Thunderdomes and Transitioning to the High Life

I just got back from Nashville, where I attended the 2014 American College of Medical Genetics Annual Meeting. ACMG is always my favorite conference. The presentations are almost always relevant and meaningful to my work; the people who go are generally fun, smart, and social; and the organizers do a good job making the conference fun with stuff like great refreshments (think wedding hors devours) and spur-of-the-moment polling. In addition, this wintertime conference is usually at a warm-weather location about 4 months before/after other major conferences I hit, making it easy and desirable to fit into my schedule. The ACMG meeting is usually awesome, and this year didn’t disappoint.

One thing that made my ACMG experience a bit unsavory, though, was my accommodations. I tried to book a room late for dopey reasons, and the only place that was less that $375/night and less than 3.5 miles from the conference center was the Knights Inn. For a place that is only a mile away from the heart of downtown Nashville, the Knights Inn was remarkably underwhelming. There was a gas station next door where you could get a bag of chips or some soda. To get to it at night, though, you had to walk three blocks around an enormous wall that opens only to a side street (I assume the owners consider zombies coming down the interstate to be a bigger threat than the rapists and muggers in the back alley). I got a non-smoking room, which doesn’t really matter if a place let its guests chain smoke in the 70s and kept the original furniture. There was no clock, no ironing board, and the wireless didn’t work. A mini-fridge was useful for storing the 2-liter of Sprite I bought after evading the Mongol hoard on my way to the gas station, but the microwave was not (the gas station did not stock microwavable foods. Or maybe the Thunderdome gangs had looted it all...).

The Knights Inn Nashville wasn't a 5-star hotel...

I survived, though, and it made me think a lot about my personality. See, when I told my buddy James about the place, he joked, “You’re always staying in places like that. You’re a real cheapskate.” When I retorted that it wasn’t a money thing since my travel costs were being reimbursed, he just laughed.

The thing is, he’s more right than wrong. The truth is that nice hotels often make me feel like a chump. I may have spent a lot of time worrying about bedbugs at the Knights Inn Nashville, but I slept just as well there as I would have at a $350/night place. I know this because I spent my early 20s ‘living it up’ a lot more. Maybe I didn’t have a nice apartment or new car, but I’ve eaten at most of the best restaurants in NYC (at least as they were in the early 2000s), and I’ve stayed in my share of luxury hotels/suites, whether in NYC, Cape Cod or Vegas. My job may have been to market ridiculous products, but it paid ***well***, and I loosened up the purse strings quite a bit. I was a little like those NBA kids who grow up with nothing and suddenly make millions. The majority blow through their wealth remarkably quickly in ways that scream both, “So this is the good life!” and “I need to get back to my roots.” See, when you come from having very little, you’re uncomfortable with having a lot. My mom worked two or three jobs at a time, and my dad, well, he lost his way for a while. We made ends meet by being frugal, and we had a good life. And it all became familiar. This is what people of means often don’t understand when they wonder why all these athletes and pop stars go bankrupt so quickly when fame fades. You can’t spend 20 years pinching pennies and running with like-minded people and suddenly morph into the guy who eats out 4 nights a week and sips Chardonnay with the book club. It’s disorienting and uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel right, because people you’re close to have to get by with so much less and you know you can get by without it all. To this day, the feeling that I remember most when I think about eating sushi at Nobu is guilt. $200+ on little bits of raw fish while mom’s making due with Salisbury steak. Really?

