Listen to me carefully.
If you're of the age where you wear bifocals/progressives, and/or you often need to take off your glasses (and/or put on new ones) to read, and/or you've ever sat down at your computer and seen nothing but an alarming Big Blur until you could arduously manage to focus in:
Buy computer glasses.
I don't really understand what that means or exactly what these do, except they're not normal glasses, and they're not reading glasses, and you can't use them for anything besides computer work.
But they are a choral triumph of blazing grandeur from God (capitalized!). Aside from that, words fail. I can't express to you what I'm experiencing right now, or how I regret years of needless suffering. I just want to sit here and peer at my screen. I may read a novel on my screen. On my screen. On my screen.
Between my new regular glasses and these computer glasses, I'm out a sum of money that could have bought dozens of meals. I've been extorted and raped, my wallet strip-mined by smug opticians in fake white smocks, and I've been left, non-myopic, to rot in some nameless gutter. And yet I say to you: get computer glasses. Don't "research" them. Get them. Go get them. Now. Stand up, walk out, and get them. Now. Go get computer glasses. You need computer glasses. Up you go. Go buy glasses. Computer glasses. Now. Right now. Make it happen. Do the thing. Straighten up and fly right. Don't delay. Go do it. Start walkin', yes indeed. You want this. You need this. You're doing it. There you go. Excellent! Stop reading. I mean it. Time's wasting. Go get some computer glasses. Man, you're gonna love your new computer glasses. Why wait? Don't! Go do it now. You'll have them soon. You're reading right now without glasses, and my whole point here is to not do that! Are you not understanding me? Stop reading! Go get computer glasses!
Also, get anti-glare coating.
Update: See discussion here.
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Magic is Messy
I'm helping out friends with a writing project. And I'm not completely sure what they're expecting, so while I believe I'm producing something terrific, there's a knot in my stomach at the prospect they'll take one look and cry "What the hell is this?"
So I texted one of them, and asked him to test-read a page. Then I reminded him again. And again. Nothing.
Meanwhile, I kept writing, with an increasing concern that I might be walking off a cliff. I could be headed in the completely wrong direction. It's really hard to tell! The dread mounts.
If he'd simply written back to tell me it's great, or to tell me it sucks, I would have instantly sprung into focus, knowing what to do. Without that, I feel like Schrodinger's Cat, writing something both great and useless simultaneously, the verdict sealed until someone opens the damned box and takes a look.
I saw the guy last night, and after polite apologies for not getting back to me, he revealed what had happened. He was so confident that I'd turn in something great that he didn't figure he needed to chime in. Since I'm so good at this, I could just go do my thing.
At least, that was the view from his perspective.
From my perspective, I'm floundering in a pool of self-doubt. I know the stupidity I'm capable of. I know that sitting down to write entails weaving puke and turds and snot into output that might pass scrutiny. I'm not falsely modest. I'm fully aware that, at my best, I can pull off small magic tricks. That means some people think of me as a magician. That's nice, but they don't understand what that entails, or how ramshackle it all really is. It's the usual appearance-versus-reality thing.
Real magicians are nothing like stage magicians. We aren't suave figures attired in cleanly pressed tuxes, with seamlessly confident control of circumstances and effortlessly socko results every single time. That's not how any of this works. Real magicians dwell among the puke and turds and snot. That's where we live. It's a dirty job no one else will do.
Our process is one of desperation, strain, and grim determination amid nauseating insecurity. We are constantly burdened with the memory of outcomes where we'd forgotten to clean off every last booger and someone noticed, breaking the spell and leaving only a sense of blinking bafflement at how this small, pathetic, whimpering oaf wound up in their midst when they'd expected an urbane, polished prestidigitator.
Remember that nervous, fleshy guy behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz, flailing feebly with his flimsy levers to create a limited array of just-barely-convincing effects? Yup. That's us. That's as good as it gets right there. Welcome to my life from my perspective.
Further reading:
The Perfection Requirement
Explaining Steve Jobs
Cave of Forgotten Dreams
How will this very posting play? Am I whining? By omitting a ton of supporting detail - to make this read more smoothly - have I produced something that will be boiled down to some empty cliché of artistic snittiness and neurosis? Is any of this even remotely interesting? Have I devolved into a self-indulgent blogger? The part about me sometimes being a magician, does that read like gloating? Or, on the contrary, is my self-portrayal so lowly that I've revolted everyone? Is the Slog bogged down in navel-gazing and snide complaints about how wrong people are? Is this turning into a downer when it could just as easily offer a positive message? Is anyone even reading any of this? And is it okay if not? I disliked writing for multitudes - needing to withstand the merciless snark and willful misapprehension - so here, left in peace, I ought to be happy, yet I catch myself fretting about smallness, and about whether I'm disappointing the few who do come around. Is it clear what I'm doing with this footer right now? Does it read like a beleaguered call for help, when I'm simply revealing the sort of inner narrative every truly creative person confronts? David Copperfield never concerns himself with this stuff! David Copperfield never whines!
If any of you are reading this in horror, wondering why I'd torment myself when it's all reading fine and I'm someone whose writing you admire (I frankly have no idea if there are any such people wondering any such thing) and shocked by the harshness of my concerns - then allow me to yet again point out that magic is messy.
It's not a matter of ego insecurity. I don't need strokes. There's no personal self-doubt here, because it's not about me, it's about the material. Is it good? I don't know! No creative person knows!
Actually, that's not true. Sometimes (not always) I do know when it's good. But I never know when it's bad, and that fact can only fail to terrify me if I were to keep up a steady diet of lead paint chips.
So I texted one of them, and asked him to test-read a page. Then I reminded him again. And again. Nothing.
Meanwhile, I kept writing, with an increasing concern that I might be walking off a cliff. I could be headed in the completely wrong direction. It's really hard to tell! The dread mounts.
If he'd simply written back to tell me it's great, or to tell me it sucks, I would have instantly sprung into focus, knowing what to do. Without that, I feel like Schrodinger's Cat, writing something both great and useless simultaneously, the verdict sealed until someone opens the damned box and takes a look.
I saw the guy last night, and after polite apologies for not getting back to me, he revealed what had happened. He was so confident that I'd turn in something great that he didn't figure he needed to chime in. Since I'm so good at this, I could just go do my thing.
At least, that was the view from his perspective.
From my perspective, I'm floundering in a pool of self-doubt. I know the stupidity I'm capable of. I know that sitting down to write entails weaving puke and turds and snot into output that might pass scrutiny. I'm not falsely modest. I'm fully aware that, at my best, I can pull off small magic tricks. That means some people think of me as a magician. That's nice, but they don't understand what that entails, or how ramshackle it all really is. It's the usual appearance-versus-reality thing.
