and body like a genetic predisposition to severe depression, anxiety, bipolar illness, arthritis, or heart disease. I’m just saying if one takes the time to think about it many of us could probably identify where the major stresses of childhood, adolescence, marriage, divorce, and resulting social isolation began to create “cracks” in our self-esteem, our normal healthy functioning, and in our Dorothy-like exuberance for life. Truly there are “tipping points” in everything and its reasonable to ask ourselves where our negative tipping point occurred and how we got “lost” in the fog of anxiety,fear, depression, eating disorders, suicidality, OCD, bipolar, drug dependence, addiction (to something or someone) and even psychosis. For that matter, people who end up killing scores of innocent human beings in a movie theater, an elementary school or in a shopping center food court weren’t born that way either. They suffered a series of dissapointments, perceived rejections and personal “defeats” that left them angry, bitter, hopeless, and unfortunately homicidal.  True Psychopaths, on the other hand, need not attempt the aforementioned therapeutic exercise. They wouldn’t know the answer and/or would just make some shit up that sounds good.

 

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12 Things Bro-Dad Hates Right Now and One He Likes (DragonCon)

Posted on September 18, 2013 by captaincliff

12 Things Bro-Dad Hates Right Now and One He Likes (DragonCon)

Ouroboros_Dragon_by_NickShev 

When I was young I remember hearing older adults complain about the “good old days”. I also remember thinking they were “old fogies” who didn’t have a clue. They didn’t “get” the Beatles, Pink Floyd, astrology, hallucinogenic drugs, pot, protesting the war, Ram Dass, rock and roll, or even Twinkies. They were not “cool”. They were “squares” while me and my friends were super cool and nearly enlightened human beings, kind of like Ace Ventura Pet Detective.

Now I’m not cool, culturally speaking, which is karmically appropriate. As a Libra man, Bro-Dad of three twenty-something sons and aging Baby Boomer, I appreciate the Lion King “circle of life” irony captured in the fact that I went from being a cynical long-haired Vietnam war protester at CU Boulder to becoming a cynical bald curmudgeonly old fogey. Like some mythological dragon or snake figure (Ouroboros) I now chew on my own snarky suburban tail in Atlanta Georgia. In my deluded mind, I’m still more of a cool circle than a big square.

Oh well, I can still PROTEST and I choose to protest just about everything considered trendy or popular today, especially among supposed cool people under 30 (even more hippie irony) with the notable exception of my son (Eli) who dresses up in elaborate super-hero character costumes (Cosplay) and goes to DragonCon in Atlanta with around 30 to 70,000 other sci-fi/fantasy nerds every year. He just got back and said it was “the best DragonCon ever”, whatever that means. The idea of my body in form fitting spandex almost makes me nauseous.

Here is a short list of 12 THINGS I, Bro-Dad really hate today, and, as a result, I choose to officially protest in writing. You dont have to agree with me, of course, but for God sakes, be honest.

I HATE:

1) Todays TV commercials that include a loud door bell ringing which either causes dogs to bark or me to think I have to put my pants on immediately and act “normal”.
Dont you young people have pets and have you ever heard about something called “privacy”? Of course you havent. You all share one “hive-brain”.

2) Todays TV commercials in general, especially in “whodunnit” crime shows and long drawn out but ultimately futile National Geographic specials, ie. search for ghosts, Lochness Monsters, Bigfoot, free diamonds, Jewish mermaids, etc.

Did any of you EVER take a science class?

3) People who have the same cell phone ring tone that I do even tho it’s one of the most common ones and I refuse to change it out of pure laziness, failing eyesight and ineptitude.

Ok, my fault but couldn’t you make a written instruction manual with extra large lettering for older people?  Your eyes are going to fuck up over time too and you cant all possibly get Lasik or could you, you selfish spoiled brats?

4) Termites, wasps, killer bees, mosquitoes, cockroaches and those tiny little ants in the kitchen and now in my car. I thought we were the apex predator and that every other species is supposed to be innately afraid of us?

I dont know how your generation is responsible for climate change and more bugs, but somehow you are, probably by leaving windows open and lights on all the time.

