Pleasure in another person’s pain

From time to time, I have expressed an occasional appreciation for schadenfreude: pleasure in the misfortune of others.

It turns out that I am not so unusual. after all

Thanks to the ability of scientists to conduct brain scans, new research has demonstrated that when a person learns about the misfortune of a colleague or friend, the pleasure center in his or her brain activates.

Similarly, when one learns about the success or good fortune of a friend, the pain center of the brain will light up.

In short, envy is physiologically attached to pain, and schadenfreude is attached to pleasure, at least within the brain. 

And so It turns out that I am just like everyone else, only different in my willingness to admit to how despicable I may be feeling.

Short-sightedness

Occasionally I make the mistake of thinking about my friends’ needs ahead of my own. Rarely does it work out well. About a month ago, I suggested that my friend launch his own landscaping business after he successfully tamed the small-growth forest in my backyard and replaced it with a a lawn. I provided him with information on an insurance company, wrote a testimonial for his webpage, took photos of my brand new lawn and ensured him that starting a small business would not be difficult.

Then he went ahead and did it, and over the last couple of weeks, his business has taken off.

I was happy for him and thrilled with his success until yesterday, when I needed a golfing partner and he wasn’t available because his day was filled with landscaping work.

He used to always be available to golf. Ready on a moment’s notice. Anxious to meet me at the course. Willing to play nine, eighteen or anything in between. Walking or riding.

A couple weeks ago, while everyone was hunkering indoors, enjoying their air conditioning, we played in 103 degree heat, opting to walk the course rather than take the cart.

Now he’s too busy to hit the links on a regular basis, leaving me struggling to find another person to play with in the middle of the day.

I’m happy that he’s finding success in his business and earning some extra income, but I’d much rather have him poor and available than flush with cash and always busy.

See what I mean? Altruism often benefits others, but is does nothing but create problems for the altruistic.

You have some explaining to do, John Boy.

I watched the Project Runway season premier last night. I realize that this may sound odd coming from a man who professes to despise the fashion industry, but I find the creative demands of the show to be fascinating. In last night’s episode, one of the designers, a twenty-something female designer, was preparing to go to sleep. As the lights were turned out, she called out, “Goodnight, John Boy.”

This is a reference to The Waltons, a television show about a family growing up in a rural Virginia community during the Great Depression and World War II. In the signature scene that closed every episode, the family house was enveloped in darkness, save for a light in an upstairs window. Through voice-overs, two or more characters would have a brief conversation, often humorous and related to the episode, and then bid each other good-night.

"Good night, Mary Ellen."

"Good night, John Boy."

But you already knew that. Right?

Even though the show aired from 1972 to 1981.

I can vaguely remember watching the show from time to time as a child, but it was off the air before I had even reached middle school. All I really remember is the song that opened the show and the signature closing described above.

So here’s my question:

How does a reference to The Waltons, a marginally-popular television show that went off the air more than twenty-five years, continue to survive so ubiquitously today?

How does someone who was born well after the show was cancelled refer to it so accurately on last night’s episode of Project Runway?

And how does everyone watching the show, and probably everyone reading this post, immediately understand this quarter-of-a-century old reference from a television show that most of you can probably never even remember watching?

The precipice of publication

Just a few days before the release of UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO and some good news has been pouring in. 

The Hartford Courant’s review of the book was excellent:

We are happy to report there's been no sophomore slump for novelist Matthew Dicks, the Newington resident and West Hartford teacher who follows the success of his first novel, "Something Missing," with the funny, touching and very smartly written "Unexpectedly, Milo."

An online advertisement for UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO will be running for two weeks on Goodreads, a popular book-oriented website.

And then there was this amazing window display that my wife spotted in the local Barnes and Noble:

Looking forward to next Tuesday’s release!  It feels like years ago since I actually finished the book. 

Believers always welcome

A reader recently sent me an email explaining that she has not yet posted a comment on my blog even though she has wanted to many, many times because she wasn’t sure if I would welcome her presence and opinions here.  She is a devout Christian who spends much of her time thinking, reading and speaking about her spirituality, and knowing that I am not religious and am sometimes critical of the incongruity and discrimination that certain aspects of religion seem to promote, she feared that I would be less than pleased about her participation on the blog. I assured her that this could not be further from the truth.