Real magicians are nothing like stage magicians. We aren't suave figures attired in cleanly pressed tuxes, with seamlessly confident control of circumstances and effortlessly socko results every single time. That's not how any of this works. Real magicians dwell among the puke and turds and snot. That's where we live. It's a dirty job no one else will do.
Our process is one of desperation, strain, and grim determination amid nauseating insecurity. We are constantly burdened with the memory of outcomes where we'd forgotten to clean off every last booger and someone noticed, breaking the spell and leaving only a sense of blinking bafflement at how this small, pathetic, whimpering oaf wound up in their midst when they'd expected an urbane, polished prestidigitator.
Remember that nervous, fleshy guy behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz, flailing feebly with his flimsy levers to create a limited array of just-barely-convincing effects? Yup. That's us. That's as good as it gets right there. Welcome to my life from my perspective.
"Aw, c'mon, we both know you'll nail this project, Jim!"Here's the thing: magic is messy. Repeat it to yourself a million times, so expectations are properly readjusted after years of seeing cheesy, toothy fricking David Copperfield on TV: Magic is messy.
"But you can't know that! You don't understand how stupid I can be! You have no idea!"
"Yeah! Ha! 'Stupid'! That's you! Look, just keep writing, it'll be awesome!"
"No! Awesomeness does not flow out of me like pancakes! It's work and pain, and nothing's ever assured. It's always possible I'm a million miles from anything good! That's never not a strong possibility!"
Further reading:
The Perfection Requirement
Explaining Steve Jobs
Cave of Forgotten Dreams
How will this very posting play? Am I whining? By omitting a ton of supporting detail - to make this read more smoothly - have I produced something that will be boiled down to some empty cliché of artistic snittiness and neurosis? Is any of this even remotely interesting? Have I devolved into a self-indulgent blogger? The part about me sometimes being a magician, does that read like gloating? Or, on the contrary, is my self-portrayal so lowly that I've revolted everyone? Is the Slog bogged down in navel-gazing and snide complaints about how wrong people are? Is this turning into a downer when it could just as easily offer a positive message? Is anyone even reading any of this? And is it okay if not? I disliked writing for multitudes - needing to withstand the merciless snark and willful misapprehension - so here, left in peace, I ought to be happy, yet I catch myself fretting about smallness, and about whether I'm disappointing the few who do come around. Is it clear what I'm doing with this footer right now? Does it read like a beleaguered call for help, when I'm simply revealing the sort of inner narrative every truly creative person confronts? David Copperfield never concerns himself with this stuff! David Copperfield never whines!
If any of you are reading this in horror, wondering why I'd torment myself when it's all reading fine and I'm someone whose writing you admire (I frankly have no idea if there are any such people wondering any such thing) and shocked by the harshness of my concerns - then allow me to yet again point out that magic is messy.
It's not a matter of ego insecurity. I don't need strokes. There's no personal self-doubt here, because it's not about me, it's about the material. Is it good? I don't know! No creative person knows!
Actually, that's not true. Sometimes (not always) I do know when it's good. But I never know when it's bad, and that fact can only fail to terrify me if I were to keep up a steady diet of lead paint chips.
Understanding Heart Stuff
A few years ago, I had some heart problems (I'm good as new). When I tried to explain it all to friends, I found that not one understood even the first thing about heart stuff. They kept, like, tearing up amid my explanation, which seemed totally weird to me (per below, I'm far safer than they are, heart-wise!).
You really need to understand about all this, and not have it be some terrifying blob of mysterious badness. Heart stuff isn't as scary as you think. In fact, it's mostly good news these days. Take five minutes to read this overview, which will almost surely surprise you and transform your outlook:
Note: I'm not talking about the various rare and strange ways things can go wrong...or might have been wrong since birth. This is just the scenario most people mean when they talk about heart disease.
The heart's just a pump, and it needs oxygen. The oxygen comes from the arteries that feed in. If the arteries get blocked, oxygen gets cut off, and that's bad (and that's why you should take your Lipitor).
When the oxygen gets cut off, that’s a heart attack. You need to clear that blockage ASAP, before the heart gets starved of oxygen (which is bad). The clock's ticking!
They slide a probe through a vein in your wrist or pelvis that sends a video camera into your heart, and it finds any/all blockage, and can even remotely clear a bunch of it. If necessary, the procedure can also insert a stent, which opens up even super-blocked arteries, permanently. None of this hurts. All of it's wonderful. It's the thing you point to when people say snide things about modern medical science. This is the sweet spot. This is why it's great to live in the future!
Everyone else is sending you sympathy cards, but I'll congratulate you! You now have something 99% of your fellow humans don't have: complete assurance of clear arteries. Run up the steps or chase the bus; you won't have a heart attack, and not many people can say that! Your friends and family - pitying you for your dramatic-seeming heart condition - might, for all they know, be dangling by a thread. You, however, are the only superman in the room, with a heart that's 100% scanned and mapped and tested and good to go. It's an immense privilege enjoyed only by a lucky few.
The only thing to fear in any of this is failure to get timely medical help (i.e. nitroglycerin). That ticking clock must be responded to, and if you don't, that's a whole other thing. My strong suggestion is that you practice yoga and meditation to develop body awareness which will help you notice the problem way, way before the damage point. The people who don't notice are those whose bodies seem like numb and distant slabs. With body awareness, you'll be fine. In fact, better than fine. You'll be among the privileged few.
Let's talk about stress tests, which very few people understand. A stress test is an attempt to determine whether you're dangling by a thread...by forcing a heart attack. Please have a heart attack! Run faster! Keep going! It is literally a stress test - a violent shake-up to see if anything breaks. But don't worry, because the technician has plenty of nice juicy nitroglycerin, which is - remember? - a Time Out. So if that scariest of phrases - "heart attack!!!!" - gets uttered, you're a few seconds from a time out, and probably just down the hallway from an angiogram. Easy peasy. And then you'll have the privilege of knowing your heart's okay all within a safe and controlled environment.
Not to say that a heart attack is no big deal, but it's nothing awful in and of itself. All it means is that the danger clock has started running. The danger isn't the attack, it's the duration before nitroglycerin. Learn to be less terrified of the phrase, but very diligent about responding to symptoms.
It's counterintuitive, but the best thing that can happen to you, heart-wise, is to have a heart attack, get a speedy Time Out before damage occurs, and qualify for an angiogram so you have firm assurance that your heart is cleared for action. That would be awesome! Much, much shakier would be to assume you're healthy, and go shovel snow, uncertain of what's going on in your chest. You, snow-shoveler, may feel terrified of what I've been through. But I'm fine (zero damage, happy stent, I run up steps and scamper like a pup). Really, I'm just worried for you!
