Stim's Open Salon Blog

It Was 20 Years Ago Today

Wed, 30 May 2012 13:05:24 -0400

With the morning came rain, a steady, Spring drenching. Rain fell as I dressed. I ran through rain to the clothier to pick up my new suit. I watched rain while I ate a quick lunch.

By early afternoon the front passed. The clouds broke. The sun shown through a freshly washed sky. Wearing my new suit, I drove to the tiny northern suburb of Chicago called Lincolnshire.

In a back corner of a Lincolnshire subdivision, hidden from the main road by rows of trees, sat the home of the Bethrothed's childhood friend and his wife. Caterers were preparing. A few chairs were set outside for the eldest among us. Flowers and cake had arrived. Bowls and platters of various noshables were set about. Most important were the bowls of M&Ms. They were my favorite snack. On top of the cake was a plastic M&M figure holding a heart. I knew the pastry chef who made the cake. He would not have approved of the added decoration.

There in the living room looking at the backyard stood the Bethrothed chatting with her sisters. She wore a knee-length white dress with jacket and white heels. The Bethrothed was beautiful.

Leading up to this day, I had my concerns. Never about The Bethrothed. I had been through a previous marriage that did a header into an empty pool. I could not go through that again. A recently divorced acquaintance had asked why I would want to get married again. Because whatever my experience had been, The Bethrothed was worth the risk.

45 or so guests sipped champagne while chatting, waiting for the couple to emerge. The back door opened. The Bethrothed's heels sank into the rain-soaked yard as we walked hand-in-hand. We stopped under the branches of a tree who had seen more years of life than those gathered around it.

The rabbi began his homily with "The definition of faith is to plan an outdoor wedding in Chicago during May." He came from the nearby Humanistic Judaism temple. Not until watching the video sometime later did we notice that the rabbi did not mention "God" once during his kindly address.

Vows, pronouncement, benediction. Then the moment of truth. The Bethrothed's cousin had sewn a decorative cloth to hold the glass. The rabbi now placed the cloth on the ground, pointing to where the glass (in reality a light bulb) rested. "Pop!" The goy bridegroom scored a perfect stomp on his first try. The Bethrothed officially became Ms. Stim.

Yes, Ms. Stim and I have a mixed marriage. I'm male; she's female. It's worked well for us. For 20 years and counting.

The Nutritionist

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 15:04:15 -0400

This morning I met with a professional, certified Nutritionist Educator or whatever her title is (Are there any male Nutritionists?). The visit was prompted by the following conversation between my internist and me.

Internist: Look at that fat gut.

Me: I know.

Internist: It's gonna fucking kill you.

Me: I know.

The court reporter sitting in on my exam was rather drunk, so this may not be an exact transcript.

Just as every nutritionist, dietician, nosy Weight Watchers person sitting next to you asks, the Nutritionist wants to know what my typical day and eating habits are. Um, I normally wake up at 6:30 (which is about five hours before my circadian rhythms think I should be awake). Have breakfast around 7:15. Cottage cheese -- more than a serving size, that's for sure -- a turkey sausage link and a slice of toast (double fiber bread) with strawberry jam. Beverage? Glass of cranberry juice and cup of coffee. Huh? Oh, 80z of cranberry juice. Cut out the cranberry juice!?

Goddamn it. You cannot win. I purposely drink cranberry juice because it's supposed to be good for me. Clean out the urinary system like nothing else does. Cranberry juice -- healthy. But, no. Too many carbohydrates. Especially too many quickly digested carbohydrates. Spikes your blood sugar. Which is not good for a middle-aged man with a fat gut that's gonna kill him one way or the other.

You just, simply cannot win. Trying to be healthy can kill you, too [appropriate place to cite the example of James Foxx, author of The Complete Book of Running (1977), which started the American fitness craze, who, at age 52, a year younger than I with the fat gut am now, DIED OF A HEART ATTACK AFTER JOGGING]. I'd like to point to Ms. Stim's maternal grandmother who lived to 101 without doing a moment's exercise, but had a bit of vodka everyday.