Lest you misunderstand, I don’t have anything against nice things, and I’m certainly not against having a lot of money. I’d just rather have comfortable things that can do a lot. My Geo Prizm was the perfect car for me: broken speedometer, broken odometer, blinker controls you had to push up-and-down if you were turning right and that flashed at hyperspeed if you were turning left... but it looked ‘clean’ and it ran *great.* Never had to get serviced, always got good mileage, but more importantly, I never worried about it getting dinged or someone spilling their soda. My car was a vehicle, not a status symbol, and it got me from point A to point B for 8 years (and could have been much longer). I’d rather have a $300 Toshiba laptop I can turn into a Linux box than an $1500 iBook that only runs a Mac stuff (yes yes yes, I understand you can dual boot on iMacs and such, but my experience setting Ubuntu up on my work iMac was very, very frustrating). For better or worse, shownership isn’t just lost on me. It makes me think less of those who buy into the concept. You can make fun of my 10-year-old laptop, but only if you know how to set your laptop to be a server or to process huge data sets. Give me *some* reason to tout your computer other than “it never crashes” (weirdly, ‘it never crashes’ is by far the #1 reason people tell me I should get a laptop like theirs. I guess it’s a more prevalent problem than I imagined).

Rest in peace, Gizm!

I also have learned to be patient with who I am, and who I am is careful with my moolah. Too careful, a lot of times: it took me a long time to realize, “jeez, spending $10 to have my shirts pressed is way better financially than spending $30 in time washing and ironing them myself. Maybe I’ll live in high style some day, but don’t expect it to happen quickly!

I Respect Awful Jokes

A buddy of mine is receiving a presidential award as an outstanding early-career scientists. You know what else he's outstanding at? Coming up with jokes about dead babies.

On a separate note, I had a horrible, prolonged period early in my career in program management where I was miserably understaffed. The company was working to hire an assistant or two for me, but the process was dragging on. At some point in a fit of desperation, I stopped looking for the perfect candidate and told personnel that I was changing my hiring criteria to "warm and breathing." I was starting to lose a lot of revenue due to the lack of help, and I figured just about anyone could be trained to do the work I needed done (creating package inserts and marketing materials, overseeing product orders and quality control). Soon after I lowered my standards, TF came into my office for an interview. She had a reasonable resume, but more notably, she was *boring.* She dressed well and liked movies... and nothing else. I was excited. I figured I had a drone who didn't have much going for her but a job, which I figured would give her a second thing to talk about in the future.

TF lasted about three exciting weeks. Things I taught her in that time include:
- "You're going to have to learn that 'cert' means 'certificate,' and 'bro' means 'brochure.'"
- "If you don't know if the printer's done with the job, please call him."
- "Um, 'cert' means 'certificate.'"

The point of this posting is that I've noticed a strong correlation between capability and crassness. Among the ten smartest people I've known, probably nine fall into the category of, "I better make sure my kid's asleep before we start talking." And of the ten dumbest people I've known, probably nine fall into the category of, "We'll, he's polite." I suppose you can be smart and polite, but the combination's rare, and for better or worse, I've developed a rule of thumb that might boil down to crass=smart. Sorry, polite people!

Not sure why, but offense taken!

Long ago, I recognized the importance of forgiveness, to others and to myself. It’s enervating to be angry, and I’ve screwed up as much as the next person. God knows I’d have few friends today if people didn’t look past my foibles (I probably scored a 6 out of 10 on the ‘jerk’ scale in high school).

So why do I find it so hard to forgive people sometimes?

I spend a lot of time thinking about this. The issue is not that I get offended often (I’m hard to offend), but when I do, I can hold onto the anger longer than seems reasonable. Let’s use my dad as an example. My dad was a rough guy, and he often called me to tell me how much he hated me. Frequently, vociferously, and viciously, especially over the last few years of his life. I hated him for it, and I would refuse to call him for months as a result. Sounds like a reasonable response on my part, right?...

Except I knew he didn’t mean any of it. He was old, losing his sight, and living alone. It was clear that he cared about me and my family (particularly his grandson); and that he really meant no harm by his yelling. In fact, it surprised him to find out his yelling bothered me. I remember one occasion where I thought he had liver cancer, and I was literally dragging him kicking and screaming to his appointments. After one particularly hairy appointment, I grabbed his walker in a fit of frustration and threw it across the yard. The action took him aback. He gave me a quizzical look and asked, “What are you so worked up about?” He knew he was a jerk, but he meant no offense, and I knew that. So why did I get offended at all? Why was I so hesitant to visit him afterwards?