So: take steps to develop body awareness. Get help fast if anything seems funny in your chest (angina isn't just pain; it can feel like a lovely fullness). Take your Lipitor, if it's been suggested for you. And understand that a heart attack, in and of itself, is not some unthinkable dramatic horror. This is not 1960!
Slog technical advisor Pierre Jelenc asked me to add that a clean bill of cardiac congestion (from angiogram) "is not a license to commit all sorts of behavioral sins; other arteries can get clogged (although most patients will die of something else first)."
For more on the the Sublime Bliss of Stress Tests, see this posting
For more paeans to the beauty and joy of stents, see the bottom comment beneath this posting.
You really need to understand about all this, and not have it be some terrifying blob of mysterious badness. Heart stuff isn't as scary as you think. In fact, it's mostly good news these days. Take five minutes to read this overview, which will almost surely surprise you and transform your outlook:
Note: I'm not talking about the various rare and strange ways things can go wrong...or might have been wrong since birth. This is just the scenario most people mean when they talk about heart disease.
The heart's just a pump, and it needs oxygen. The oxygen comes from the arteries that feed in. If the arteries get blocked, oxygen gets cut off, and that's bad (and that's why you should take your Lipitor).
When the oxygen gets cut off, that’s a heart attack. You need to clear that blockage ASAP, before the heart gets starved of oxygen (which is bad). The clock's ticking!
Bad News: It's not going to happen in time. No one is going to crack open your chest and ream out the blockage at the baseball game, or even in the ambulance. That blockage will remain there for at least a day or two.A day or so later, you'll have that angiogram. It's a procedure everyone should want, but it’s bestowed exclusively upon those of us with Scary Symptoms. It's far too expensive to offer to everyone, but you, lucky one, get to jump the line and have your heart thoroughly inspected from the inside!
Good News: That's actually ok, because the moment you're in medical care - ambulance or hospital - you'll be given nitroglycerin tablets, which open things right up. It's one of the greatest "time outs" medical science has devised; a cheap, easy miracle. Now, you shouldn't go rock climbing at this juncture, but if you'll just patiently sit there, with the nitroglycerin under your tongue, danger is averted. The heart gets oxygen, and no further damage will be done. No harm, no foul! Sit back and relax....and schedule your angiogram. The clock has stopped ticking. Time out!
They slide a probe through a vein in your wrist or pelvis that sends a video camera into your heart, and it finds any/all blockage, and can even remotely clear a bunch of it. If necessary, the procedure can also insert a stent, which opens up even super-blocked arteries, permanently. None of this hurts. All of it's wonderful. It's the thing you point to when people say snide things about modern medical science. This is the sweet spot. This is why it's great to live in the future!
Everyone else is sending you sympathy cards, but I'll congratulate you! You now have something 99% of your fellow humans don't have: complete assurance of clear arteries. Run up the steps or chase the bus; you won't have a heart attack, and not many people can say that! Your friends and family - pitying you for your dramatic-seeming heart condition - might, for all they know, be dangling by a thread. You, however, are the only superman in the room, with a heart that's 100% scanned and mapped and tested and good to go. It's an immense privilege enjoyed only by a lucky few.
The only thing to fear in any of this is failure to get timely medical help (i.e. nitroglycerin). That ticking clock must be responded to, and if you don't, that's a whole other thing. My strong suggestion is that you practice yoga and meditation to develop body awareness which will help you notice the problem way, way before the damage point. The people who don't notice are those whose bodies seem like numb and distant slabs. With body awareness, you'll be fine. In fact, better than fine. You'll be among the privileged few.
Let's talk about stress tests, which very few people understand. A stress test is an attempt to determine whether you're dangling by a thread...by forcing a heart attack. Please have a heart attack! Run faster! Keep going! It is literally a stress test - a violent shake-up to see if anything breaks. But don't worry, because the technician has plenty of nice juicy nitroglycerin, which is - remember? - a Time Out. So if that scariest of phrases - "heart attack!!!!" - gets uttered, you're a few seconds from a time out, and probably just down the hallway from an angiogram. Easy peasy. And then you'll have the privilege of knowing your heart's okay all within a safe and controlled environment.
Not to say that a heart attack is no big deal, but it's nothing awful in and of itself. All it means is that the danger clock has started running. The danger isn't the attack, it's the duration before nitroglycerin. Learn to be less terrified of the phrase, but very diligent about responding to symptoms.
It's counterintuitive, but the best thing that can happen to you, heart-wise, is to have a heart attack, get a speedy Time Out before damage occurs, and qualify for an angiogram so you have firm assurance that your heart is cleared for action. That would be awesome! Much, much shakier would be to assume you're healthy, and go shovel snow, uncertain of what's going on in your chest. You, snow-shoveler, may feel terrified of what I've been through. But I'm fine (zero damage, happy stent, I run up steps and scamper like a pup). Really, I'm just worried for you!
So: take steps to develop body awareness. Get help fast if anything seems funny in your chest (angina isn't just pain; it can feel like a lovely fullness). Take your Lipitor, if it's been suggested for you. And understand that a heart attack, in and of itself, is not some unthinkable dramatic horror. This is not 1960!
Slog technical advisor Pierre Jelenc asked me to add that a clean bill of cardiac congestion (from angiogram) "is not a license to commit all sorts of behavioral sins; other arteries can get clogged (although most patients will die of something else first)."
For more on the the Sublime Bliss of Stress Tests, see this posting
For more paeans to the beauty and joy of stents, see the bottom comment beneath this posting.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
The Luxe Life
In the early 90s, I flew to Europe for (music) work at least twice per year. At that time, if you racked up those miles on TWA, you qualified for nearly guaranteed upgrade to Business Class on all flights, and a free (or steeply discounted) membership to the premium flight lounge, as well.
I was one of the poorest people I knew, eking by on $26,000/year (and proud of it - few jazz trombonists at the time could say the same), yet I traveled like a CEO. And I have to admit that I liked it. I also liked the five star hotels I stayed at while touring on the European jazz festival circuit.
But I didn't like it enough to want to devote my life - or to have to exploit others - to preserve that lifestyle.
It's all switched. I'm not impoverished (I own a TV set! I take the pay tunnels into Manhattan! Occasional parking garages!), and I travel coach and stay in ordinary hotels. It wouldn't occur to me to spend an extra $1500 for a slightly wider chair for a five hour flight, nor to lay out $500/night for a luxe hotel. It doesn't seem worth it.
Yet, paradoxically, again, I did really like it.