Lunch? Um, ham sandwich with a slice of cheese (lose the cheese -saturated fat. Damn it, I love cheese. I put a fine, sharp cheddar on the sandwhich. So good.), a few cherry tomatoes if we have some at home and a banana. Coffee and/or water. And ...? And? Anything else? (mumbles) chocolate. How much chocolate? Well ... depends.

Regular readers of this blog (which is down to about two of you, so, really, thank you for consistently showing up and wading through this muck) know about my general attitude towards my career choice [not so much a "choice" as a "get into a field that provides a steady paycheck"], and work in general, after lo these many years of punching a clock. Anyway, there's my general stress of being trapped eight hours/day, five days/week at a place (as nice as the people are, and they really are nice) I don't want to be. Plus my job toggles between "stress" and "boredom." Eating chocolate at work -- eating too much chocolate at work -- is a massively strong psychological stress/boredom reliever for me. Or at least the subconscious trying to find a means of stress/boredom relief. And the subconscious supremely craves chocolate for this relief.

Nutritionist: Your lunch is fine. It's that amount of chocolate that spikes the blood sugar. What will it take for you to stop the chocolate?

Me: Finding a patron, so I don't have to work.

Nutritionist: Can you substitute something for the chocolate?

Me: No.

Nutritionist: Something with a built-in portion control, like a pudding cup?

Me: No. [Truly, I'm not being a stubborn douche here. There is nothing that will take the place of chocolate. Give me something else. I'll eat it, then want chocolate. Dark chocolate, mind you.]

Nutritionist: Think about it.

Me: Maybe I can let the chocolate melt in my mouth [keep your M&M quotes to yourself].

Nutritionist: Sure, it'll take more time. You won't eat as much. See, you're strategizing.

Bottom Line: I can keep the chocolate [Score!!!]. But have to cut way back on it [sigh. Ok.]

The rest of the appointment was taken up by the typical dinner, appropriate snacks, nutrition labels, especially dietary fiber as part of the total carbs. And ... how I'm allowed to eat an unlimited amount of non-starchy veggies (oh, be still my heart).

Given the choice, who wants to be overweight? I mean outside of a medieval burgher. Cause that layer of fat around the middle showed that he was prosperous and didn't need to do physical labor. Which made him very attractive to the local, slightly diseased wenches and to the parents of virginal 13-year olds.

Ultimately "the take away" (and who came up with "the take away?" Outside of a sports context, it sounds like a phrase from a typical business management book, "How to Sound Like a Great Manager While Still Retaining Your Inner Jackass.") from the Nutritionist, well, from the Internist and the Nutrionist is that I'm at a crossroads. I need to deal with eating habits and weight issues (apparently, I'm too short for what I feel should be my ideal weight) now. Because with some adjustments I can stave off or reverse much of the damage that will come my way if I continue as is. All of which I, intellectually, fully understand. It's five decades of underlying emotional aspects/stuff/shit that have paralyzed me. Next stop - The Therapist.

But I can keep the chocolate. Some of it. The Nutritionist said so.

No Pulitzer for Fiction? What Kind of Story is That?

Tue, 17 Apr 2012 11:04:50 -0400

Below is a verbatim e-mail exchange among my friends J and K and myself regarding the Pultizer Fiction Committee not awarding a prize this year. Don't expect a profound discussion or conclusion. Actually, if you can explain to me why I posted this, please do so. Oh, and as a reminder, nominee David Foster Wallace committed suicide in 2008.

[From the New York Times]

FICTION: No award.

Finalists: “Train Dreams,” by Denis Johnson (Farrar, Straus and Giroux); “Swamplandia!” by Karen Russell (Alfred A. Knopf); “The Pale King,” by David Foster Wallace (Little, Brown and Company).

-----------
J: Good grief. They could only find three novels to nominate and none to give the award to?

Stim: What's the point of killing yourself if you can't score a major posthumous award? Or considering the book was published three years after he offed himself, what's the point of writing from beyond the grave if the living aren't in awe?

