The Daily Procrastinator

Do you remember when you first heard the story of Nadya Suleman, the mother of the octuplets?  The first news that we heard was that they thought there were seven babies, and suddenly, mid-delivery, they discovered that there was an eighth baby hiding out in there.  Wow, quite a story, right?  Women everywhere were shaking their heads and thinking that there was no way in hell that they would ever want to be in a position where they were giving birth to the equivalent of a full litter, especially since multiples tend to be premature and have health problems.  How on earth could any one couple take on octuplets?

But then we learned more.  There was no couple; she’s a single mom.  And this wasn’t a fertility drug mishap where too many eggs fired off at once.  This was a deliberate placement of twice as many embryos as recommended for a woman her age (six were placed; two embryos split into twins).  In a woman who already had six other young kids, one of whom is autistic.  An unemployed woman who lives with her mom.  I mean, short of the kids being the spawn of some alien life form, the story could not possibly get any more bizarre.

And while the public turned on her, and the media exposed every strange corner of this woman’s life, one thing echoed in my mind: this is going to ruin reproductive medicine for other women, all because this woman and her wild card doctor went too far.

Tiny fingers.

Over the years, I’ve had several friends who’ve undergone reproductive therapies, ranging from fertility drugs right on through to IVF.  When it works, the result is nothing short of a miracle: a beautiful baby when nature alone wouldn’t allow it.  But even under the best of circumstances, the process is brutal, gut-wrenching and physically, emotionally and financially draining for the couple involved.  I’m worried that going forward, access to reproductive treatments will be limited, possibly taking away one last option from someone who so desperately wants it.

I’m hoping, for the sake of those other women, that the public will be able to distinguish between Suleman and the vast majority of women undergoing treatment.  I don’t want to see the reproductive rights of responsible individuals curtailed just because of one woman and one doctor who pushed things too far.

This is NOT me.

I admit it – I’m over 30 and I collect comics. I’ve got six long boxes stored away in my closet packed with Marvel and DC comics dating back to when I started collecting in the early 80s. I quit my habit when I got to college, then restarted about five years ago when a student of mine gave me a copy of New Avengers #1. It was as if the gift had reawakened a long dormant addiction within me, and I was hooked again (Thanks, Chaz). I now make my weekly Wednesday run to the local comic book store to pick up my pull list, which varies from two to eight books a week (“books” – a euphemism of mine), and spend the evening after the kids are in bed reading about characters with names like Iron Man and Captain America saving the world.

Or beating the hell out of each other, as it were.

A grown man collecting comics is suspect, to say the least. Matt Groening’s “Comic Book Guy” often comes to mind, the comic-and sci-fi obsessed loser who wields his superhero knowledge like a weapon. And while I have seen fellow comic book geeks who fit the stereotype, it’s just not me. I’m married and have two daughters. I run half-marathons, I play sports. I have a rewarding career teaching college English. In other words, I’m an adult. But comic book collecting is often seen as a kid’s pursuit, to be outgrown before one hits puberty and moves on to more “adult” interests. And yet I still look forward to Wednesdays.

I guess I just don’t buy into the argument that superheroes are inherently childish. For as long as we’ve had stories to tell, we’ve had our superheroes. The Bible tells the story of Samson, the original strongman, the loss of his long locks his Kryptonite. The ancient Greeks had Heracles and Achilles, among many others. Beowulf, Robin Hood and King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table are our early western heroes. All are stories still told and taught today, valued for what they tell us not just about ourselves but also for suggesting what we can become.

And so it is with today’s superheroes. They are today’s myths, tomorrow’s legends. Look at the organization of the Justice League, with its god-like heroes: Wonder Woman (Hera), Superman (Zeus), Batman (Hephaestus), The Flash (Hermes), Green Lantern (Apollo) and Aquaman (Poseidon). The Marvel heroes, however, are more human, often flawed in some way (Tony Stark is an alcoholic, Peter Parker is driven by guilt), just as Beowulf and King Arthur were, yet we still admire them.