Fortunately, I don't need to have everything I like.
I was one of the poorest people I knew, eking by on $26,000/year (and proud of it - few jazz trombonists at the time could say the same), yet I traveled like a CEO. And I have to admit that I liked it. I also liked the five star hotels I stayed at while touring on the European jazz festival circuit.
But I didn't like it enough to want to devote my life - or to have to exploit others - to preserve that lifestyle.
It's all switched. I'm not impoverished (I own a TV set! I take the pay tunnels into Manhattan! Occasional parking garages!), and I travel coach and stay in ordinary hotels. It wouldn't occur to me to spend an extra $1500 for a slightly wider chair for a five hour flight, nor to lay out $500/night for a luxe hotel. It doesn't seem worth it.
Yet, paradoxically, again, I did really like it.
Fortunately, I don't need to have everything I like.
Monday, March 26, 2018
The Curse: Summing Up
Previous installment
First installment
All installments in reverse chronological order
While the previous posting was about my "Curse", I didn't title it as such, because the point I was making was an interesting stand-alone. And I worried that readers understandably fed up with the sordid whackiness of the whole Curse thing might have otherwise skipped it. But now we're back in the series, officially, for a final summary.
One note. A Facebook friend read through this series and expressed concern for my well-being. I had to reply that I have tons of friends unaffected by this stuff (the "Curse" is only a phenomenon with strangers), plus plenty of equanimity. I enjoy, come what may. Yes, there were rough moments, and my composure wasn't always perfect, but I was (and am) ok. This tale hasn't been a wail of pain disguised as a wry mystery. It really was a wry mystery!
The Big Chill-Out
Like diabetes, the "Curse" can be managed but never cured. When I lapse into quiet sub-sub-sub-shlubbiness these days, I still come off like an extreme "zero", while sending out highly discordant vibes of super high intensity and awareness. And the spectacle of a high-intensity "zero" - pretty much a contradiction in terms! - has to seem troublesome and creepy. How could it not? He must be plotting something. He's gonna mess with my kid, or play mind games with my head, or act out in lord knows what manner!
All my life, people told me I was "hyper" and needed to calm down. So I eventually did. But while some people mellow into a persona of Laid Back Smooth Dude, others wind up three notches below "shlub". It just goes to prove that no advice is one-size-fits-all. I wondered, as a child, whether everyone experienced their own unique universe - or if different people could act and think and do the same stuff with very different outcomes. I am now as certain as a human being can be certain that it's the latter.
I wasn't ever "hyper". I was intense. People don't always apply the right words. For example, the term "eccentric" is used to describe every sort of nonconformist, including those who've found a truly better way (I wrote about this here). For another example, people often compliment my intelligence, when I actually have a middling intellect (I'm poor at following directions, filling out paperwork, following movie and novel plots, and generally at inputting and processing lots of data in a snappy, efficient way...unless something visceral drives me to do so). What I am is creative, insightful, and, in its original sense, "clairvoyant" (which didn't used to refer to ESP - which doesn't exist - but to people who are especially clear in their vision....which is not to say I can't sometimes be cloudier than a hangar full of gauze). But it's easier for people to just figure I'm "smart".
I heard "hyper" a lot, though, and figured all those people couldn't be wrong, so I learned to slow down and chill out. But I was never a Chill Dude. The meditation, etc., that relaxed me only increased the intensity, compounding the real issue. I'd chilled to a puddle, while dissonantly projecting huge intensity and awareness. Hence the "Curse".
Lesson: When people give you bad advice, ignore the advice but pay close attention to the problem...then solve it your way.
Escaping the Curse
So how did I escape the "Curse"? I heeded an impulse to speed back up. I've returned to old behavior patterns which had been criticized as "hyperactive". I've reinjected my energy back into my speech and actions. I am a bit more dominating and loud. And I let myself say things that might seem a bit kooky. In so doing, my intensity seems less discordant than when I'd presented with a spooky, hollowed-out affect. Making myself a "character" elevates me a level or so, on the gravitas scale, to "Dude" from The Big Lebowski. I obviously have some sort of shtick going on, so my intensity seems less startlingly out of place. Hey, it's that kooky guy!
Confession of Guilt
This entire series has been disgustingly self-justifying and humble-bragging. "I'm so modest." "I'm so spiritual." "None of this is my fault." "They just don't understand me!" I know, I know. So let me inject some self-blame here. There is one thing I've failed to consistently apply. It's this, which is too subtle and interesting to recap, so you'll need to read the link. I'll wait!
A lot of people said they were moved by that post. And it would have helped if I'd followed its approach more diligently. Whenever I'd simply do the small flip of perspective suggested in that posting, a deeper connection often formed.
Yes, it sounds lovely. A hopeful vision for a future where it all comes together! But you might have forgotten the only truly horrific component of all this, recalled in installment #9, and which I'll repeat below:
One might diagnose a fear of connection on my part. No. Read more closely, bearing in mind that this might not be the sort of experience you personally relate to. Like the rest of this "Curse" story, it's edge case stuff...which makes the entire tale somewhat unrelatable, though hopefully still interesting reading).
Continue to final installment
First installment
All installments in reverse chronological order
While the previous posting was about my "Curse", I didn't title it as such, because the point I was making was an interesting stand-alone. And I worried that readers understandably fed up with the sordid whackiness of the whole Curse thing might have otherwise skipped it. But now we're back in the series, officially, for a final summary.
One note. A Facebook friend read through this series and expressed concern for my well-being. I had to reply that I have tons of friends unaffected by this stuff (the "Curse" is only a phenomenon with strangers), plus plenty of equanimity. I enjoy, come what may. Yes, there were rough moments, and my composure wasn't always perfect, but I was (and am) ok. This tale hasn't been a wail of pain disguised as a wry mystery. It really was a wry mystery!
The Big Chill-Out
Like diabetes, the "Curse" can be managed but never cured. When I lapse into quiet sub-sub-sub-shlubbiness these days, I still come off like an extreme "zero", while sending out highly discordant vibes of super high intensity and awareness. And the spectacle of a high-intensity "zero" - pretty much a contradiction in terms! - has to seem troublesome and creepy. How could it not? He must be plotting something. He's gonna mess with my kid, or play mind games with my head, or act out in lord knows what manner!
All my life, people told me I was "hyper" and needed to calm down. So I eventually did. But while some people mellow into a persona of Laid Back Smooth Dude, others wind up three notches below "shlub". It just goes to prove that no advice is one-size-fits-all. I wondered, as a child, whether everyone experienced their own unique universe - or if different people could act and think and do the same stuff with very different outcomes. I am now as certain as a human being can be certain that it's the latter.