There are times when I feel like I developed a PTSD response. There were a lot of difficult moments over the years, and maybe I just snapped in a way that creeps into my relationships with others. There are also times when I think I inherited a predisposition to be snarky, and it manifests as a propensity to carry a grudge. I fall to this explanation frequently, especially when I think about my brother who can make my dad look like a pussycat. And then there’s a more interesting possibility, one that was suggested by Jeffrey Eugenides in Middlesex: that we sour as we age so we’re more able to let go of life and accept our own deaths. There’s a certain appeal to this theory, that holding onto the negative (like a grudge) is a natural consequence of getting older.

Whatever the reason, my inability to be forgiving at times reminds me that I, like most people, am often not a rational person. I’m trying, though!

So what happens if Emmett doesn't forgive me for dressing him up like this?

Pictures of the Once and Future Kurt

I am nearing the end of the “Great Photo Scanning Adventure.” When my father passed away last May, one of my tasks was to split up the family photos with my brother. I opted to digitize everything so we could both have copies. It has taken an incredible amount of time. After my wife or I removed the photos from an album, I sent them to a vendor for scanning (which is expensive and requires a lot of cataloging and prep work) or I scanned them myself. The hardest part was tagging whatever text was written on the back of the photo to the file somehow. I usually did it by writing incredibly long file names. I’ll spare you the gory details on each step and simply say that the whole process will have taken a year of dedicated work to complete. The only project or hobby I’ve ever approached with as much dedication has been my dissertation.

It is invigorating to review the end product, though. The pictures start with black and white photos of my dad in his youth and span to around 2005, before my parents really lost their health. I have to admit that the photos I think are the most intriguing are from the late 70’s and early 80’s, to compare the memories I had as a kid to the visual evidence. One of the things that’s surprising to me is how happy I look as a kid. Always a big, genuine smile on my face every day, all the time. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Pooping on the toilet can throw Emmett into a tailspin, but he’s otherwise an infectiously happy kid. He’s full of joy, and he wants everyone around him to be happy, too. He makes me glad to be alive, and I reflect on it often.

If this picture were taken today, I'd be worrying about my fashion sense!

Which made me wonder: why did that joy fade? I know we can’t pretend we’re firefighters all our lives, but why have there been long periods where I was miserable? There are a lot more responsibilities, and a lot of awful, sad things have happened; but why does the bad stuff feel like it “sticks” more than the good stuff? I spend a lot more time thinking about why my car is burning oil than thinking about how many years I’ve gotten out of my jacket (15 and counting!). Why?

Yes, I know the psychological arguments, the evidence on “loss aversion” and that we may be hardwired to be more sensitive to the negative than to the positive. If you eat a phenomenal pie, it’s nice; but if you eat a rotten one, it can kill you. And I’ve seen the evidence that happiness may be genetic in some way, that something like 50% of your happiness is attributable to heredity, as summarized in a New York Times article (of note, heritability estimates are frequently overestimated and even more frequently misunderstood). I can’t shake the feeling that we’re trained to be miserable in some way, though; that there’s an expectation that if you aren’t unhappy, you’re not trying hard enough. It manifests in how often we complain about bosses or work or how busy we are. There’s social status to be gained by being besieged (side note: I’ve rarely seen this approach among people at the top of the food chain, and I definitely don’t think they’re less besieged. Tip to those of you who aspire to be more than middle management).

I’m going to fight it. I have renewed a commitment to be a happy person and to enjoy my life. It doesn’t mean I can’t get upset, or that I won’t have to suck up inconvenient, chronically annoying aspects to everyday life like commuting. I spend a lot more time now looking at videos of my kid playing, though, or of my wife and I putzing around at Greenfield Village. I’m committed to spending at least as much time reviewing the good times and my achievements as I do with the bad times and my failures. I know it sounds ridiculous and Stewart Smalley-ish, but I think I’m already sleeping better, and I feel optimistic about the future. The goal: to look as genuinely happy in the photos of me in old age as when I was young.