Seriously, how cool is this?

There are certainly real heroes I can identify in my life, both intimately familiar (my parents) and anonymous (the 9/11 firefighters, e.g.), and all are a testament to the human capacity for love and sacrifice. Superheroes, while not real, exhibit these same qualities each week, and, for me, remind me that there is a potential for greatness in us all, despite an inability to lift 20 tons, turn invisible or fly. We just have to try.

Idealistic? Sure. But that’s why I still read comics books.

When it comes to travel, I’m an old pro.  Granted, I don’t travel as much as I once did, and elite status currently eludes me.  After all, the life of the blogger doesn’t afford the same fantastic opportunities as some of my former corporate gigs, the kind where I got to fly on luxurious weather-delayed jaunts from California to Buffalo — in February, no less — to stay at the world’s oldest Fairfield Inn.  No, I’m not that kind of worldly jet setter anymore, but I still thought that I’d seen it all.

Recently, I flew back east to Philadelphia to meet with two clients.  On the four flight segments to and from Philly, I encountered some of the more memorable travel scenes in my recent memory.

SJC-IAH: The peril of losing one’s elite status is that you’re relegated to boarding with the masses, the casual travelers who don’t know the routine.  Such was the case with the family of four that boarded in front of me.  They managed to somehow make it through security with a startling amount of carry-on baggage in an obvious attempt to elude the checked bag fees.  This collection of miscellany not only included a cat carrier, but also a large package containing an eight-piece king-sized comforter set.  This is beyond the level of the travelers who come with their bed pillow.  These people somehow felt the need to tote along a comforter, bedskirt, four shams and two decorative pillows in their original plastic packaging, which was roughly the size of the state of Rhode Island.  The package had to be fully dismantled and distributed into no fewer than three overhead compartments in order to fit.

IAH-PHL: While grabbing a bottle of water in the newsstand, I glanced at the purchases of the man next to me, and realized something that had previously been hiding in plain view: they sell Playboy in the airport.  Oh sure, you say, he’s reading it for the articles.  I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt on this one.  But would you really open up a Playboy on a plane?  The whole situation was just begging for a joke about why they no longer provide blankets on planes.

PHL-IAH: What are the odds of having three unrelated church choir directors on the same plane, seated within three rows of each other?  Furthermore, what are the odds that all three would be reading the same book about directing choirs?  Director #1 spotted #2 and #3 on his way to the restroom, which resulted in all three congregating in the aisle next to my left shoulder for more than an hour, discussing their favorite hymn arrangements and occasionally bursting into song.

And if that wasn’t entertaining enough, the in-flight movie was High School Musical 3.  Nothing more needs to be said.

IAH-SJC: The couple behind me wanted our flight to be delayed so that they could straighten out their duty free purchase.  For reasons that still remain unexplained, the duty free shop allowed them to buy liquor and “a very cute little koala bear” (she was far more upset about the koala than the liquor) in spite of the fact that they weren’t traveling internationally.  They seriously wanted to be permitted to go back out to the shop to get their purchase price refunded while the remainder of us waited on board.  I am eternally grateful to Continental’s crew for being very diplomatic with these people, but being very clear with them that the customer is not always right.

I can’t wait until my next flight to see what kind of oddities await me.

The question isn’t really whether I spend my money on organic products.  The question is whether I buy into the organic theme.  And lately, I’m just not sure.

I’m an avid farmer’s market shopper, but as I make my buying decisions — $1 more per basket for organic vs. conventional strawberries, $1.50 more per pound for organic apples — I find myself hesitating.  Am I shopping at the market for organic produce, or am I shopping there because the items are fresh-picked and better quality than what I can get at my local supermarket?  More often than not, the answer is quality.