I wasn't ever "hyper". I was intense. People don't always apply the right words. For example, the term "eccentric" is used to describe every sort of nonconformist, including those who've found a truly better way (I wrote about this here). For another example, people often compliment my intelligence, when I actually have a middling intellect (I'm poor at following directions, filling out paperwork, following movie and novel plots, and generally at inputting and processing lots of data in a snappy, efficient way...unless something visceral drives me to do so). What I am is creative, insightful, and, in its original sense, "clairvoyant" (which didn't used to refer to ESP - which doesn't exist - but to people who are especially clear in their vision....which is not to say I can't sometimes be cloudier than a hangar full of gauze). But it's easier for people to just figure I'm "smart".
I heard "hyper" a lot, though, and figured all those people couldn't be wrong, so I learned to slow down and chill out. But I was never a Chill Dude. The meditation, etc., that relaxed me only increased the intensity, compounding the real issue. I'd chilled to a puddle, while dissonantly projecting huge intensity and awareness. Hence the "Curse".
Lesson: When people give you bad advice, ignore the advice but pay close attention to the problem...then solve it your way.
I used to go ballistic when editors suggested thoughtless changes to my writing. It took the longest time for me to understand that I was missing a phenomenal learning experience. If I'd simply ignored the suggestions, and focused on the issues prompting those suggestions, I'd have seen all my writing problems helpfully mapped out. Instead, I spent years raging at the stupid suggestions.I hadn't needed to chill, but I accepted the solution at face value, and paid a steep price.
Escaping the Curse
So how did I escape the "Curse"? I heeded an impulse to speed back up. I've returned to old behavior patterns which had been criticized as "hyperactive". I've reinjected my energy back into my speech and actions. I am a bit more dominating and loud. And I let myself say things that might seem a bit kooky. In so doing, my intensity seems less discordant than when I'd presented with a spooky, hollowed-out affect. Making myself a "character" elevates me a level or so, on the gravitas scale, to "Dude" from The Big Lebowski. I obviously have some sort of shtick going on, so my intensity seems less startlingly out of place. Hey, it's that kooky guy!
If this account of adopting a persona creepily reminds you of the line about psychotics needing to put on their "human suit", believe me, you're not alone. It's troubled me plenty. In the end, however, I'm pretty sure psychopaths aren't compassionate, empathetic, or generous, whereas those things aren't among my deficiencies. I think many mental illnesses reflect an incomplete registration of deeper truth. So it may be that psychopaths in some ways resemble me, rather than vice versa.Sometimes I forget to speed up socially. So I have harrowing scenes with strangers. But I need these vacations. At this point, adapting a persona gives me a bit of a headache (my maniacal food-loving Chowhound persona had similarly weighed on me). There's a reason devotees traditionally withdraw to caves and monasteries. It's hard to be in that groove while maintaining a facade - but it's socially perilous if you don't.
Confession of Guilt
This entire series has been disgustingly self-justifying and humble-bragging. "I'm so modest." "I'm so spiritual." "None of this is my fault." "They just don't understand me!" I know, I know. So let me inject some self-blame here. There is one thing I've failed to consistently apply. It's this, which is too subtle and interesting to recap, so you'll need to read the link. I'll wait!
A lot of people said they were moved by that post. And it would have helped if I'd followed its approach more diligently. Whenever I'd simply do the small flip of perspective suggested in that posting, a deeper connection often formed.
Yes, it sounds lovely. A hopeful vision for a future where it all comes together! But you might have forgotten the only truly horrific component of all this, recalled in installment #9, and which I'll repeat below:
There was a farm stand I shopped at a few years ago. The elderly proprietor was never kind to me, but one day, late in the season, we exchanged a couple of thoughtful words, and connected for a moment. She looked at me as if for the first time. It was absolutely nothing romantic for either of us, just a touch of soulful bonding. Nice!This is what happens when the Curse flips the other way, and I feel compelled to stave off this outcome with absolutely everything I've got. While it might seem better for me, it's definitely not better for them.
The next season, I didn't have a chance to return to the stand. But the summer after that, I did stop by. When the woman caught sight of me, she gasped, and I realized that I'd stumbled into a late scene of a very bad movie. "Where did you go?" she implored in a hoarse, tremulous whisper, her eyes dark wells of pain. I, ah, ghaaahh, uh, I, ah....wuh, er, I, ah....
I wish I could say that was a one-off. And you'll surely understand why I much prefer senseless rejection. The Curse was a trial but also an amusingly goofy story. This, however, was some sort of bona fide tragedy...and, for whatever unfathomable reason, it seemed to be on me! Yikes! I don't want that!! Who would want that???
One might diagnose a fear of connection on my part. No. Read more closely, bearing in mind that this might not be the sort of experience you personally relate to. Like the rest of this "Curse" story, it's edge case stuff...which makes the entire tale somewhat unrelatable, though hopefully still interesting reading).
Continue to final installment
Saturday, March 24, 2018
Grand Unification Theory of All Jim-Related Enigmas
There's a very strange thing that happens sometimes. I'll walk into a Hispanic grocery in the boonies, greeting workers in Spanish. They'll furrow their brows and grow confused and agitated. This guy simply can't be speaking Spanish. It's impossible. Expectation is such a strong force that they're unable to understand me, though I speak the language reasonably well. The fact that I'm actually speaking Spanish doesn't overcome the unassailable assumption that I can't. What's more, it's emotionally fraught for them. Faces freeze in shocked horror and confusion. Friendly and well-intentioned though I am, my visit is not a happy experience for them. Nobody enjoys an edge case. There's a level of surprise that really rattles people.
Another example. I once visited a Punjabi restaurant and asked if they could make a "palakwala". This is a very odd dish to request. Not only is it completely unknown to non-Indians, but even Punjabis aren't all familiar with it. It's like our butterscotch pudding - an item you rarely see anymore, and which only older people even know about. So I asked for this, and the counterman scowled, reached with his tongs, grabbed a samosa, and asked me "Samosa?", stressing the syllables to penetrate my limited gringo comprehension.
In his mind, I simply had to have been asking for a samosa. Americans always go for samosas. Sure, my mouth had performed a series of actions that, in some sci-fi universe, might have been a surprisingly good pronunciation of an extremely obscure Punjabi specialty. But you don't need to be a statistical analyst to apply Occam's Razor and give the clueless American the samosa he's obviously struggling to pronounce. Even though "palakwala" doesn't sound anything like "samosa".
When strong expectations clash with very surprising outcomes, people tend to 1. coast along on the momentum of their initial expectations in spite of all counter evidence, and 2. react uneasily and weirdly to the experience. If this happens around you a lot, it might feel an awful lot like a "Curse".