When people ask about my religious belief, I tell them that I'm a reluctant atheist who would like to believe in a greater power but finds himself unable to do so. I'm a person who desperately wants there to be a benevolent God and a glorious heaven, but I simply haven't found the faith inside of my in order to believe this.

But this has not been the first time that someone has expressed a concern that I may be less than welcoming to people of faith, and each time it occurs, I find myself assuring the person that I am quite capable of being critical of an institution without feeling any animosity toward its members.

I have many, many religious people in my life, and they far outnumber the atheists, agnostics, secular humanists, and other non-believers who I know. In each case, I am exceedingly pleased to call these religious folk my friends.

My wife and most of her family are Jewish, and while much of their religion is more culturally-based than faith-based, Judaism is an important part of their lives.

For two years, I lived with a family of Jehovah Witnesses who were kind enough to take me in when I had no place to live. Out of respect for their beliefs, I attended services with them from time to time, and I loved them dearly. I have never met anyone more committed to religion than these people, yet we lived happily and peacefully under the same roof for a long time.

Clara’s godmother is a Protestant who is very active in her church. One of our closest friends is a devote Lutheran. On Christmas Eve, Elysha and I often attend midnight mass at one of these two people’s churches.

Another close friend and his wife are Christians who run a youth group at their church and attend services regularly. These services often interfere with his ability to play golf on Sunday, which is annoying, but that’s a different story.

My mother was Catholic, and I know that her faith brought her great comfort later in life.

And these are just a few examples.

At certain points of my life, I was also Catholic and Protestant. I was born a Catholic (as much as you can be born into a religion), and as a child, my mother sent me to CCD, as all good Catholic mothers are wont to do. But I returned home after my first CCD class renouncing Catholicism and refusing to return to the church.

For many reasons, Catholicism simply did not suit me.

In one of the most admirable parenting decisions of my mother’s life, she did not force her own religion upon me. She informed me that although I would not be forced to attend Catholic services or CCD, I would need to find a religion that I could accept. For weeks, she drove me to various churches in the area, allowing me to sit in on a variety of services, and I finally settled on a small, run-down Protestant Congregational church in my hometown. It lacked the ostentation and ritual of the Catholic Church. There were no stained glass windows, no burning incense and no padded kneeling bars. In lieu of wafers and wine, communion was given using grape juice and Wonder bread. The minister, a young and unassuming man, called all the children to the front of the church in the middle of services, sat down on the dusty wooden floor with us, and delivered a children’s sermon just for us, completely ignoring the adults in the room.

If I had to choose a church, this was the one for me.

I still was not pleased with having to attend church on Sunday or it’s on-again, off-again Sunday School (though Vacation Bible School, with its focus on athletics, wasn’t bad). Even at a young age, the seeds of my skepticism and propensity toward criticism had already taking root. But rather than requiring me to base my religious belief upon her own belief, my mother allowed me to find something that was closer and better aligned to what was in my heart.

A smart and unselfish Mom, if you ask me. Forcing a specific, religious belief upon your children seems crazy to me.

Hopefully this post makes my more religious readers feel a little more welcome to participate in the discussion. I may challenge the positions that religion takes from time to time, particularly when those positions infringe upon the rights of others or express bigotry or hypocrisy, but criticism and contempt are two entirely different things.  While I may be awash in criticism from time to time (and perhaps too often), I reserve my contempt for those who truly deserve it.

The New York Jets Militant vegetarians People who text while driving Morons who talk and text during movies Golfers who insist on playing from the blue tees when they clearly shouldn't s Anyone who wears pants with text scribbled across the butt

Only in corporate America

I was sitting in Red Robin yesterday, waiting for my wife to arrive. Beside me, spread across two tables that had been pushed apart, was the cartoon map of a Red Robin restaurant. A manager, a middle-aged man with a perpetually furrowed brow, and a younger, more affable corporate wonk were placing cards on the map. At first I was confused, unable to discern the purpose of this exercise, and then the corporate wonk spoke.

“Here at Red Robin, we can only treat our guests as well as we treat ourselves. Look at the map and find examples of team members working together and helping one another out.”