J: Indeed. And what's the point of nominating a dead guy (or anyone) if you don't think they're worthy of the award, as they obviously thought none of the three was. I think there are usually five finalists. I can't believe it was that bad a year for fiction.

Stim: The best (or worst) fiction was being written for campaign speeches.

J: Yeah, very short, and scary, stories.

K: You know the whole inability to choose is because one guy on the committee had some bug up his ass. Did they really have to torment Wallace's family?

J: There have been several times they didn't give a fiction award, and I remember a prof telling me once, decades ago, that (it would have been '71, '74, or '77; they gave no award in those years; and they don't list the finalists before 1980 on the website) the fiction committee voted to award the Pulitzer to Gravity's Rainbow, but they were overruled by the board of directors at Columbia U because they didn't understand the book. So no award was given that year.

The last time they gave no fiction award was '77.

(They gave no award for editorial writing this year either.)

With all the politics and BS in their histories, between the Pulitzer and the National Book Award, we really don't have a decent, legitimate book award. And that's sad.

We'll probably find out in twenty years what really happened this year.

I love that on the website in describing the finalists, it says of The Pale King, "a posthumously completely novel." Now that is a good trick.

Torment Wallace's family. No, they shouldn't have. Not to mention the many good writers actually alive who published novels last year.

It's not like there weren't other big names out there with a book last year: Eugenides 'Marriage Plot", they could have gone brave and nominated John Sayles "A Moment in the Sun", or really brave with something contemporary like the well-reviewed "The Submission" by Amy Waldman (about a contest to design the 9/11 memorial and the resulting tumult when the winner, picked blindly, turns out to be a Muslim).

It's like they were all too busy tweeting this year to spend any time reading fiction.

Stim: "but they were overruled by the board of directors at Columbia U because they didn't understand the book" -- that's why you have a goddamn fiction committee you self-important, stuck up assholes.

J: exactly.

I mean, I read Gravity's Rainbow--15 years ago or so-- and don't claim to understand it all, but when it came to the last hundred or so pages, out of 800, I stayed up up till about 3:00 one night finishing the book because I felt literally unable to put it down or stop reading. By the end I was shaking and the whole universe was shimmering around me. I've never done LSD, and I can't imagine a trip being wilder or more hallucinatory than I felt finishing that book.

It did win the National Book Award. They evidently didn't have a university board to overrule them.

Now a Word from Our Sponsors

Mon, 9 Apr 2012 03:04:48 -0400

Product: Kanfields Cream Soda. Cast: George ("G"), Martha ("M"). Scene: their kitchen.

(sound of refrigerator door opening)

G (a bit whiny): Martha, there's nothing in the fridge to drink but cream soda.

M: It's Kanfields Cream Soda. Try one.

G: But I hate cream soda.

M: You said that about broccoli, too, before you tried it. Now take a Kanfields.

G: No, I don't like cream soda. (to himself) Who refrigerates two cases of cream soda?

M: George, here, have some of mine. Kanfields Cream Soda is cool and refreshing. It'll help you calm down.

G: No. No. I won't. I won't. I wo ... (sound on one foot stomping on another) ... Ow! Hey glub, glub (sound of a liquid pouring down G's throat)! Hey, Martha! That Kanfields Cream Soda is fantastic. Wow, I could dance.

M: You have a broken foot, George.

G: Then I'll sing. (singing) Kanfields, Kanfields, Kanfields Cream Soda.

Product: O'Dougal's non-alcoholic beer. Cast: Gene (the host), Bill (a guest). Scene: a party in Gene's living room.

B: Hi, Gene, great party.

G: Thanks, Bill. What's with Ed?

B: I think it's the O'Dougal's beer you're serving. Ed can't believe O'Dougal's is a non-alcoholic beer.

G: So why is Ed climbing on my furniture?

B: Ed feels a beer as good as O'Dougal's must still have the alcohol in it. He must think he's getting drunk.

G: It's the people who make a good party, not the alcohol. That's why I serve O'Dougal's. Everyone can enjoy the full-bodied taste and still be able to drive home.