In my previous posting, I continued trying to understand my long-running experience of provoking very odd and unpleasant reactions from strangers. My failure to project superiority parses, subconsciously, as inferiority...so I seem like someone you'd want to disregard. But the important observation was buried in a footer:
When the visceral impression you provoke is extraordinarily at odds with who you actually are, every word or action jars disturbingly against expectations. Even if you don't say a word, and mind your own business, signals conflict. Extreme edge cases elicit surreal/comic results.
Surprising behavior breaks things (and the greater the surprise, the greater the breakage, so be careful about aiming for infinity). I actually wrote a posting five years ago about the problem with surprise, but I didn't tie it all together until today.
I had more Curse theories to write up, but I suppose I can stop now.
Continue to "Summing Up"
Another example. I once visited a Punjabi restaurant and asked if they could make a "palakwala". This is a very odd dish to request. Not only is it completely unknown to non-Indians, but even Punjabis aren't all familiar with it. It's like our butterscotch pudding - an item you rarely see anymore, and which only older people even know about. So I asked for this, and the counterman scowled, reached with his tongs, grabbed a samosa, and asked me "Samosa?", stressing the syllables to penetrate my limited gringo comprehension.
In his mind, I simply had to have been asking for a samosa. Americans always go for samosas. Sure, my mouth had performed a series of actions that, in some sci-fi universe, might have been a surprisingly good pronunciation of an extremely obscure Punjabi specialty. But you don't need to be a statistical analyst to apply Occam's Razor and give the clueless American the samosa he's obviously struggling to pronounce. Even though "palakwala" doesn't sound anything like "samosa".
When strong expectations clash with very surprising outcomes, people tend to 1. coast along on the momentum of their initial expectations in spite of all counter evidence, and 2. react uneasily and weirdly to the experience. If this happens around you a lot, it might feel an awful lot like a "Curse".
In my previous posting, I continued trying to understand my long-running experience of provoking very odd and unpleasant reactions from strangers. My failure to project superiority parses, subconsciously, as inferiority...so I seem like someone you'd want to disregard. But the important observation was buried in a footer:
The heart of the problem wasn't that I'm dismissible. It was the clash between that visceral dismissive reaction and the discordant fact that I'm actually interesting. A person three notches below "shlub" is not ordinarily the least bit interesting - or accomplished, talented, insightful, hip or funny. Or any other noteworthy thing. That's edge case stuff right there, and it's also unconsciously registered, and the unconscious discordance might understandably provoke irritation, anxiety, and general unease.It's "gringo-who-can't-possibly-be-chattering-comfortably-in-Spanish." It's my palakwala samosa. That's it! Same dynamic!
When the visceral impression you provoke is extraordinarily at odds with who you actually are, every word or action jars disturbingly against expectations. Even if you don't say a word, and mind your own business, signals conflict. Extreme edge cases elicit surreal/comic results.
Surprising behavior breaks things (and the greater the surprise, the greater the breakage, so be careful about aiming for infinity). I actually wrote a posting five years ago about the problem with surprise, but I didn't tie it all together until today.
I had more Curse theories to write up, but I suppose I can stop now.
Continue to "Summing Up"
Friday, March 23, 2018
Note on Levels of Arrogance/Gravitas
I just noticed a strange compression effect in the levels of arrogance/gravitas listed in my previous posting.
Here's a reminder of the levels:
Every level down to Level 5 thinks they're really at the level below:
On the other end, every level below 5 thinks they're one level above:
So if you're trying to place yourself, choose one that sounds right, and you belong in the one above if it's 6-10 and the one below if it's 1-4 (Get 'Er Done has no time for this introspective nonsense).
Here's a reminder of the levels:
Claus von Bülow and Seb Gorka think they're Stuffy Professors.
Stuffy Professors think they're Aloof Professionals.
Aloof Professionals think they're Good Guys.
Good Guys think they're Get ‘Er Done.
On the other end, every level below 5 thinks they're one level above:
Senile/Crazy think they're Me (I attract crazy people, who assume we're kindred spirits)Get ‘Er Done just get ‘er done.
I feel like The Dude.
The Dude feels like a Slacker.
Slackers secretly fear they're Shlubs.
....and Shlubs definitely think they're Get ‘Er Done.
So if you're trying to place yourself, choose one that sounds right, and you belong in the one above if it's 6-10 and the one below if it's 1-4 (Get 'Er Done has no time for this introspective nonsense).
The Curse, Part 11: Gravitas
Previous installment
First installment
All installments in reverse chronological order
It's been a while since the last installment, so let me recap.
Something snapped inside me at a phenomenally stressful and hopeless moment, but the fallout, strangely, was entirely external. The world went a bit crazy. Everywhere I went, strangers would grow weirdly enraged with me. I learned to speak like Mr. Rogers, restraining my natural sarcastic tone...to no avail. I couldn't shrink myself small enough to avoid being an irritant.
The "Curse" was in play even if I didn't say a word. At the gym, no one ever used adjacent treadmills (body odor wasn't a problem nor was I drooling or muttering to myself (both were checked). This is how Casper the Friendly Ghost™ must have felt!
I've spent years processing this, choosing to consider it a juicy enigma rather than a horrific nightmare. Eventually I worked up some theories, which I began recounting in the previous installment. There can be no one single answer. Extreme edge-case scenarios are the product of multiple factors. And one of them surely involves gravitas....or the lack of it.
=============
As I wrote in my most popular Quora answer (reprinted on the Slog here):
The problem is that Doing is transparent. Even if you do stuff extremely well, unless you puff up it's extremely hard to be taken the least bit seriously. As with certain species of beetles, haughty displays ensure domination and mating...and it's not super deep.
Profound people, it's assumed, seem profound. Smart people seem smart. A vibe is expected, and we're subconsciously predisposed to dismiss those who lack it. And while gravitas can obviously be faked, some part of us sniffs gradations of it and forms snap judgements accordingly. You express, nonverbally, "I am superior to you." The rest of the world replies "Okay." Done deal.
But genuinely impressive people are rarely arrogant. With no need to pose, they seem, paradoxically, unimpressive. We humans have quite a weird feedback loop going on, where insecure posers get rewarded and the securely accomplished are ignored.
I've written a number of times about problems caused by my lack of gravitas (this posting illustrates this whole phenomenon). I'm not falsely modest. I know what I'm good at, but I don't see how my good work makes me anything special. And so I read negative on the gravitasameter. Five contributing factors:
Since arrogance works, it stands to reason that less gravitas impresses less. So what happens in extreme cases? Let's look at the descending levels of arrogance/gravitas:
10. Claus von Bülow
See this followup posting.