5) I hate the fact that every time I amass a substantial “collection” of anything, ie. cassette tapes, VHS movies, CD’s, Dolby surround sound theater systems, Trinitron TV’s, alarm clocks, 8 track car tapes, etc., the technology changes and everything I have is now worthless …….again.

Definitely your “high tech” fault. You are never satisfied. Your initial “Survivor” shows and iPhones are never good enough without 2,3,4, 5, 6 and 7, etc.   Even Sylvester Stallone knew when to hang his Rocky and Rambo movie characters up. Nobody in Hollywood is going to look so “Coolio” at age 80 and neither will you skinny jean punks!

6) Young car mechanics who tell me my car is hopelessly “messed up” due to some human error on my part, and then try to buy the car off me for cheap. Why do they want it so bad if it’s that f#@$-ed up…and why is there always something else wrong with the car right after I leave the brash mechanic’s garage? Usually these grease monkeys are your age and went to ITT Tech, Pep Boys Academy, or Devry.  I went to U.C. Berkeley you num-nuts and still they try and fleece me every damn time.  Usually it works.

7) Humidity, rain every day, scorching heat, frozen tundra, frostbite, snow drifts, sleet, black ice and getting stuck on ski lifts in any of the aforementioned conditions. What happened to plain old blue sky and weather between 70 and 80 degrees?

Do I have to live in Santa Barbara or Montecito next to Oprah Winfrey to get that? I guess I do, but only you people know how to do a tech “start-up” or create a “nimble” multitasking software platform..blah blah, whatever that is. Can you fix my leaking toilet??  I didn’t think so.

8) Traffic congestion, road construction and having to wait for ANYTHING whether it is at a toll booth, in a supermarket, a lunch line at Subway, and especially at the US Post Office where employees are apparently paid more to move slow.

Ok, the Post Office employees are my age and my generation and are generally waiting for their bloated government pension plans to pay off like busted slot machines. I dont blame them. I blame you geeks for ruining the original mail system and making it obsolete with all your internet “solutions”. Too lazy to lick a damn stamp?

9) The slowest moving person or employee of all the places mentioned in #8 who somehow seems to just “know” that I hate to wait and so he/she/it slows down to a snails pace even more just to torture me, especially if I’m late for something else.

Ok, I admit to being both highly impatient and paranoid but I still want to go postal on this person and curb stomp them behind the checkout counter, deli meat section or parcel weighing station. WHERE DO THEY GO WHEN THEY SAY, “I’ll be right back”???  There are literally cobwebs forming in line while I wait. I’ve actually seen them.

10) Health Insurance companies and their customer care “specialists”, pharmaceutical companies, corrupt home contractors, Comcast, Silicone valley CEO-entrepreneurs who still have teenage acne, Fox News political pundits, TV psychics, sex-abusing Catholic priests, televangelists who smile and show their gums grotesquely when they lie, any politician’s “chief of staff” or “chief communication officer”, most lawyers except for my friend Martin and Bennett, psychotherapists who dont do anything except take money and file for insurance reimbursement, chiropractors who do the same thing but explain the problem in vaguely unscientific special chiropractic terms, medical doctors offices who ask me to write down my current medications four times and then send in a nurse or doctor who asks what medications I take,  and licensed or unlicensed plumbers and electricians who dont show up and still think that their “truck breaking down” and being unable to call first is even remotely believable in this day and age.

Right. Nothing more to say (about this) except in my day we didn’t put up with gigantic bullshit like what is considered normal today.  Go ahead and laugh. I see you smirking, but you’re the asswipes who invented and pay a fortune for 3-ply toilet paper and a cup of coffee.

11) Today’s pop culture.  This may seem generational and petty but what is considered popular appears to me to be generally moronic, simple-minded, celebrity-obsessed, narcissistic, materialistic, inane, anti-intellectual, insincere, false, fake and inclined to elevate or ingratiate itself toward musicians or psuedo-celebrities (ie, The Kardashians, Snookie, Housewives of Istanbul, Paris Hilton. etc.) who completely lack talent, speak in ghetto slang for “effect” (even if they grew up in Beverly Hills or Bel Air) and write lyrics that are racist, sexist, violent, xenophobic and performed solely for their sensational shock value. Besides that I like young people.