I stole a glance at the map and realized that the cards that had been placed represented cartoon people in various locations in the restaurant. The manager examined the map, looked back at the wonk, and then back down on map. I am certain that he was thinking the same thing as me:

Are you kidding me? Whose stupid idea was this? Why not just look around the real restaurant and find examples of teamwork instead of playing this insane version of Restaurant Monopoly.

Instead of saying this, he replied, “Well, I guess these two people are helping to clear a table, and these two guys are stacking bun racks. But I don’t know why that would ever take two people.”

Elysha was about fifteen minutes late, giving me plenty of time to watch this tortured manager read aloud Customer Response Cards, Unexpected Situation Cards, and similar board game paraphernalia.

“Here’s a family of nine,” the wonk said, placing nine cardboard people on the board.  “Including three infants.  How do you accommodate them?”

The manager began to describe his solution, but three words into his explanation, the wonk said, “No.  Show me on the board.  Move your pieces.”

The manager and I both rolled our eyes simultaneously. 

In the corporate office of Red Robin, some executive had decided that playing this game with restaurant managers was a good way of improving leadership skills, customer interactions, and overall management expertise.

Based upon my years of experience managing a McDonald’s, I can assure you that whatever idiot dreamed up this idea never actually managed a Red Robin restaurant in his or her life.

I felt bad for the manager, who clearly found this exercise as futile and foolish as me. At one point, I almost said something to the wonk, who was either too stupid or too brainwashed to realize the lunacy of this experience. But I refrained. If I’ve learned anything about restaurants in my many years of management experience, it is this:

Don’t insult an employee who may have access to your meal at some point.

Besides, the whole situation was highly entertaining.

As a writer, I often have no idea what I'm doing

Here’s how crazy my writing process can be: I open the next chapter of my manuscript in a restaurant. Protagonist, father and son sitting at a table, waiting for their pancakes.

Why are we here? I ask myself.

I honestly don’t know.

Father and son begin a conversation. Protagonist listens.

Still not sure why we’re here. Can’t just be here for this conversation. This could have happened anywhere.  It’s not even that interesting.

Waitress arrives with food. Maybe this is it. Nope, she’s not important.  Darn. I was thinking that maybe we are here for her. But no.

Let me look around this restaurant a little. Take a full, 360 degree peek.

Ah ha! There he is! Sitting at the table across the room. I don’t know who that is, but let’s go over and find out. This is why we are here. This is why I started this chapter in this restaurant.

This is precisely the dialogue that took place in my head as I wrote the first 500 words of the chapter. In my mind’s eye, I scanned the dining room, saw the boy on the other side of the restaurant, sitting next to the red-haired girl, and instantly, I understood why I had started the next chapter here.

We were here for this boy. He is the important part of this chapter. About five hundred words later, I found out why.

Is that crazy or what?

There are many days when I feel more like a chronicler of some alternate reality rather than a novelist in charge of my fictional world.

Stupid tee shirt made stupider

I saw a woman in the gym today with a tee-shirt that read: A friend will help you move…

Then on the back of the tee-shirt, it read:

But a real friend will help you move a body.

Of course, in order to read the back of her shirt, I had to dismount my elliptical machine, feign the need for a drink of water at the fountain and pause beside a support column in order to read it.

I’m not quibbling with the message on the shirt, as inane as it may be, but I have a problem with the idea of splitting a tee-shirt message onto the front and back of a shirt, necessitating almost stealth-like maneuvers in order to read the punch line.

Or worse, causing the wearer of such witticisms to ask, “Did you see my tee-shirt?  Did you see the back? Wait for it…” Then he or she performs an awkward pirouette, followed by another question. “Get it?”

Yeah, I got it. You’re shirt is stupid.

I was right! (insert self-congratulatory jig)

I received the following email (links added by me) from a reader this morning, who gave me permission to post it here absent his or her name: _____________________________________

Your post entitled Top 3 Blogger on this Blog really upset me. I thought that it was- and that’s where I got stuck. It was- rude? No. Condescending? No.  Inaccurate? This is where I thought my hopes lay. But then I had to admit that it wasn’t inaccurate, either. In the end, I realized that I was angry because it was true. I am a guy who likes to say “my jeweler.”

I’m taking a vow to never use those two words again. And you’re right. I think the only people I’m impressing with those words are the ones who also like to say “my jeweler.” And they tend to be my least favorite people.

Damn you and your highly-attuned magnifying glass on the world.