Level 5 ("Get ‘Er Done") is the lowest socially-acceptable gravitas level. Beneath that, we start delving into the detritus of society. Not on the merits, per se; just in terms of our gut instinct. Shlubs make us roll our eyes. Slackers revolt us. The Dude in real life would be an object of scorn and ridicule. Beyond that, our visceral reaction to a mere glance is "Yeah, I definitely don't have time for this nonsense." I'm beneath this threshold. And the next level below me is so stigmatized that any bluntly descriptive terms - e.g. "senile" or "crazy" - sound downright rude and offensive. I am, in terms of status signalling, one notch below a bathrobe-wearing eccentric, and just barely scraping above senility. This explains a sizable chunk, no?
The thing is, if I were to wear, like, a saffron-colored monk's outfit, my Level 2 affect would at least have context (accurate, to boot). It would also, however, create a new slew of grinding incongruities, e.g. my sardonic sense of humor, high energy and enthusiasm, and craft beer obsession. What kind of weird-ass monk is that?? To make it work, I'd need to cultivate a smiley, conspicuously gentle and soft-spoken persona. Yet more posing. Ugh!
One final note. This is getting complicated, but the heart of the problem wasn't that I'm dismissible. It was the clash between that visceral dismissive reaction and the discordant fact that I'm actually interesting. A person three notches below "shlub" is not ordinarily the least bit interesting - or accomplished, talented, insightful, hip or funny. Or any other noteworthy thing. That's edge case stuff right there, and it's also unconsciously registered, and the unconscious discordance might understandably provoke irritation, anxiety, and general unease.
As an illustration of the weird-out effect of confused expectations, behold Mr. Six Flags:
Thanks to Paul Trapani, who also collaborated on "Eating by the Numbers", for his input on the Arrogance Levels.
Continue to Grand Unification Theory of All Jim-Related Enigmas
First installment
All installments in reverse chronological order
It's been a while since the last installment, so let me recap.
Something snapped inside me at a phenomenally stressful and hopeless moment, but the fallout, strangely, was entirely external. The world went a bit crazy. Everywhere I went, strangers would grow weirdly enraged with me. I learned to speak like Mr. Rogers, restraining my natural sarcastic tone...to no avail. I couldn't shrink myself small enough to avoid being an irritant.
The "Curse" was in play even if I didn't say a word. At the gym, no one ever used adjacent treadmills (body odor wasn't a problem nor was I drooling or muttering to myself (both were checked). This is how Casper the Friendly Ghost™ must have felt!
I've spent years processing this, choosing to consider it a juicy enigma rather than a horrific nightmare. Eventually I worked up some theories, which I began recounting in the previous installment. There can be no one single answer. Extreme edge-case scenarios are the product of multiple factors. And one of them surely involves gravitas....or the lack of it.
As I wrote in my most popular Quora answer (reprinted on the Slog here):
[People are] impressed by the apparent intelligence of people who project confidence, or by their qualifications. They're impressed by educated people who use fancy words and have lots of information stored in their heads. They're super impressed by arrogance.Gravitas really does impress people...which is why so many of us strike that pose. It's an effective shortcut for insecure wannabes. I like to point out that most singers become singers because they want to be singers, not because they want to sing. This explains the origins of gravitas. There's a vast difference between concentrating on Doing versus concentrating on Seeming.
The problem is that Doing is transparent. Even if you do stuff extremely well, unless you puff up it's extremely hard to be taken the least bit seriously. As with certain species of beetles, haughty displays ensure domination and mating...and it's not super deep.
Profound people, it's assumed, seem profound. Smart people seem smart. A vibe is expected, and we're subconsciously predisposed to dismiss those who lack it. And while gravitas can obviously be faked, some part of us sniffs gradations of it and forms snap judgements accordingly. You express, nonverbally, "I am superior to you." The rest of the world replies "Okay." Done deal.
But genuinely impressive people are rarely arrogant. With no need to pose, they seem, paradoxically, unimpressive. We humans have quite a weird feedback loop going on, where insecure posers get rewarded and the securely accomplished are ignored.
I've written a number of times about problems caused by my lack of gravitas (this posting illustrates this whole phenomenon). I'm not falsely modest. I know what I'm good at, but I don't see how my good work makes me anything special. And so I read negative on the gravitasameter. Five contributing factors:
Dad: I watched my know-it-all father struggle mightily to preserve his tattered facade of Total Expertise. No one was fooled. Not wanting to fall into this trap, I went the other way, embracing my shortcomings and never forgetting that, per the footer here, "the best among us are shitty little rivers."
Burnt: I was so burnt out from my experience building, running, and selling Chowhound, and then working for a year under a sadistic whackjob, that I'd left it all on the field, as they say. Bedragglement is poor soil for cultivating gravitas.
Food Maniac: I'd maintained a public image during the Chowhound years as a cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs food-obsessed maniac. It worked, but I didn't like it, so when I took myself out of the image-building business, I sort of went all the way. Maybe I went overboard.
Anti-Heirarchy: The founding principle of Chowhound was to discourage food lovers from slavishly following experts like me. And I meant it! This propelled me on a certain trajectory.
Om, Baby: Having ardently practiced meditation and yoga since early childhood, beneath my food maniac facade I was, quietly, a surprisingly serious devotee, steeped in silence and not at all fixated by worldly results. Again, I knew what I was good at, but preening - of any sort - wasn't my thing.
Since arrogance works, it stands to reason that less gravitas impresses less. So what happens in extreme cases? Let's look at the descending levels of arrogance/gravitas:
10. Claus von Bülow
Titanically arrogant. If gravitas were a cologne, he'd have been drenched in it. At this level, you jump species, becoming more reptilian than mammalian. If you don't remember Claus, Seb Gorka will do.9. Stuffy Professor
This is the sweet spot, where gravitas seems like a natural outgrowth of your expertise. Cause/effect get confused, as people assume you're naturally radiating mastery, rather than striking a pose which preceded any actual accomplishment. Score!8. Aloof Professional
Too busy doing their super important thing to indulge in much pomposity, but they definitely "don't suffer fools gladly" (a self-congratulatory phrase much beloved by the arrogant).7. Good Guy
The over-achiever whose efforts to convey ordinariness reveal an underlying sense of superiority. "My humility is just another facet of my awesomeness!" These are the people who preface boasts with "I am humbled by..."6. Get ‘Er Done
Just trying to keep all plates spinning. Little bandwidth for contemplating one's place in the hierarchy of it all. Nonetheless: pride.5. Shlub
Perennially disoriented, like a particularly stiff wind landed him in his present circumstance. Uncomfortable in his skin, he lives too reactively to cultivate gravitas or strike any other pose.4. Slacker
Has let go of caring what people think. Low ambition and low productivity are a virtue. Still, doesn't this require a deeper core of smug self-satisfaction?3. The Dude
You know, from The Big Lebowski. Wandering around in a bathrobe, oblivious to all pretense. No gravitas at all (yet defiantly proud of it - a sort of anti-gravitas gravitas) but no real-world leverage, either.2. Me
Utter lack of superiority...and not particularly proud of it. Absorbed, unsettlingly, in endless bemusement.1. Senile/Crazy
Too captivated by whatever's drawn you into a stupor to even consider external phenomena.