That’s not to say that I’m not concerned about pesticides.  When I grow my own veggies at home, I’m very careful to not use chemical solutions to fight against the wee beasties that may be trying to eat my sugar snap peas and tomatoes.  Yet somehow, when the pest battle happens at a corporate farm, I’m less concerned about the results.  Out of sight, out of mind?  Naive, yes, but I’m fairly certain that I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Still, I’ve been strangely attached to organic milk, for reasons that I can’t quite explain.  I’ve been fairly mindlessly picking up my organic milk each week, assuming that there was some sort of great benefit to it, but this week I finally caught a glimpse of the price difference.  My organic milk was 117% more expensive than its conventional counterpart.  117%!  No wonder they keep the organic milk in a separate refrigerator.  Did I really need milk that cost twice as much, especially when most, if not all milk here in California appears to be labeled  rBGH-free?  And why am I so weirdly fixated on organic milk when I don’t apply the same standards to cheese, yogurt, sour cream or ice cream?

There’s ongoing debate about the health benefits of organic vs. conventional, but it seems to me that the biggest distinction comes in the final paragraph of this article from WebMD:

“From these studies examining the differences between organic milk and regular milk, it seems clear that the diet of the cows may be one of the most important factors. Most organic cows are pasture-fed as opposed to grain-fed, and it’s their natural diet that leads to superior quality milk. So, it’s not simply organic milk that holds the prize, it’s organic, pasture-fed milk that does the body better.” [italics mine]

My milk doesn’t tell me anything about what the cows were eating.  Are they grass-fed cows?  How much grass do they have to eat before they’re considered grass-fed vs. grain-fed?  Is my organic milk any healthier than the stuff that costs half as much?

Next week, I’m going to read the labels and see what I can learn about my cows’ diets.  If I can’t find any useful information, then I’m going to be saving a few dollars on next week’s grocery bill.

Let me begin by stating that I’m in my 30s and I hold a degree in English. I read constantly. No genre is safe from my wandering reader’s eye. While I read primarily fiction, I also enjoy biography, essays, poetry, and nonfiction (particularly if it’s scientific). I’m the sort of guy whose friends know that a book is a great gift to give him for pretty much any occasion.

Recently, I read a couple of books that truly surprised me. My surprise was not because of the books’ content; it was because of their genre. Generally, I don’t read “young adult fiction,” mostly because I’m not the target audience. Based on the recommendation of a friend, though, I recently picked up a copy of John Green’s An Abundance of Katherines. I had previously read Green’s other young-adult novel, Looking for Alaska, after receiving it in a Christmas book exchange a couple years ago. I enjoyed Looking for Alaska, but I didn’t love it. Still, I figured that Green’s other novel was probably worth a shot, particularly since most young-adult novels can be read in a matter of a few hours.

As it turns out, An Abundance of Katherines is fantastic! John Green has used the relatively simple guise of young-adult fiction to convey the kinds of themes one might expect from a much more complex and difficult novel. His characters deal with loneliness, wanderlust, betrayal, joy, and even love (which feels surprisingly genuine despite the fact that both the characters and the intended audience are teenagers). I picked up this novel at 11:45 one night, and I finished it about three hours later. It’s that compelling.

The other young-adult novel that blew me away recently was Sherman Alexie’s The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. I have read a number of Alexie’s “adult” novels, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed each one, particularly Reservation Blues. When I bought Diary, I didn’t realize that it was written for a teen-aged audience, but reading the first few pages made it clear that I had unwittingly stumbled into young-adult fiction once again.

Sherman Alexie is among the nation’s finest Native American authors, and the characters in his books deal with the heartache, the happiness, the loss, and the beauty experienced by Native Americans as they live in both their traditional culture and American culture outside the reservations. Surprisingly, Alexie addresses these same very serious themes in Diary. The novel describes a young man who feels himself divided between his town on the reservation and the nearby white community where he chooses to go to school, partly accepted and partly rejected by each. The book elegantly addresses issues of identity, race, and belonging while remaining hopeful and easy to read.

The world is a heavy place, and we all need a break from it sometimes. Let me recommend finding your next escape in a young-adult novel. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.

