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Strangling the Moment

 

I had one of the most ordinary experiences of my life this month.

Like so many mundane endeavors, this one involved the government. Specifically, state government: I had to renew my driver’s license.

Previously, this had been a surprisingly headache-free process, particularly in California. I’ve had my share of motorized vehicles, and have become something of a DMV idiot savant. California had nearly perfected the bureaucracy: On some visits, the line moved more quickly than I could fill out the predicate paperwork.

Recently, though, the state “mainstreamed” the process, according to the its Pollyannic press announcement of the change. Appointments and driver’s tests could be made online, presumably to make the already-expedient process blindingly so.

But I soon realized those improvements were aspirational at best. I received the renewal notification in late March. The notice said to give myself at least a month to find an open appointment.

Wow, I thought. So much for expediency.

On, fittingly, April 1, I went online to schedule an appointment, five weeks in advance of expiration. But the earliest availability — in metro Los Angeles — was June 1. So much  for mainstream. So I braced for a morning rise to try my walk-in chances. I knew the line would be long. Be prepared for a three-hour wait, I girded myself. Maybe even four.

It was 6 1/2 hours.

Normally, I would have stormed out of the office by hour five in line. Fuck it, I would have thought. I’ll take the risk of a month on an expired license.

But since my father’s death and my subsequent departure from the Gnash, I’ve learned the importance of navigating stillness. Of holding onto moments, even stopped ones. Especially stopped ones. One of dad’s favorite sayings was that time moves more quickly with age, which is as true as navy blue.

Still, despite time’s seemingly inexhaustible warp drive, you can pause it. Strangle it, even. Leave it like an ant in amber: goin’ nowhere until you free it.

Sorry about that, Father Time. Mother Nature taught me a few wicked bitch slaps. In fact, she  sent me to the hospital a few weeks earlier to condition my patience with a three-hour emergency room wait, followed by a two-hour gurney detainment. Emboldened by the slo-mo adventure,  I decided to surprise Time at the DMV and challenge him to a bore-off.

Perhaps it was being braced for inertia (a necessity in LA traffic). Or a new outlook on time’s passage. Maybe I was high. Whatever the reason, the 6.5 hour wait — which included about .02 minutes of actual paperwork — was somehow tolerable.

In fact, I think I had the strange rush runners describe. The glacial shuffling, the dense throng of hundreds, the pent-up anger and herd-stink of the DMV, it all  somehow left me giddy when I walked out. I broke into hysterical laughter on the drive home. My mother thought I’d buried the lead, starting with news of me passing the eye test instead of the wait.

That’s when I realized: I had, at least fractionally, taken baby steps in strangling time.  Not only that; it’s damn simple to do.

There’s a huge caveat, of course. Some parents literally need the day to run 25 hours. Some people could use an 80-hour week to pay for things like food.

But, for the spoiled lot of the rest of us, we really don’t know how to handle time. Particularly that which is down. Our cell phones, websites, deadlines and Facetwit accounts have rendered spare  time as rare as an albino alligator (a real thing that prowls southeast Louisiana).

I’ve seen the bouts of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), the tales of breaking free of the social media cycle, the difficulty of claiming time that is actually your own.

Good news, then. Or, as Whitman might say, “Answer.” Time need not flee you by. You can pause time. Here are five ways to strangle the moment:

Take the 7-second test. It sounds like like no time, but try a couple things that will change your mind about seven seconds.

First, after a normal inhale, hold your breath. Count to seven. Repeat the exercise on the next breath, only stop breathing halfway through the exhale and count off seven seconds again. Finally, do the same one more time, after you have exhaled. That’s it. Find a simpler meditation (suck it, Deepak!).

But admit it. Didn’t the very air you breathe taste a little sweeter on the second inhalation? Even more so on the third?

Here’s a socially braver exercise. When you’re talking to someone, either on the phone or in person, think about what they said for seven seconds. Say nothing. Just absorb what was said and weigh it before speaking. Your banter buddy will initially think something is wrong with you, the silence seemingly so interminable. But after a while, they way you’re perceived will change. You will outwardly transform from awkward to thoughtful. Do it regularly, and you will gain a reputation for being intellectual. All with a seven-second pause.

The point is, even brevity is longer than you think.

Recognize wet cement. Life is full of wet cement moments: That first minute the concrete of your mind is laid and a memory begins to dry into permanence.