(glass shattering)

B: Ooo. Hope that vase didn't cost much. Guess it just shows we've all misjudged Ed.

G: Yeh, apparently, even during his few sober moments, Ed's still a jerk. Hey, put that lampshade back!

B: I'll get you another cold O'Dougal's.

What Would You Do With $540 Million? Now Updated.

Thu, 29 Mar 2012 14:03:45 -0400

We've all been asked the question, "What would you do with $1 million?" Sounds rather quaint now, doesn't it?

As everyone in 42 states, plus the District of Columbia and the U.S. Virgin Islands knows (and probably everyone in the other eight loser states), Friday's Mega Millions drawing will be for an estimated $540 million. Likely a world record lottery payout.

That ain't chump change, even to the 1%.

The odds of winning are an appealing 1 in 176 million. Why appealing? Because, if you win, it will reinforce your outsized opinion of yourself. You literally are one in 176 million. To put the odds in terms of the world's population -- if all seven billion people each played one set of numbers, at these odds, only 39.78 of us would win the pot. Even counting that oddball 78/100 of a person (who is probably my weird neighbor down the block; he's missing a few chromosomes), each winner would pocket a bit more than $13,574,000.

That ain't chump change, except to the 1%.

Ok. You beat the odds. You win the whole $540 million pot and my everlasting spite. Your first decision is whether to take the annuity or the one lump sum. According to the official Mega Millions web site FAQ the annuity is paid out over 26 years at approximately $38,500 per million in the jackpot (before taxes -- oh, yes, we'll get to taxes shortly). That's $20, 790,000 each year. Again, before taxes. Option 2, the lump sum: that amount will be ... they don't know exactly. But it will be less than $540 million. Let's say it won't exceed $500 million. Because it's a nice round number, that's why. So, there's your choice. For me, 26 years puts me beyond my life expectancy (excuse me as I shudder at that knowledge). Since the next generation of my heirs never remembers my birthday, screw them and the chance they'll get to finish out my annuity. It's the lump sum option for me. Which brings a knock on the door from the IRS.

Taxes. If you live where there's no state income tax, good for you and bite me. Illinois raised its percentage last year, the bastards. Nonetheless, the Feds will be claiming the big transfer of your newly gotten gains. Two bits of info to remember: 1) taxes are historically low for the 1%, of which you're now a member (the Occupy protesters have been notified); 2) tax lawyers and CPAs will be lined up offering oral sex in exchange for letting them shelter your money (and bill you out the ass). If you take the annuity route, you're chancing that the tax rate will go up and loop holes will be closed during the next 26 years. Otherwise, you can take the hit now.

Turn to your 1040 Instructions Manual. For 2011, the top tax rate for those married filing jointly is $102,574.00 + 35% on the amount greater than $379,150.00. And, brother, did you exceed that amount. The formula is ($500,000,000 - $379,000) x 35% + $102,574 = your income tax before the aforementioned tax lawyers and CPAs stop guzzling champagne (which they're billing you for) and get to work. That tax hit? A cool $174,969,924.00. [your math may vary] Plus your state income tax.

The Feds leave you with a bit more than $325 million. That's still not chump change. But you're off the social calendar of the top .01%.

So the original question now becomes, "What would you do with $325 million?" Use it as seed money to build a world-dominating financial empire? Or maybe you become the next Dateline story about a lottery winner going bankrupt. Probably you'll be somewhere in between.

Me? I'm going to do a leveraged buyout of Mitt Romney. That schmuck only has an estimated worth of $250 million. It'll be easy to buy him. Then I'll take over his life and charge exorbitant managerial fees to run his personal and political lives. Naturally I'll fire his family, since they're nothing but a drain on profits. Afterwards I'll sell off parts of his political policies to the highest bidding lobbyists. It'll be huge profits for me, especially if I can completely sell Mitt off before the election. Huge profits.

After I cash in my Mitt investment -- my original $325 million? It'll look like chump change.

Update: Announced as of around 10:00 CDT this morning (Friday), the Mega Million jackpot now stands at $640 million. The lump sum payment is $462 million.