To the woman at my gym:

I’ve been watching you ever since you first came to the gym last Fall.  You looked so terrified, so insecure, and after your first session with the trainer, you looked ready to cry.  But you came back, again and again, and each time it got a little bit easier.  I’m incredibly proud of you.  Because as hard as it is for the rest of us to get our butts to the gym, I know that it’s even harder when you’re obese.

It doesn’t help to tell you that you’re not alone.  The CDC estimates that about one-third of the U.S. population is in the same boat as you are.  But there’s a difference between you and them: you’re doing something about it.

I’ve overheard you talking with your trainer.  I know that you have no expectations of being supermodel skinny, but that you’re making the effort because you want to be healthier, feel better and live longer.  You’re reducing your risk factors for heart disease.  You’ve already reduced your cholesterol level more than 50 points, your blood pressure is finally in the healthy range, and while your BMI isn’t where you want it to be, you’re getting closer every day.  And while I know that you were probably starting out at something close to 400 pounds, and have a long way left to go, I want you to know that someone sees how far you’ve already come.

I’m particularly inspired by you because my own mother fought a lifelong battle with obesity.  She wouldn’t have set foot in a gym because she would have been embarrassed to be seen in her workout clothes.  It would have been easy for you to feel the same way, following her path of fitness walking before dawn when no one could see.  But my time as an owner of a Pilates and yoga studio taught me the value of exercising with someone, for variety, interest and when all else fails, guilt.

The holidays came and went, and you kept working hard.  You didn’t fall off the wagon after everyone else’s New Year’s resolutions had been forgotten.  I know that it hasn’t been easy for you, but I want to tell you that your efforts have not gone unnoticed.  You look great.  You look happy.  And I’m very happy for you.

Keep up the good work.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.

– TallGirl

I’m married to a woman who 1) enjoys musicals and 2) has a thing for Pierce Brosnan.  So when I saw the ads for Mamma Mia my immediate thought was, “Damn you, Hollywood!  Damn you straight to hell!”  Somehow I avoided having to see this in the theater, but then the DVD came out around Christmas and, long story short, I’ve now sat through the musical comedy featuring the music of ABBA.  As a sort of  (what I hope is) therapeutic cleansing, I’m offering up this review, of sorts, which perhaps will give me back the hour and 40 minutes spent listening to bubblegum pop sung and danced to by James Bond and the White Witch from Chronicles of Narnia [ed.: that wasn't Meryl Streep].  OK, then Cruella De Vil [ed.: that was Glenn Close]. Really? [ed.: yep].

01:13 The singing begins. Sophie’s (Amanda Seyfried) cute, at least.  Letters are sent off to three possible dads as she wants to know who her father is, and there are three suspects.  What,  is her mom some sort of cat?

02:32: All three men (Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, and Stellan Skarsgard) are apparently incredibly wealthy.  How convenient.

4:12: Sophie spills the beans to her friends about her mom’s diary (kept while pregnant with Sophie).  Mom’s…how to put this?…a slut.  Hey, if this movie were centered around a guy who slept with three women during a summer, I’d make the same comment.  Only I’d use the words “lucky bastard.”

5:01:  The first actual song, “Honey Honey” is sung by Seyfried and her friends.   They’re much too excited about the fact that they’re singing about Sophie’s mom’s sexual exploits.

6:50: Meryl Streep shows up, looking like that actress from Bridges of Madison County [ed.: that WAS her, idiot].

7:50: The dilemma is posed: who’s Sophie’s dad?  The invites are part of  a grand plan of Sophie’s to, apparently, get a look at the men and pick Pierce Brosnan for her dad (yeah, like Skarsgard stands a chance).

9:25:  Meryl Streep’s best friends show up for the wedding:

Looks like a good time to go get some snacks. I thought Walter’s character was Streep’s mom, but I was wrong.

10:25: The fiance (Dominic Cooper) shows up.  No singing as he’s about to get married.