We remember the big ones: births, marriages, deaths.

But what about those innumerable wet cement moments? The little recollections that fire randomly through your synapses like a lit match in a fireworks stand. A joke a child told. A revelation a friend confided in you. That weird exchange at the grocery store. Those things that are burned into your consciousness for reasons you can’t explain or understand.

But you can recognize them. Think of a positive deed you’ve done. Perhaps you helped a stranger. Rescued an animal. Gave an unsolicited compliment that left a true impression. Those are wet cement moments; little scattered gestures that make you, when the bill is tallied, what makes you a good person.

If, for instance, you’re doing the driving to take your child and her friends to their first concert, don’t think of it as a parental obligation. That’s a wet cement moment, one that she will never forget. If you see it as wet cement as well, neither will you.

Resist spackling. This one isn’t easy, but try it. When an event on your calendar is canceled, don’t fill it with another errand. You had already accounted for it, when you scheduled that meeting tomorrow so you could get your oil changed or your kid to a school trip today. What if you were to simply enjoy that hour? What if you were to people watch? Daydream? Take the 7-second test. It might not be unforgettable, but most likely it will be more memorable than a substitute chore.

Make mountains of molehills. Don’t hesitate to mentally gloat over those moments of pride — and any self-flattery you know in your heart. Your job as a professional. Your skills as a listener. Your love of animals. Your patience with stupid people. Those are attributes to which we could all aspire — and celebrate when we accomplish them, however mundane.

We’re taught not to make mountains out of molehills, advice that makes sense when you’re thinking of daunting or frightening things. But when it comes to the positive, well, fuck that. Make a big deal of maintaining your composure, or speaking openly, or listening instead of talking. Celebrate your victories of human nature, however small. For who else will recognize them, if not you? What good is a laurel if you don’t rest on it?

Reevaluate boredom. Boredom is terribly underrated. It’s a sign of utter contentment. Hungry people don’t get bored. Seriously sick people don’t get bored. People whose lives are at risk don’t get bored. There was a time when only the only people who enjoyed the fringe benefits of boredom where rich: aristocracy, castle owners, slaveholders.

Consider this statistic: Humans have been on the earth for about 200,000 years. If we consider the industrial revolution (which began in 1760) as the demarcation line between a life of modernity and having to hunt or forage for food, human beings have had the opulence of boredom for less than 1% of our time on the planet. We evolved mightily to create the fidget spinner. No need to piss on the accomplishment.

That’s it. No strenuous exercise, no change in your diet, no elective surgery. When our lifespans are measured in minutes — and everyone will face that truth one day — we won’t be measuring all the things we got done. We’ll be measuring those moments we held still, held close, until they became a part of us. Those moments we strangled.

If the average lifespan is 70 years, you get 2.2 billion seconds, or 314 million opportunities to take the 7-second test.

Better get started. Time’s not wasting, but it’s not waiting, either.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COZzsTwDghQ

 

Sorry Seems to Be the Easiest Word

 

I don’t like watching unrecorded television, probably because I have no dominion over it.

Live sports are maddening: My favorite teams have the audacity to err, lose a game even. And studies have shown that listening to the “Keyes on Van Nuys” jingle repeatedly will cause human ears to bleed and, eventually, fall off. That’s just science.

Same with any show that isn’t called Breaking Bad or Fargo. I’d rather record a late-night airing, even if I’m awake for it, to avoid sales pitches for hemorrhoid creams and personal injury attorneys.

But this week, I was drawn to the unadulterated boob tube by a much-publicized game for which I cared little. And I was glad I did.

Not for the game, which was putrid. But the ads were fascinating. In the span of two prime time hours, three companies ran advertisements with movie-quality production values, which is nothing new. But this is: The ads collectively said one thing: ‘I’m sorry.’

First came Uber’s, which apologized for its reputation of misogyny and driver/rider mistreatment:

Then came Facebook, which apologized for giving out personal data to anyone with a checkbook:

Finally, there was Wells Fargo, which apologized for creating bogus customer accounts — and the requisite account fees:

https://youtu.be/1rrivHxCeeY

Whether the ads are effective remain unclear. But on a corporate scale, the mea culpa marketing strategy is in full bloom. A cursory check of commercials of other  corporations reveal a similar tack. Here was Domino’s apology for making pizza that tastes like a cereal box:

General Motors asked forgiveness for all the taxpayer bailout money it needed to stay afloat:

And, not to be out-humbled, Toyota said ‘my bad’ for a string of recent recalls:

The strategy seems risky but well-defined in purpose: to make corporate America appear more humanoid. The Supreme Court has ruled that businesses have much the same rights as American citizens. But the court didn’t require them to have manners.