But at least I knew what a combine harvester was. Jerk.

_____________________________________

There’s nothing I admire more than a person who is willing to submit himself to honest self-examination.

And there’s nothing I like more than being right.

The first table is merely a suggestion.

The fact that I cannot walk into a restaurant full of empty tables and simply choose the table that I want baffles me. I understand that when the joint is jumping and customers are waiting, you will be assigned to a table of the hostess’s choice. But on a Tuesday night at 6:00, I should be able to walk in, scan the restaurant, and say, "I’ll take that booth over there” rather than hoping for my desired table. Am I wrong?

Thankfully, I am married to a woman who operates under this assumption every day. Elysha considers a hostess’s offer of a table as a mere suggestion, the first in what will likely be an upgraded location. She has no qualms about requesting a new table and does so with a kindness and grace that never fails to charm the restaurant employee.

Recently I was out with friends, six of us all together, and a hostess stuffed us all into a booth when a perfectly good rounded corner booth with extra room was available. Using Elysha’s methods, I quickly had us moved to a more comfortable spot, much to the amazement of my friends, some who had clearly been accepting table assignments like sheep for most of their lives.

But I still would like to be able to walk into a restaurant, point to a table, and say, “That one. I don't give a damn if it seats eight. I’ll be able to watch the Yankees game while pretending to hang on my wife’s every word.”

Useless word

As a writer, certain words annoy me.

For example, the word minute, an indication of 60 seconds of time, is spelled the same as minute, meaning small.

I hate this. I have been forced to abandon the use of minute, meaning small, more than once because of the confusion that it causes when read. In fact, I would argue that the word minute (meaning small) cannot be effectively used in writing without briefly distracting the reader.

What good is a word that I can’t ever use?

Career advice

Even though Elysha and I are on the no call list, we still receive the occasional unsolicited calls from telemarketers. Usually these are companies that we already do business with who are looking for more business. Credit card companies, The Hartford Stage, our alma maters, etc. 

Sometimes I’m sort of glad that we do.

The other day Chase called me to inform me about an insurance protection program that they are offering cardholders. Normally, I wait for the telemarketer to take a breath, say, “No thank you” and hang up.

But sometimes I’m feeling a bit feistier.

On this occasion, I allowed the woman to finish her pitch before saying, “Listen, Linda, instead of talking insurance, why don’t we talk about how we’re going to get you out of this dead end job.”

She laughed and thanked me for my time and business before hanging up.

Top 3 blogger on this blog

A friend of mine recently started doing business with one of the “Top 3 dermatologists in New York City.” There is a select breed of person in this world who loves to assert that their doctor/lawyer/psychologist/tanner/lion tamer is one of the top three in their respective craft in their respective city.

I hear this expression all of the time.

“You must call this dermatologist. She’s one of the top three in her field.”

“He’s the top plastic surgeon in the state.”

“She’s the number one dental practitioner in the city.”

“He’s the best lion tamer on the North American continent. I promise that the lion won’t eat you.”

But what makes a doctor or a dentist (or a lion tamer) the tops in his or her field?

Most patients? Most profit? Happiest patients? Healthiest patients? Fewest dead patients? Highest rating by Zagat?

It seems that depending on the criteria, there could be a dozen or more “Top 3” professionals in any field in any city.

Furthermore, it seems as if the patients and customers of these Top 3 professionals derive more satisfaction from these arbitrary and impossible-to-prove distinctions than the professionals themselves. It's as if associating oneself with a Top 3 professional means that you are a Top 3 patient, and by mentioning your Top 3 patient status, you become a Top 3 referrer, thus conferring upon yourself some bizarre illusion of status.

It’s a ridiculous, relatively meaningless distinction that should be refuted as such whenever declared.

Backing into trouble

I watched a woman grind her enormous SUV into a Subaru station wagon as she was backing into a parking spot at Shaw’s supermarket today. My question: Why does anyone ever back into a parking spot?

Can’t we all agree that it’s infinitely easier to back out of a parking spot into an empty lane of traffic than it is to wedge your car between two others while your body is twisted around in the seat and your vision is compromised?

And how often have you been trapped behind someone who has decided to back into a spot, only to watch them conduct an awkward series of 3-point turns in order to do so?

So why do people do it?