I beg even one of you to write me, text me, or break ranks with your hipster mafia unspoken code and admit, “I know. Our music sucks ass and is lame. We’re all mostly just pretending to like it. Yours was much better.” Then I can die in peace. Period.

12) Low flow toilets that save on water but take four flushes to get the job done. I’d rather have one giant hydraulic turbine nuclear powered toilet that flushes like the Prince of Dubai’s private commode on his gold and gem-encrusted 747. Trust me, if I could, I would flush everyone and everything I just mentioned down and out at maximum cruising altitude and enjoy watching them all drop while screaming, “Hey, whutt up, dog?????  AYYYYIIII!!!!!”

Admit it. You have the same exact fantasy or even worse.

Clearly I could go on…forever.  I know…that’s not cool either. It’s cool nowadays on Twitter and Facebook to stay positive and constantly post and repeat self-affirming mantras and inspirational messages vociferously while also snorting Adderall and playing violent videogames… only later to go nuts and shoot everyone in a school or movie theater. The good news is that there are still many good things and good young people that I like and love. My “Love” list is just as long as my “buh-bye” list.

So, why do I still love my twenty-something bro-son and all his nerd-gaming-costume wearing friends who dress up and prance around at DragonCon?  I love them because at least what they’re doing is moderately artistic/dramatic, creative, colorful, healthy, pro-social, interactive, and fun (for them).  Also, if one cares to think about it, their super-hero “characters” and their collective interest in Cosplay are grounded in a kooky sense of humor, an “inclusive” (versus exclusive) ethic, an overall striving for social justice, a belief in helping the less fortunate in society, and ultimately knowing the difference between a good guy/do-gooder and a total shmuck or lunatic psychopath, even if sometimes it’s a little bit more complicated then that. See, I told you I dont hate everything today. Now all of you get off your asses and do something productive, like take a walk outside without your cellphone.

P.S. Do you think it’s even possible for a 60 year old to dress up as a somewhat bloated but colorful dragon-snake eating it’s own tail at DragonCon 2014? Of course my son, the super-hero would die of Brobible embarrassment…….:)
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Help I Watched Monsters Inside Me!

Posted on September 17, 2013 by captaincliff
the_monster_inside_me_cards-rac14813d227a4a1d8d1e49dedd558d92_xvuat_8byvr_512.jpg?bg=0xffffffmonsters_inside_me-show
Warning:  If you happen to be 1) Jewish and neurotic 2) prone to having bouts of anxiety and/or 3) tend to be a hypochondriac, do NOT do what I did last nite. I watched Monsters Inside Me (MIM) on Animal Planet. It’s the cable TV show in which random people living nice normal lives start to feel  “achy and slightly feverish” and end up on life support fighting off deadly flesh-eating bacteria 24 hours later. If they are lucky it is not that but some other horrid illness more uncommon than a reasonably priced and competent divorce attorney. Even worse, the doctors who are first consulted on Monsters Inside Me uniformly are “at a loss” to explain the cause of the bizarre presenting symptoms which, like Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum) in the movie The Fly include curious pathogenic changes such as body parts and distinguishing facial features, ie. fingers, toes, nose, ears, etc., turning into mush or falling off without warning.

Did I mention that I am a Clinical Psychologist who is Jewish, anxiety prone, and a bigger hypochondriac than Woody Allen? Dont worry, I am absolutely fine when working with  clients. In fact with all their tsuris (Yiddish for mess of personal problems) I tend to feel better about myself. However, since some of the more common anxiety related dreams I hear from my patients are ones in which teeth or fingers are missing or fall out, I really dont need to be reminded about new antibiotic resistant bacterium that “ravage ones body” and turns its victim’s liver into putrid foie gras.  Any TV show that repeatedly uses lurid descriptions like “his eyeball protruded from it’s socket” or “his brain was riddled with fusiform bacteria” is generally not going to bolster my legendary late-nite appetite let alone help me fall asleep. Dont get me started about my insomnia, either. In fact, if you really want to lose some weight after the Holiday season is over, just watch Monsters Inside Me all day and night for about a week straight. There is a very good chance you will reach your goal weight if you dont first trigger bipolar mania, intractable OCD or paranoid schizophrenia.
 