Not Bad for Everyday Life

I’ve got a song stuck in my head, one that’s unlikely to hit the Top 40 anytime soon: “Not Bad for Having Three Kids,” as sung by the Ta-Tas on Bob’s Burgers. I started watching the show a few weeks ago partly because it seemed to be popular on Hulu, and partly because the lead voice also did Coach McGuirk on Home Movies (*hilarious* show during its first season). One stanza to “Not Bad for Having Three Kids” goes,

            This is down here, but it should be up there.

            This is kind of loose, and I think it might tear.

                        This is lumpy (and it’s dumpy).

This is saggy (and it’s flabby).

            When I bend down I pee a little bit,

            But it’s not bad, not bad for having three kids.

"I still got my sexy parts. Well, I got two out of five..."

Catchy, eh? The point of this entry is that I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out why a ditty like that sticks in my head today when it would make me cringe when I was younger. Sort of like vegetables: I couldn’t stand the stuff as a kid, and I can’t get enough now. Why?

I think there are two reasons. The first is that I simply appreciate anything musical much more now that I’m older. My failed efforts in recent years to learn to play the piano have reminded me how much time and effort it takes to learn skills like that in the first place, and I appreciate that people have sacrificed their time to help keep my life interesting. The more important reason, though, is the way it gives light to a sensitive topic in the most absurd way possible. You know what I really don’t like about being an adult? How everything seems to be off limits to talk about. Hygiene. Sex. Health. Looks. I told some co-workers that it was ludicrous how large my pregnant wife was getting. They nearly fainted. The net effect, I think, is that nearly everyone thinks they are freaks in some way, that we feel alone with everyday ‘struggles’ that are actually incredibly common.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not advocating that we start an Adam Sandler revolution or anything like that. I do think that we need to be less squeamish about talking about our quirks, though. A lot of people get worked up over nothing. A guy I knew hated his wife because she cut back with the bedroom stuff after they got married. I wonder if he would have had the same feelings if he knew that happened more often than not. I’d bet money that you do something you consider weird when you poop. I’d also bet you read or watch something regularly you wouldn't dream of telling your best friend. I’m here to let you know you’re not alone.

There’s a more important topic here – what it means to be an adult – that I’ll save for another day. Instead, I’ll simply close by thanking the folks at 20th Century Fox for broadcasting how accidental squirting is a common consequence of having kids.

Kurt-ronicling For Posterity

2014. A new year. As in the past, I have made the requisite number of doomed resolutions. To lose weight. To send Christmas cards earlier. To finally finish Ulysses. It didn’t take a lot of time: I just copied and pasted most from my last list (not 2013, but 2010). The terrible truth is that I’m not half the pessimist I claim to be. This is the year I’ll keep the promises I made to myself.

A new resolution, though, is to be faithful to my blog. Part of the reason is self-indulgence: I’m very American in my beliefs that I think differently than others, that I’ve had experiences that are hard to appreciate, and that I have important lessons to share with the world. There’s a second motive, too: I’m hoping it will help me clarify my own thinking about the world and how I fit into it. Good writing is concise, and being concise means distilling complex thoughts down to their essence. Too often when I’m talking, I feel like I’ve made the tough stuff sound tough. It’s time to make them sound simple.

And there’s a third motive: to leave a record of my evolution behind for my kids. My dad passed away last year, and one the issues I’ve grappled with is how poorly I understood him. I know the chronology, how he grew up in northern Minnesota, made his way to Minneapolis and Chicago and Santa Monica before returning to Minnesota. I rarely knew what was going on in his head, though. He seemed to hate being a father, yet never missed my soccer games. He ran all the people he loved out of his life while lamenting his loneliness. I remember seeing him weep after my mom passed away, and I still wonder whether he was crying for her or himself.