Unable to resist the opportunity to understand these people better, I quickly parked my car and made my way to the scene of the accident, just to see and hear the woman’s reaction.  By the time I got there, she was out of the car, nearly in tears, staring at the damage that she had done to her car and the adjacent vehicle.

Long, ugly scratches in the paint along the side of both vehicles.

“I can’t believe I did that. What should I do?” she asked me.

“Stop backing into parking spots,” I advised.

“I mean, what should I do now?” she asked, sounding more desperate. “I don’t even know whose car this is.”

“You wait,” I explained. “Until the owner comes out.”

“But I don’t have time to wait. I have to be somewhere in  fifteen minutes. That’s why I was backing in. So I could get out quickly.”

“At least you’ll be able to pull out quickly once you exchange information with the guy.”

As distraught as she was, I don’t think she realized that I was poking fun at her.

A contest! Everyone loves a contest! And there are fabulous prizes, too!

Okay, I have a contest, and hopefully enough of my readers will be interested to make it worthwhile.

On August 25, I will be appearing at WORD in Brooklyn, NY as part of my book tour for UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO.  As part of the promotion for the event, WORD has created a webpage that provides the details about the appearance. 

Included on WORD’s website is a short bio of myself, which was written almost two years ago when the promotion for SOMETHING MISSING was just beginning.  In looking at the bio now, it’s looking a little old and decrepit.

Here is how it currently reads: 

MATTHEW DICKS is the author of Something Missing. He teaches elementary school and in 2005 was named West Hartford’s Teacher of the Year. He also owns and operates a DJ company that performs at weddings throughout Connecticut when he isn’t shaping the minds of his class of fifth-graders. He lives in Newington, CT, with his wife; baby daughter, Clara; Lhasa Apso, Kaleigh; and two enormous, slightly insane house cats, Jack and Owen. For more information, please visit Matthew’s website at: www.matthewdicks.com, and check out his blog at:http://matthewdicks.com.

Please note:

The bio mentions Jack, a cat who sadly passed away last summer.

It mentions the name of my dog, my cat and my daughter, but not my wife.

It does not mention UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO at all.

I’m thinking it’s time for a refresh.

This is where you come in. 

Write a brand new bio for me.  Whether you are my best friend or a reader of my books who I have yet to meet, take a stab at crafting a new biography for use in my promotional material.  Include any information that you feel is pertinent.  Be creative.  Be unique.  Use this blog as a source of information about me, as well as any other sources that you may find online.  I have been interviewed by a number of new outlets and you should be able to find lots of odd bits and bytes about me if you look hard enough.  Feel free to ask me questions through email if you require more information.  The more originality, the better. 

If I love your submission, you win!  And if I really love it, I will submit it to my publicist for use as my new bio.  No promises.  I may take the liberty of editing your work a bit, and I may be tempted to combine two or three bios into one uber-bio, but I will attempt to use as much or all of the winner’s work as possible, and I will give you full credit for your work here on the blog.  

Oh, and of course, there are prizes. 

If your bio is chosen as the winner, I will send you signed copies of both my books (SOMETHING MISSING and UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO), as well as the galley to my third book, once the book is completed, sold and the galley is produced.  In addition, I will also send you a signed copy of the German version of SOMETHING MISSING, which was re titled THE GOOD THEIF because of an arcane German law, and of which I have more than a few copies. 

Good enough to get you to participate?  I hope so!

Here are the details:

The contest begins today and ends on Friday, August 13. 

Send all submissions and any questions you have for me to matthewdicks@gmail.com.

Please keep submissions under 250 words.

You may enter as many times as you’d like.  Send a sappy entry, a silly entry, a serious entry and a sublime entry.  Quadruple your odds of winning!

Please refrain from any profanity in the bio.  Not that you ever would. 

And I think that’s it. 

Any questions?  Please post here.

Otherwise, get to work!  Be original.  Be amusing.  Be informative.  Be unique.  I want a bio that tells a reader who I am but also stands apart from the standard author bio.  So kooky, quirky and utterly bizarre might be just up my alley!

Now get writing!

Clever brats-turned-friends

I’ve reach the point in my teaching career when some of my first students are now becoming young adults. As such, many of them are now becoming people who I am proud to call my friends. I play golf and basketball with former students. I discuss writing and books with them. They attend my readings and signings. I pay them to babysit my daughter.