12:13: Apparently, it’s a rule that girlfriends who have not seen each other in a while must scream excitedly in octaves normally reserved for dog whistles.  And, yes, Streep and her friends were apparently in a 70s singing group.  Oh, joy.

14:30: Back to the suspected dads – they discuss how they know Donna (Streep), but the fact that each biblically knew her isn’t raised.

16:45: A legend about a fountain beneath the hotel/spa that Streep’s character (Donna) owns  is mentioned (Aphrodite’s fountain).  I bet that’s important.

17:30: “Money, Money” – Meryl Streep’s first song. First bathroom break.

20:46: Sex talk from Streep, Walters, and Baranski, God help me. Meanwhile, Sophie takes the dads to a room and tells them their presence is a surprise for her mom, and to keep it  a secret.  This secret lasts, oh, about 1 minute.

26:21:  Streep sees her three former beaus and the title song is sung.  She’s apparently still carrying a torch, but for which one?  The suspense is killing me.  Oh, wait, that’s not suspense, that’s ABBA.

31:00: The virile young black bartender has the hots for Baranski’s character.  Sure he does. Give that man an Oscar!

32:30: Third song. Streep, Baranski and Walters.  Shortly thereafter, Streep admits she’s a slut, and that she’s going to hell for it.  Okay, maybe not that last part.

36:52:  In an attempt to wrest control of the song from cross-dressing contests, “Dancing Queen” is interpreted here as a celebration of womanhood.  I don’t know, I think it works better as an ode to drag. And, hell, they even trotted out Milton Berle as a back-up singer!  Waitaminute, oops, no, that’s Julie Walters.

41:10:  In what could have been a pretty creepy scene, Sophie hangs out with her three dads on Skarsgard’s boat as they sing about banging her mom (the song’s “Our Last Summer” for those of you keeping score).  Skarsgard’s singing is about like you’d expect.

45:00: Sophie’s fiance sees her dive from the boat and confronts her about spending time with three strange men (one who looks like James Bond) for the past two hours, culminating in his calling off the wedding.  At least that’s what should have happened.

45:38: Ah, I thought the cigar Sky (yep, that’s the fiance’s name) was holding was a phallic symbol, but instead it’s just there to make the song’s lyrics make sense (“Lay All Your Love on Me”).

47:18: In a twist worthy of Top Gun, dancing men in speedos come out of the water and “rescue” Sky from his woman.

48:10: Streep and her friends relive their glory years singing for her daughter’s bachelorette party (“Super Trouper” – no, it has nothing to do with stoned highway patrolmen).

50:00: If I read the back of the DVD right, I’ve got another hour to go.  Time for a beer.

50: 50:  The dads arrive at the bachelorette party.

51: 40: “Give me a Man After Midnight” starts up – hey, this scene has possibilities.  The somewhat scantily-clad girls take Firth and Skarsgard and start dancing with them, pulling at their clothes.

51:55: Nevermind, cut to Streep and her friends ranting. Brosnan shows up.

54:15: Colin Firth, for some reason, wants to escape being pawed at by the young women.  Skarsgard is living it up, though.

55:20: Skarsgard manages to figure the secret out first.  He runs like hell.

56:00: Sophie catches him and coerces him to walk her down the aisle.

Those past two comments might not be entirely accurate.

56:50:  Sky and his band of gay friends have apparently left their party and come to crash the girls’ party.  Dancing ensues (“Voulez Vous”).

58:18: Brosnan tells Sophie he’s her dad and tells her he’ll give her away.

58:50: Now Firth believes he’s her dad, too, and wants to give her away.  There hasn’t been so many men trying to give away something that doesn’t quite belong to them since 1947.

1:02:29: In a questionable career move, Skarsgard shows his bare ass.

1:06:12: Brosnan confronts Streep about their past and what they lost.  For some reason, Brosnan is trying to sing with an Italian accent  (“S.O.S”).

1:08:50: Young black bartender continues to chase Baranski, and she mocks him in song (“Does Your Mother”). The “mistake last night” referred to was apparently the singing and dancing number at the bachelorette party.