I have known ever since my freshman year at college at the University of Colorado, Boulder that I suffered from a bad case of pre-med student syndrome, the psychological affliction in which one comes to believe they suffer from every disease they read about. This is especially true of the Black Plague and other impossible to pronounce fatal afflictions on Wikipedia. Watching episodes of House only makes matters worse. Case in Point: The untoward side effects of seeing and hearing Monsters Inside Me last night are as follows: a now absolute fear of the outdoors as well as any kind of mud, swimming in any freshwater lake or pool, and the need to avoid any life-form smaller then ones nasal passages, period. Camping is out, hiking is now a big no-no, and swinging on a “rope swing” anywhere near active mold spores, rotted wood or raccoons is completely verboten. Hiding in ones bed indoors is the best preventive measure one can take, but first one must carefully wash all linens, bed sheets and check the mattress several times for bed bugs and deer ticks. Better yet, burn everything and start anew at Marshalls, TJ Maxx or Target. A trip to Costco in a Hazmat equipped mini-van for a large pallet of kleenex, antibacterial soap, a mountain of alcohol swabs and a four pack of mercurochrome is the closest thing to a safe and fully antiseptic shopping trip. Dont forget to wear a surgical mask and thick rubber gloves. Why? Because other store customers and employees are walking petri dishes of H1N1 infection, SARS, and community-acquired MERSA. I must also remember to never touch paper money if I want to make it to Easter/Passover without coughing up bloody sputum. American currency is apparently hopelessly contaminated by deadly microbes, trace amounts of illegal drugs, infected blood, contaminated bodily fluids and gram-negative bacteriium waiting to jump off Washington’s likeness and onto my fatty liver. Ok, enough said. You get the idea. I dont want to belabor the point or get anyone unduly paranoid… like I am now. If you need me I will be in my office calmly listening to my clients or at home in a fetal position taking my own pulse and having my cerebrospinal fluid tested for hidden anomalies. What me worry?
Here’s some additional information to heighten the latent anxiety:   http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/09/16/drug-resistant-bacteria-deaths-_n_3936820.html
Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. is a Clinical Psychologist and writer living and working in Atlanta, Georgia. He blogs on WordPress under the name CaptCliff at https://captaincliff.wordpress.com.   This weekend his three grown sons are taking him to a cabin in North Georgia for his 60th Birthday. Help me. Contact: 404-932-7193
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Ashley on Judaism: Guest Blog

Posted on September 12, 2013 by captaincliff

 Ye Olde Guest Blog Written by my son Eli’s beautiful gf, Ashley who is converting to Judaism on October 1st. One big point for the Tribe.  Woop woop!

What I Believe:  I believe that humans are the creators of God in all its forms, as well as all existing moral codes. I do not believe in a cosmic set of laws handed down that are uniformly effective for all living beings, but rather that good and evil are subjective terms for every society, and indeed, for every person. Despite my belief that there may be no universal imperative towards or definition of good, I know that cooperation and respect are absolutely necessary to achieve a society that functions with the ultimate purpose of peace and advancement. I also know that all humans have an equal capacity for suffering, and that no one deserves to suffer needlessly or excessively.  I believe that humans are full of primitive and selfish desires which exist in constant conflict with their more recent and nobler acquisitions of empathy, kindness and self-sacrifice. While altruism does often win out, it is our narrow-mindedness and drive towards self-gratification, especially when comparing our own needs to those of strangers, which is the cause of much of the world’s suffering.

 

I believe that to be a good Jew is to be willing to regularly reflect and evaluate oneself as to the true sources of one’s motives and behavior and to make a lifelong commitment to a realistic sublimation of the self in the service of others. It is to always remember that the needs of one are not inherently greater than the needs of another, and to judge merit with compassion as well as logic. It is to retain humanity and reject a reversion to animal behavior or selfishness even in the face of desperate circumstances. I believe that, while there is no God to mandate or force compliance, our greatest calling as humans is to live mindfully and always with respect and gentility towards our fellow man. While many religions claim these as their central tenets, in my experience, it has been Jewish people who have been most willing to follow, respect and commemorate a more “godly” set of principles to live by, and if necessary abandon their personal egos and false assumptions in the search of a higher understanding and harmony among all people.