Just last week I engaged in a challenging, intellectual and reflective conversation with a former student about religion and parenting.

Last year, when my fifth graders performed Julius Caesar for the first time in ten years, five of the students from my first class, former second graders who were now seniors in high school, surprised me by attending our opening night performance and telling stories of the time when they had filled the rolls of Caesar, Brutus and Antony for me.

They remembered far more about that first year of teaching than I could ever hope to recall.

Some of my students leave elementary school and are never seen or heard from again, but the majority of them eventually return, seeking advice, sharing stories, searching for support, hoping for a quick game of hoops and ultimately growing up and becoming my friends.

It’s an extraordinary and unexpected blessing that I deeply cherish.

And these students-turned-friends often remind me of some of my more amusing teaching moments that I have long-since forgotten.

A former student-turned babysitter recently reminded me of a time when she was in my third grade class. She had asked to read a poem that she loved to the class, and though I had agreed to her request, I forgot about it all day until it was too late. Feeling awful for failing to validate her enthusiasm over poetry, I promised to remember to read the poem the very next morning.

The following day I found the poetry book on my desk with a note inside that read:

Read this to the class, Mr. Evil, or else.

Below the message was a hand-drawn picture of a bee with venom dripping from its stinger and a speech bubble emanating from its mouth that read:

I know your weakness. Ha! Ha! Ha!

I’m allergic to bees.

These are the kinds of moments that I never want to forget.

But the most amusing note that I ever received from a student was found affixed to my shirt at the end of the school day. It read:

For Sale

One very used teacher Needs a lot work Has plenty of ego Must have a stern owner Not nice! $1 or best offer

This makes a Kick Me! sign look like a joke.

Contrition or liberation?

Thomas Friedman wrote an article that talked about how the world has become more transparent. With the advent of blogs, cell phone cameras, and social networks like Facebook and MySpace, anyone who wants to publish their opinion can do so with ease, and therefore a person’s actions and words can be instantly beamed to the rest of the world. This means that off-color comments, boorish behavior, and controversial opinions can now be reported to vast numbers of people, thus damaging a person’s reputation, credibility, and public persona with the stroke of a keyboard.

If course, old fashioned mass mailings by sources unwilling to identify themselves can achieve the same results.

Friedman describes a confrontation with a woman at a newsstand over who was standing in line first.  He explains that he finds himself more contrite and less willing to engage in public confrontation in today’s world because of the possibility of what the other person may say or do thanks to the power of the Internet. 

“…I'd be thinking there is some chance this woman has a blog or a camera in her cell phone and could, if she so chose, tell the whole world about our encounter – entirely from her perspective – and my utterly rude, boorish, arrogant, thinks-he-can-butt-in-line behavior. Yikes!”

I understand his concern, but I worry.

I have no desire to live in a society in which people are afraid to speak their minds, as ugly, dark, and vulgar as these minds may be. Politeness and political correctness are qualities that I find to be terribly overrated. A rigid observance of manners and decorum is simply a means by which the less-than-witty, uninformed and unoriginal people of the world can rise in social circles despite their absence of intellect. If they have nothing interesting to add to the social discourse, they can at least look, act and sound appropriate while failing to contribute.

Think about it for a moment. My smartest, most clever, most interesting friends to be the people least invested in polite, mannered, politically-correct behavior.  Don’t you?

I’m not saying that they are boorish and socially inept.  They are simply the people who are less likely to conform to societal expectations and more willing to take risks. 

I’m hoping that Friedman is wrong about his need for caution and contrition, and that technology frees the masses to be themselves, to share their honest ideas and opinions with others, and to shut these politically-correct, traditionally uptight people down.

The fact that a man like Thomas Friedman might be afraid of little public confrontation bothers me a great deal.

Perhaps my publisher should triple the price of my book

It is a sad fact that price seems to equate to pleasure in human beings.

Researchers at the California Institute of Technology recently studied a subject’s reaction to wine after being informed about the price of the bottle.

Of course, the researchers were not truthful about the price.

Two of the wines sampled were offered twice, once at an alleged low price and once at a much higher price. And the subjects consistently said they enjoyed what they thought were expensive wines more.

What’s more, a brain scan of the subjects indicated that although their taste centers registered the wines equally, the pleasure centers of their brains registered greater pleasure for the more expensive wine.