See this followup posting.
Level 5 ("Get ‘Er Done") is the lowest socially-acceptable gravitas level. Beneath that, we start delving into the detritus of society. Not on the merits, per se; just in terms of our gut instinct. Shlubs make us roll our eyes. Slackers revolt us. The Dude in real life would be an object of scorn and ridicule. Beyond that, our visceral reaction to a mere glance is "Yeah, I definitely don't have time for this nonsense." I'm beneath this threshold. And the next level below me is so stigmatized that any bluntly descriptive terms - e.g. "senile" or "crazy" - sound downright rude and offensive. I am, in terms of status signalling, one notch below a bathrobe-wearing eccentric, and just barely scraping above senility. This explains a sizable chunk, no?
The thing is, if I were to wear, like, a saffron-colored monk's outfit, my Level 2 affect would at least have context (accurate, to boot). It would also, however, create a new slew of grinding incongruities, e.g. my sardonic sense of humor, high energy and enthusiasm, and craft beer obsession. What kind of weird-ass monk is that?? To make it work, I'd need to cultivate a smiley, conspicuously gentle and soft-spoken persona. Yet more posing. Ugh!
One final note. This is getting complicated, but the heart of the problem wasn't that I'm dismissible. It was the clash between that visceral dismissive reaction and the discordant fact that I'm actually interesting. A person three notches below "shlub" is not ordinarily the least bit interesting - or accomplished, talented, insightful, hip or funny. Or any other noteworthy thing. That's edge case stuff right there, and it's also unconsciously registered, and the unconscious discordance might understandably provoke irritation, anxiety, and general unease.
As an illustration of the weird-out effect of confused expectations, behold Mr. Six Flags:
Thanks to Paul Trapani, who also collaborated on "Eating by the Numbers", for his input on the Arrogance Levels.
Continue to Grand Unification Theory of All Jim-Related Enigmas
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Inputting Hard Copy Edits
The final editing pass for my app, "Eat Everywhere" involved marking up 1500 pages (front and back) of text with red pen. Behold my ordeal:
This stage was, alas, necessary. The material would have read fine without it, but many people have complimented the polished feel of the app's writing, and this is how that happened. Eat Everywhere informs you quickly on the fly (i.e. in restaurants), but you can also kick back and read it like a gigunda book, funny and entertaining (much credit, also, to our copy editor Laura Siciliano Rosen, proprietor of "Eat Your World", who also helped write the food content).
While I love writing, I hate inputting edits from hard copy. Knowing this huge task was looming, I bought an Apple Pencil for my iPad and tested every PDF mark-up app, hoping I could save some pain (and some trees) by avoiding print-outs. But these apps are all clunky, so final editing had to be done on paper, then manually input, after all. If you've ever done this, you know that, among other pains, it's hell on the eyes to keep switching between hard copy and screen. And fussy to keep the hard copy well-positioned. And just crazy-making, generally.
Here's my ingenious solution, which I'm very proud of:
1. Mark up hard copy in red pen (I use Paper Mate Flair Felt Tips, though they've gone downhill in recent years)
2. Put each page under this lamp (or one like it), choosing the coolest white quality. It lets you shoot a photo without casting a shadow on the page.
3. Shoot each page using the Scanner Pro app (set to "color document" so it correctly captures the red pen strokes) for iPhone, or any similar one for Android. You can shoot with the native camera app, but if you want this to "just work", scanner apps are better (I'll explain why in comments upon request).
4. The pages will be combined into a PDF. Send to DropBox (or other cloud service, or email to yourself).
5. Open the PDF on your computer, blowing up the window until it fills half the screen. Then arrange it next to the document window you're inputting to.
No eye strain! No fussy copy stands! No squinting! Plus, you can scroll both windows as you work. I'd be dead right now if not for this workflow. If you ever work with hard copy next to a computer, this is something you need to be doing!
It looks like this:
This stage was, alas, necessary. The material would have read fine without it, but many people have complimented the polished feel of the app's writing, and this is how that happened. Eat Everywhere informs you quickly on the fly (i.e. in restaurants), but you can also kick back and read it like a gigunda book, funny and entertaining (much credit, also, to our copy editor Laura Siciliano Rosen, proprietor of "Eat Your World", who also helped write the food content).
While I love writing, I hate inputting edits from hard copy. Knowing this huge task was looming, I bought an Apple Pencil for my iPad and tested every PDF mark-up app, hoping I could save some pain (and some trees) by avoiding print-outs. But these apps are all clunky, so final editing had to be done on paper, then manually input, after all. If you've ever done this, you know that, among other pains, it's hell on the eyes to keep switching between hard copy and screen. And fussy to keep the hard copy well-positioned. And just crazy-making, generally.
Here's my ingenious solution, which I'm very proud of:
1. Mark up hard copy in red pen (I use Paper Mate Flair Felt Tips, though they've gone downhill in recent years)
2. Put each page under this lamp (or one like it), choosing the coolest white quality. It lets you shoot a photo without casting a shadow on the page.
3. Shoot each page using the Scanner Pro app (set to "color document" so it correctly captures the red pen strokes) for iPhone, or any similar one for Android. You can shoot with the native camera app, but if you want this to "just work", scanner apps are better (I'll explain why in comments upon request).
4. The pages will be combined into a PDF. Send to DropBox (or other cloud service, or email to yourself).
5. Open the PDF on your computer, blowing up the window until it fills half the screen. Then arrange it next to the document window you're inputting to.
No eye strain! No fussy copy stands! No squinting! Plus, you can scroll both windows as you work. I'd be dead right now if not for this workflow. If you ever work with hard copy next to a computer, this is something you need to be doing!
It looks like this:
Monday, March 19, 2018
"Cornered Rat" Report #15
Monday, March 19, 2018: The phrase "cornered rat" finds 91,700 google search results, just a bit more than last week's 91,000.
All "Cornered Rat" postings in reverse chronological order
All "Cornered Rat" postings in reverse chronological order
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