While there are many mitzvot and items in halakhah with which I do not agree nor feel called to, I do greatly respect the concept behind a practical Jewish way of living that seeks to eliminate the human reflex toward greed, impulsivity or base desires that lead to unrest and unhappiness. Fundamentalist Christianity and Islam claim absolute faith as a virtue and an absolution from ones sins, and it is my belief that such a rigid notion can only be detrimental to society. This is especially true when such values are instilled in simplistic fashion to the masses, as it encourages people to justify their selfishness and their many failings in the name of their God. They fail to observe the many instances of doubt and sincere questioning that are instrumental in a proper reading of the Tanakh. It is the Jewish people, with an eternal love for learning and analysis who have most fully integrated this critical quality into their culture and religion. I believe that memory, enlightenment, self-reflection, and respect for all life are indispensable aspects of a world that truly values peace, and it is Judaism that, to me, most encourages these ideals in ones daily living.

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12 Things I Hate Right Now and One I Like (DragonCon)

Posted on September 4, 2013 by captaincliff
When I was young I remember hearing older adults kvetch and complain about the “good old days”. I also remember thinking they were “old fogies” who didn’t have a frickin’ clue. They didn’t “get” the Beatles, Pink Floyd, astrology, hallucinogenic drugs, pot, protesting the war, Ram Dass, rock and roll, or even Twinkies. They were not “cool”. Instead, they were “squares” while me and my friends were super cool and very nearly enlightened human beings, kind of like Ace Ventura, Pet Detective.

 

Now I’m not so cool, culturally speaking, which is karmically appropriate. As a Libra guy and aging Baby Boomer, I appreciate the irony and cyclicality captured in the fact that I went from being a cynical long-haired young Vietnam war protester at CU Boulder to becoming a cynical bald curmudgeonly old fogey. Like some mythological dragon or snake figure (Ouroboros) I now chew on my own snarky suburban tail. In my mind, that still makes me more of a cool circle than a big square.

Oh well, I can still PROTEST and I choose to protest just about everything considered cool or popular today, except maybe my son (Eli) who dresses up in elaborate super-hero character costumes (Cosplay) and goes to DragonCon with around 30 to 70,000 other sci-fi/fantasy nerds every year here in Atlanta. He just got back and said it was “the best DragonCon ever”.

Here is a short list of 12 THINGS I really hate today, and, as a result, choose to officially protest in writing. You dont have to agree with me, of course, but for God sakes, be honest.

I HATE:

1) TV commercials that include a door bell ringing which either causes dogs to bark and howl or me to think I have to put my pants on immediately and act “normal”.

2) TV commercials in general, especially in whodunnit crime shows and long drawn out but ultimately futile National Geographic specials, ie. search for ghosts, Lochness Monsters, Bigfoot, free diamonds, Jewish mermaids, etc.

3) People who have the same cell phone ring tone that I do even tho it’s one of the most common ring tones and I refuse to change it out of pure laziness and ineptitude.

4) Termites, wasps, killer bees, mosquitoes, cockroaches and those tiny little ants in the kitchen and now in my car. I thought we were the apex predator and that every other species is supposed to be innately afraid of us?

5) I hate the fact that every time I amass a substantial “collection” of anything, ie. cassette tapes, VHS movies, CD’s, surround sound theater systems, Trinitron TV’s, alarm clocks, 8 track car tapes, etc., the technology changes and everything I have is now worthless …….again.

6) Car mechanics who tell me my car is hopelessly messed up due to some human error on my part, and then try to buy the car off me for cheap. Why do they want it so bad if it’s that f#@$-ed up…and why is there always something else wrong with the car right after I leave the mechanics garage?

7) Humidity, rain every day, scorching heat, frozen tundra, frostbite, snow drifts, sleet, black ice and getting stuck on ski lifts in any of the aforementioned conditions. What happened to plain old blue sky and weather between 70 and 80 degrees?  Do I have to live in Santa Barbara next to Oprah Winfrey to get that?