1:15:30: “Slipping Through My Fingers” could actually be a bit of a tear-jerker if you have a daughter.  If you don’t, then fuck you, it’s just allergies.

1:21:25:  Meryl Streep singing yet another song about how she and Brosnan can’t get the time back…maybe. I’m not quite sure how “Winner Takes it All” fits in, but it seems like the big emotionally climactic moment.  I know this because waves are crashing and Streep’s running around waving her arms dramatically.

1:25: 43: The wedding is finally here.  End in sight.

1:29:20: The wedding is interrupted as everyone tries to figure out who Sophie’s dad is; Colin Firth attempts to take himself out of the running by announcing he is gay.  Firth, you’re one brilliant bastard.

1:29:58:  Because Mamma Mia‘s a comedy, they can’t end with a young couple marrying.  So Brosnan takes one for the team and proposes to Streep (“I Do, I Do, I Do”).

1:32:05:  In a shameless plug for Viagra, Brosnan sings a song exclaiming that he and Streep are not too old for sex (“When All is Said and Done”).

1:34:45: Skarsgard is serenaded by Walters (“Take a Chance on Me”) because otherwise both have been forgotten by this point. Firth, desperate not to have to pay for Sophie’s wedding, keeps up the gay act.

1:37:08:  The fountain of Aphrodite erupts, showering all the wedding guests – a sexual metaphor if I ever saw one (and I knew that early, seemingly pointless reference had some significance); dancing ensues.

The credits roll as the cast dress up in funky outfits and sing “Dancing Queen”, seemingly recognizing the futility in not associating that song with drag.  And as the movie’s over, this review is done, and I believe I have successfully exorcised my ABBA-induced demons.

Now if I could only take back seeing Stellan Skarsgard’s ass.

We’ve had another busy week at The Daily Procrastinator, and now is the time to make sure none of the articles escaped your notice!

The week began appropriately with a heart-related post on Valentine’s Day, when TallGirl offered her thoughts and reminders about congenital heart defects in babies, particularly the condition known as tetralogy of fallout.

The Procrastinator also served up a piping-hot plate of tasty tidbits for sports fans this week. BigRedPoet took a satirical look at the criminals of the NFL, while Juggernaut voiced his thoughts on A-Roid’s recent admissions.

FlashCap posted the second installment of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the Zombies, in which the first Zombie rears his ugly, undead head. If you missed part one, check it out before reading this week’s installment!

TallGirl pondered many aspects of modern life this week, including her love of reading, an amazing website that offers aerial photographs from across the decades, and finding extra time in the day by watching less television.

Finally, BigRedPoet wrapped up the week with an announcement concerning National Margarita Day.

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The Daily Procrastinator: Contributing to the Dramatic Reduction of Your Personal Productivity

According to numerous online sources, February 22nd is National Margarita Day, and I frankly couldn’t be more pleased. I plan to celebrate the holiday boisterously, and I hope others around the nation will join the jubilee.

Do you really need an excuse?

Placing National Margarita Day in late February is an act of genius on the part of…whoever is in charge of deciding such things. Margaritas are the prototypical summer refresher, and I think we could all use a little dash of summer in our lives as we wait for the weather to begin warming up.

Whether it’s frozen or on the rocks, flavored or straight up, from the well or top-shelf, exotic or traditional, get yourself a margarita on Sunday and join me. I’ll make a toast in your honor.

I found a fantastic speech that discusses the role of television and our collective available time as a society. People often ask me where I find the hours in the day all that I do. The answer is that I don’t watch TV. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as much a fan of Mythbusters as the next person, but it’s a rare week when the television turns on more than twice.

It appears that in the time that we spend watching TV, we could create roughly 2,000 Wikipedia-sized projects. If that’s anywhere even close to true, isn’t it time that we scale back our watching and start doing something? Come to think of it, that’s how I found myself writing here.

So this month, just once, record American Idol on your TiVo, watch it in fast forward mode, and use that extra time to do something useful.