But I feel like I know him a little better now because I found his journals after cleaning out the house. They chronicle his thoughts starting when he was just about my age now. They aren’t lengthy, but they’ve given me a much deeper appreciation of what he endured in his life (so many moments where all he had was the money in his pocket!). Maybe I can achieve the same for my own kids, once they hit their 30s, and wonder what the hell their old man was thinking when he ____. Here’s to trying!

Hope you're as excited after I go nuts, Emmett!

I will miss you, Election 2012

It’s Election Day! I have mixed feelings about the fact that campaigning is about to end. I am generally not a fan of reality TV, but have found the ups and downs of the candidates to be fascinating theater if for all the wrong reasons. My favorite parts:

1. The Republican shooting stars. Michelle Bachman, Rick Perry, Hermain Cain and Newt Gingrich each shot up out of seemingly nowhere, produced a “wow” that seemed to capture the energy of the Republican base, and then faded into nothingness. The speed of both their ascents and their declines were true reflections of the Kardashian/Twitter age. My Flip camera was in vogue longer than most of those candidates.
2. Romney’s dash to the center. I really liked Bob Dole before he betrayed a lifetime of reasonable stances to win the Republican primary, and then ran for president as a parody of himself. Ditto on McCain. Romney had the courage to pull a fast one on the conservative base, though, and run his post-primary campaign as ‘Moderate Mitt.’ If he’s elected, who will you get? I don’t know, but it’s the kind of move that made me love professional wrestling; and it’s the kind of move that made me love this election.
3. The “everyone else is crazy” mentality. I had one friend assert that we should test people before allowing them to vote, and five minutes later told me he was going to sell his votes to the highest bidder because he didn’t care. I have another friend who couldn’t believe how ill-informed Republicans are despite having seen no debates or researched any candidates’ positions, including her own. On the plus side, only one person has told me that he’s moving to Canada if the ‘other guy’ wins.
4. Running against the opponent. If you were a space alien who landed on earth, the only way you’d know Obama was president was by listening to Romney’s ads. I understand running as the Anti-Bush, but running as the Anti-Romney? Is Obama ashamed of his accomplishments? The funny thing is that this strategy might just work! 

Emmett wants you to vote for this guy.

Quite a bit has made me depressed, too. The biggest downers:

1. “Hope and Change.” For a guy who won a presidential election on ideology rather than experience or policies, Obama seems unbelievably unwilling to rise above partisan politics, and disinclined to address important but unpopular issues (wars, tax reform, entitlement reform, budgets). Certainly, I’m angry about what feels like a Republican tendency to prioritize stymieing Obama over doing what’s best for the country, but I’m sadder that Obama gave up on changing the culture of Washington so readily.
2. Battleground states and the “47%.” You get to be president if you win Ohio, apparently, but that would also make you president of Montana, Massachusetts, Kansas and California. Candidates are concentrating so hard on the analytics of winning elections that they’re ignoring the analytics of running the country. Even if that 47% of the country wasn’t going to vote for Mitt, shouldn’t he feel like they’d be his people, too? 
3. Fighting voter fraud. Only around half of Americans will vote in this election. Yet, some people want to pare that figure back even further? It’s incredible to me that the Republican Party seems to spend more time keeping certain people from voting than trying to win them over.

I suppose like any protracted event, I’ve developed a fondness for the election precisely for its ups and downs. I don’t really have strong feelings for either presidential candidate, so I’ve focused more on the process than any particular guy or gal (in large part, it’s because local and congressional politics feel more important this year. Sorry for ignoring all of that stuff! Maybe in another posting). The stakes are high, particularly given the challenges facing our country. I have faith that either Obama and Romney can tackle them, though. May the best man win!

And if you’ve lingered on my posting for this long and are interested in who I voted for, the answer is Gary Johnson. Although I feel compelled to write about the major candidates and parties, I feel no obligations to vote for them. This is a topic for another day!