8) Traffic congestion, road construction and having to wait for ANYTHING whether it is at a toll booth, in a supermarket, a lunch line at Subway, and especially at the US Post Office where employees are apparently paid more to move slower.

9) The slowest moving employee of all the various places mentioned in #8 who somehow seems to just “know” that I hate to wait and so he/she/it slows down even more just to torture me, especially if I’m late for something else.

10) Health Insurance companies, pharmaceutical companies, corrupt home contractors, Comcast, Silicone valley CEO-entrepreneurs who still have teenage acne, Fox News, TV psychics, sex-abusing Catholic priests, televangelists who smile and show their gums grotesquely when they lie, any politician’s “chief of staff” or “communication officer”, most lawyers except for my friend Martin and Bennett, psychotherapists who dont do anything except take money and file for insurance reimbursement, chiropractors who do the same thing but explain the problem in vaguely unscientific chiropractic terms, doctors offices who ask me to write down my current medications four times and then send in a nurse or doctor who asks what medications I take,  and licensed or unlicensed plumbers and electricians who dont show up and still think that their truck “breaking down” and being unable to call is even remotely believable in this day and age.

11) Today’s pop culture.  It appears to me to be generally moronic, stupid, simplistic, celebrity-obsessed, narcissistic, materialistic, inane, anti-intellectual, insincere, false, fake and inclined to elevate or ingratiate itself toward musicians or psuedo-celebrities (ie, The Kardashians, Snookie, Housewives of Istanbul, Paris Hilton. etc.) who lack talent, speak in ghetto slang for “effect” (even if they grew up in Kenilworth, Beverly Hills or Bel Air) and write musical lyrics that are racist, sexist, violent, xenophobic or performed solely for their sensational-shock value. Besides that I like young people.

12) Low flow toilets that save on water but take four flushes to get the job done. I’d rather have one giant hydraulic turbine nuclear powered toilet that flushes like the Prince of Dubai’s private commode on his gold and gem-encrusted 747. Trust me, if I could, I would flush everyone and everything I just mentioned down and out at maximum cruising altitude and enjoy watching them all drop while screaming, “Hey, whutt up, dog?????  AYYYYIIII!!!!!”

Clearly I could go on…forever.  I know…that’s not cool either. It’s cool to stay positive and constantly repeat self-affirming mantras like Stuart Smalley. The good news is that there are still many good things and good people that I like and love. My “Love” list is just as long as my “buh-bye” list.

So, why do I still love my twenty-something son and all his nerd-gaming-costume wearing friends who dress up and prance around at DragonCon?  I love them because at least what they’re into is artistic/dramatic, creative, colorful, healthy, pro-social, interactive, and fun (for them).  Also, if one cares to think about it, their super-hero “characters” and their collective interest in Cosplay are grounded in a kooky sense of humor, an “inclusive” (versus exclusive) ethic, an overall striving for social justice, a belief in helping the less fortunate, and ultimately knowing the difference between a good guy/do-gooder and a total shmuck or lunatic psychopath, even if sometimes it’s a little bit more complicated then that. See, I told you I dont hate everything today.

P.S. Do you think it’s even possible for a 60 year old to dress up as a colorful dragon/snake eating it’s own tail at DragonCon 2014? Of course my son, the super-hero would die of embarrassment…….:)

http://www.psmag.com/culture/comic-con-on-the-couch-psychoanalyzing-superheroes-40550/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ouroboros

DragonCon Hans Solo Cup Costume: Not the most elaborate, but creative:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/cloudlesslens/9660515027/

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Thar She Blows…Ewww!

Posted on August 20, 2013 by captaincliff


photo-43

My dedicated readers have wondered what I would blog about next. Well, here’s the unlikely answer:  whale poop.