Certain aspects of humanity are disgusting, don’t you think?

But are all humans susceptible to this tendency? I can think of a bunch of people who I know who most certainly are, but I’d like to think that I’m enough of a contrarian and a minimalist to be immune to this much of this nonsense.

But probably not.  While I have no strong attachment to material possessions, I could see myself succumb to the illusion that a more expensive golf ball will fly farther or a more expensive club will allow me to strike the ball better.

I think I’m less susceptible than most, given my general distaste for materialism, but sadly, I’m also a little human.     

But you know who might be immune to this tendency?  My new hero.  

Rachael Ray.

I know.  You weren’t expecting that name.  Were you?

I got caught watching Rachael Ray’s daytime program for about two minutes the other day when I couldn’t find the remote control (my dog was sitting on it). She had a segment about the newest fashion trends, highlighting some fashion deals available in the marketplace today.

An odd-looking fellow named Cojo presented several pairs items from the world of lady's fashion.  In each pairing, one item was excessively expensive and one that was not.  At one point Cojo showed Rachael a Valentino purse and told her that it retailed for $895.

Rachael’s response:

That is stupid. I would never buy a bag that cost $800. My mother would kill me.

And you know what? I believed her.

Despite the wealth that she has likely accumulated, I really believe that she was disgusted at the price of the bag and would not purchase it.

I didn’t have much of an opinion on Rachael Ray before today. Even though it seems as if everyone in the world watches the Food Network (including my entire book club), I do not, so I have only experienced Rachael in bits and pieces, on commercials and on the occasional cooking show that Elysha might be watching.  And though the little bit that I’ve seen of her is sometimes annoying, I became Rachael Ray’s biggest fan today when she declared her opposition to these disgustingly inflated, image obsessed, status symbol prices.

Imagine what a delightful world it would be if every woman stood up and rejected the $1,200 sweater and the $400 pair of shoes like the great Rachael Ray…

And if every man stood up and declared a $800 watch or a $35 golf ball to be utter stupidity…

Probably not going to happen, huh?

But at least we know there’s something going on in the brain when someone pays $2,000 for a handbag.  I may still find this behavior disgusting and inane, but there’s a biologic component to the lunacy as well.   

Like a disease…

It also helps to explain the obscenity of objects like this.

Future caveman?

I took a misanthropic quiz today. I turned out to be 70% misanthropic. The results read:

Here's the truth: Most people suck. You are just lucky enough to know it. You're not ready to go live alone in a cave - but you're getting there.

While some of my friends might not find these results surprising, I actually have a lot of wonderful friends in my life and am not ready to retire to a cave anytime soon..

Of course, based upon my recent experience at Pep Boys, the 70% result might be low. The 90-minute wait was bad enough, but why does the scourge of the Earth have to wait alongside me? While I’m trying to quietly read my book, I am subjected to the inane ramblings of a talk show host (Maury Povich, maybe?) and his topic of the day:

Guys who cheat on girls with other family members.

The people in the waiting area were eating it up.

Unless of course they were on their cell phones, frying their brains while talking about how “Wanda didn’t give me any respect” or how “my boss won’t give me a day off to bring my kids to Six Flags” or how “my boyfriend expects me to make dinner every night even though I’m working more than him!”

Who are these people?

I can’t stand to use the phone for even a minute, yet these people were voluntarily placing calls in order to gossip about friends, boyfriends and coworkers, using a volume that drew everyone else into their conversations no matter and ignoring the high-quality entertainment blaring from the television on the wall.

Perhaps the results of the misanthropic survey are more accurate than I previously thought.

While I’m not ready to go live alone in a cave, I’m getting there.

Cruel design

I don’t understand bikes. Have you ever noticed that the placement of the bar connecting the front half of the bike to its back end is different on a traditional boy's bike (on the left) in comparison to a traditional girl's bike (on the right)?

See the difference?

Elysha explained to me that this bar was originally lowered on a girl's bike in an effort to accommodate the skirts that girls may be wearing. fter a quick Google search, it turns out that she is right.

But based upon the number of times that I failed to land a jump or slipped off muddy pedals as a kid and came down on that unyielding piece of steel, I just assumed that bicycle manufacturers hated men.

I'm still not convinced that I was wrong.