So corporations are putting on their best human airs. How many times have we seen a commercial with the subtext “Real people, not actors?” As if a) actors are not people; and b) real people are less likely to lie to you.

Only time will tell if the public will forgive. But an informal poll of friends suggests skepticism is a hard wall to bring down once it’s erected. Do you believe a deceiver who tells you, ‘This time, for real?’ We hear your apologies, corporate America. And we apologize for being so suspicious of ulterior motives. We’ll do better next time.

Promise.

 

 

 

 

We the Press People

 

Enough.

Enough with the attempts to define news.  Enough with the mock outrage over a lack of objectivity. Enough with pretending that “social” media is somehow different from its “mainstream” sibling.

It isn’t. Make no mistake: They are siblings, if not identical twins.

That we in the ancient media of print and television ever tolerated the term “social media” is something of a grim miracle. It’s hard to imagine other professions that would tolerate such a mangling of the terminology of its trade. Or that the public would so wholeheartedly embrace the mauling.

How many businesses or people, for instance, would hazard a flight on a plane steered by a “social pilot?” How many would reserve gurney time for an appendectomy by a “social surgeon?”

Yet, like running a hotel or driving a taxi, being a journalist has become the province of amateurs. Thanks to blogs and free vomit buckets like Facebook and Twitter, the idea of being published hinges less on linguistic dexterity than determinism.

Yet so many in the media claim to be outside its Ivy League walls, forbidden entry by out of step gatekeepers. And we’re not just talking conspiracy slackwits like Sean Hannity or Alex Jones.

Really smart people — like, Noam Chomsky-, Sam Harris-, Neil deGrasse Tyson-, Richard Dawkins-smart — make similarly ridiculous claims.

Take Harris, a neuroscience author of staggering eloquence. In his podcast, website and books, he is quick to lament that “the mainstream media refuses or is unable to see” most issues that underpin our society, from religion to economics to politics. The schism, Harris contends, was a leading contributor to the victory of the Trump administration.

Yet in the same talk or web posting, he will wonder aloud how his podcast became so popular, his Twitter account so swamped with activity.

It’s because you’re in the mainstream media, Sam.

Just do the math. While podcast numbers are not officially tallied (like Nielsen ratings for TV, and yes, that’s a hint), Harris has been publicly flabbergasted by a podcast following of 400,000 that exceeds all of his book sales — combined. He has 888,000 Twitter followers.

The Washington Post has a circulation of 740,000. While not an apples-to-apples comparison, If Harris’ Twitter fanbase alone were a newspaper, it would be the fifth largest in the nation

He’s hardly alone in the confusion. There isn’t an outlet in America that doesn’t distinguish between “mainstream” and “social” media.

But what is the real difference? The largest newspaper in America is the Wall Street Journal, with a circulation north of 2.4 million. (It’s also owned by Rupert Murdoch, in case critics of a liberal media forgot).

Compare that to Facebook, which functions like any other news outlet, with curated headlines and all-flavored news and feature stories. A recent Pew Research study found that 68% of Americans have accounts on Facebook.

That’s a circulation of 218 million.

The same applies to myriad “social” media sites: Instagram would have a circulation of 89.9 million; Pinterest, 83.5 million; Twitter, 67.4 million.

Even the term in a misnomer. If something qualifies as social media, by definition it is also renting property in MainstreamVille. How do we even claim separation, particularly when the largest news outlet in the United States decided a presidential election? How does it remain spared of fake news claims?

The truth is, media is like pizza. You get what you ordered, or you go out of business. Does anyone honestly lay claim to the notion that “mainstream” media refuses to report real news because it would rather report on Kim Kardashian’s ass? That it wants to secretly slip the public pap, like giving a fussy baby a spoonful of Gerber’s by making an airplane noise?

So let’s ratchet down the vitriol, Mr. Harris, Dawkins, Tyson et al. You’re criticizing a club to which you belong.