Dont scoff, dont laugh, and dont call me crazy. When it comes to crazy, my family and I hold the presumed badge of authority, kind of like Doc Holliday and the trigger-happy Earp brothers in Tombstone Arizona.  Slightly scary thought, right? So just listen up and learn. This info could make you filthy rich someday, either on TV shows like Jeopardy or in the French perfumery business. Allow me to explain.
First let’s get the coincidental yet peripheral facts out of the way. There is a lovely island in the Caribbean right off Belize named Ambergris Caye. The genius-lunatic John McAfee, the drug-crazed hacker who developed the first anti-virus software (until he was recently chased across South America for possibly shooting his cranky next door neighbor) lived there. Having a penchant for young girls, firearms and inventing new strains of chemical bath salts (with Viagra-like side-effects) eventually made him unpopular with the Belizean government. His life story is definitely a future Hollywood blockbuster starring Johnny Depp in a desperate attempt to resurrect his Captain Jack Sparrow channeling Hunter Thompson  role and hopefully blot out the cinematic eyesore and financial ruin resulting from his Jack Sparrow doing Tonto performance in The Lone Ranger.

 Apparently “ambergris”, when translated correctly means “whale shit”, even tho I’m not sure of the Latin or Greek root-word or it’s actual linguistic origin. For some reason, I never even considered the fact that whales, like most other living things, need to “drop trough” and pinch a loaf of whatever foul excrement results from that-which-whales ingest. I guess I was too involved with myself, as usual, and my own bowel behavior.  Anybody with Germanic genes, regardless of their ethnicity or religious upbringing can attest to the tendency. Not only do Jewish people and those of German descent have a predilection for counting, ordering and sorting everything obsessively but they also initialize, weigh, number, type, stamp and write it all down in great detail. Sadly, tragically, almost inconceivably, the Nazi regime during WWII actually kept meticulous records and triplicate copies of the many millions of people they were exterminating like rats. It should therefore come as no surprise that the German people as well as those they once attempted to liquidate might lean toward keeping a mental record of their own bowel movements including noting any lack of “regularity” or sufficient “production” (see my earlier blog entitled “Hitler’s Farts”).

Luckily other mammals, including whales are less obsessive-compulsive and, as a result, they tend to just live, eat, shit, and eventually die of natural causes, especially if we the Nazi-like species of our time and place dont kill them off in droves as is our predilection. Whales keep no notes and could care less if their poo sinks or floats. However, we humans apparently do care, and, as a result, there are some very excited marine biologists, whale experts and assorted archeologists who are at present high-fiving each other like NASA engineers after a successful space launch. The article referenced below goes into extreme and unnecessary detail about someone apparently finding the “Holy Grail of Whale Shit”, some kind of 2 million year old hunk of calcified whale crap with prehistoric squid beaks sticking out of it. More amazing this hunk of incredibly old shit was discovered in the badlands of Umbria in central Italy, a lovely place I’ve been told by my brother.  If this becomes another major eco-tourist attraction after seeing the Colliseum and touring Pompeii, I will eat my therapy hat…and sometime later shit it out intact.

Ok, I do honestly get it. It’s nearly 2 million years old and the only whale shit fossil of it’s kind ever to be discovered on planet Earth. But to be honest, if I ever found it I would have probably stupidly spray painted the thing (like I do everything), used it as a bedroom door stop or attached one of my weird CaptCliff peace pipes to it with super-glue and velcro (see photo above). I guess it’s lucky I didn’t find it. On the other hand, I respect it’s rarity, like a unusual meteorite or a nail clipping from a Neanderthal. The only difference is the revolting visual imagery this ancient ambergris evokes. I DARE authorities to put “it” in an Italian museum and bring a busload of schoolchildren, regardless of their country of origin to see it and then be told exactly where it came from. If those kids dont erupt in innocent laughter and gesticulate using the international childhood sign for, “Ewww…gross!”, I will eat my……you-know-what. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, apparently “regular” whale poop has an enticing “musky scent” that makes it extremely valuable and highly sought after by people in the perfume business. Dont worry, you wont find me trying to sneak a quarter-ounce plastic bag of the stuff back through Customs on my next trip to Italy or Belize. European Viagra or aromatic white truffles from Umbria maybe, but whale poop…not a frickin’ chance. Lastly, I just learned from my Antarctica shlepping brother Neal that there might be something even worse smelling than whale shit. It’s whale breath and it’s called “sparg”.

When I say dont scoff I really mean it. Some punk kid in the U.K. just found a hunk of this whale scat on the beach and its estimated worth is 63K!
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