Ignorance Is. . . Something.

A recent psychological study suggested a positive correlation between IQ and anxiety: The smarter you are, the more you worry.

This hardly qualifies as earth-shaking news. I've always thought that, if you're not worrying, you're not paying attention. I find myself thinking about this now, though, as I wrestle with vague feelings of non-specific dread. I imagine this is largely a function of it being Sunday: The imminence of a new work-week often engenders a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach, a leaden fuzziness in the brain, a slight ringing in the ears. . . . Y'know, now that I write this, I hope this is just anxiety; otherwise, I probably have some kind of tumor.

But seriously, folks.

The funny thing is, this dread has occurred throughout my life, regardless of what was going on. I remember during the early '90's, watching "In Living Color" on Sunday nights, laughing but also struggling with an awareness that this was pretty much the last bit of enjoyment I was going to experience before having to drag myself out of bed less than twelve hours later to begin another stressful week of college classes and student-teaching and just, y'know, life.  Back then, I would tell myself that this dread would pass--that once I got through the trials of those days, things would get better.

And they have gotten better. I mean, I basically like my job. I like my co-workers. And some days I even get the opportunity to go home feeling like I've had a positive impact on the world around me.  And yet the dread persists.  Ignorance may be bliss, but isn't it stupid to keep subjecting myself to dread for no particular reason?

Zen and the Art of Successful Auditions

A lot of the actors I know, whatever their relative level of experience or talent, hate auditioning. They find it stressful. Which I suppose it is. I myself, though, have always rather enjoyed the experience. It's fun to get up onstage and do a monologue or some cold reading from a script. I mean, it's acting! And acting is fun! Why else would anyone do it? And I'm convinced that my comparatively successful track record--I tend to get cast in the plays I try out for--has as much to do with the fact that I basically have fun at auditions as it does with whatever relative reserves of talent or experience I possess. The formula is something like this: Auditioning = fun. Fun = relaxed. Relaxed = natural. Natural = cast-able.

I offer this advice not so much to other actors, who I suspect already know this on an intellectual level, even if they might mutter, "Easier said than done." Rather, I offer this to anyone who faces an "audition" of his own, be it in the form of interviewing for a dream job or asking out that cute co-worker: Don't focus on the outcome. Enjoy the process. Worst case scenario: You'll have some fun doing something that could lead to something wonderful. Best case scenario, you have the fun and the wonderful thing, too.

A Modest Proposal

Much has been written about the attempts on the part of Major League Baseball to speed up the pace of play. A countdown clock now looms over the outfield of every ballpark, ticking away the seconds between innings. Pitchers and hitters are also on the clock, as they face fines for wandering around the mound or leaving the batter's box between pitches. No crackdowns on excessive scratching or spitting yet, unless these activities occur during walks around the mound or require leaving the batter's box. Stay tuned.

I would like to make a modest proposal, though, that would speed up the games AND likely increase the number of runs scored--a lack of offense in the post-steroid era being another major concern of MLB. I would like to propose that a manager be allowed a maximum of one pitching change per inning. A starter could be pulled at any time, but, once a reliever is brought in, that reliever MUST finish the inning. If he gets shelled, he gets shelled. This would also get rid of those frankly annoying instances of a manager bringing in a righty to face a right-handed batter, and then pulling that pitcher if the next hitter is a lefty. Obviously, exceptions would have to be made in the case of an injury, but otherwise, this would clearly shave significant minutes off of most games--and/or allow fans to see more runs scored if a fresh arm can't be brought in to bail out someone who just doesn't have it on a given night. And frankly, this would be a better solution than the introduction of timers into a fundamentally timeless sport.

Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself

The headline on the online version of The New York Times reads, "Stressing Youth, Marco Rubio Joins 2016 Presidential Field."

I don't know about the youth of America, but it certainly stresses me.

Meet the Mets...Later

Does it make sense to record sporting events? I ask this question as I sit here, typing, with the Mets game on--a Mets game that I assume ended several hours ago. I recorded the game because I like the Mets and, living in the Bay Area, I don't get to see them with any regularity. So, on those occasions when they ARE on national TV, I feel almost obligated to watch them--which generally means recording the games, as the games usually start (or in the case of day games like today's, start and end) while I'm at work. But does it make sense?

I mean, I fast forward through the commercials. But when I do that, I think, y'know, I could also fast forward to move more quickly from one batter to the next.  But if I'm going to do that, I could pretty much just skip to "interesting" moments: Maybe I could keep speeding through until I see runners on base.  But if I do that, why not just skip to the end to see who wins? Or just go to Nymets.com and check the score?  Because if I watch the whole game and they actually lost, am I not just setting myself up for disappointment? Leaving aside for the moment the reasonable question of whether being a Mets fan is, by definition, setting myself up for disappointment?  Is watching a recorded sporting event really nothing more than a sort of magical thinking?

Breaking News

Out of my undying sense of journalistic responsibility, I feel compelled to report that Hillary Clinton has formally announced her candidacy for . . . Hold on, let me check my notes. . .  Ah! President. She's running for president.

Of the United States, that is.

I know that some of my followers get their news exclusively from The Solipsist, and I wanted to make sure that none of you ends up looking like an idiot at a cocktail party, pooh-poohing the notion of Hillary's candidacy.

Incidentally, you shouldn't pooh-pooh ANYTHING at a cocktail party. Or anywhere else, for that matter. That's just gross.

Do people even HAVE cocktail parties anymore? I mean, I hear "cocktail party," and I get an image of, like, George Sanders and Bette Davis in evening dress, exchanging witticisms. And I don't even know who those people ARE!

Where was I?

Oh, yes, Hillary. You know, the ignorantsia at places like Fox News like to bash Hillary by saying, among other things, that she's "obsessed" with the presidency, that she sees it as some sort of entitlement. To which I think the only logical reply is, "Yes. And?" Of course, she's obsessed and feels entitled! I mean, think about the chutzpah it takes for someone to think that they are actually qualified to BE president. That alone is a sign of some kind of insanity, be the candidate Democrat or Republican.  If you're NOT obsessed and DON'T feel entitled, you've picked the wrong way to spend the next year and a half.

Fly the Kosher Skies

Long-time Sloppists have noticed that I haven't posted regularly in a long time.  I had considered this a mere personal failing: a source of disappointment in myself, to be sure, but a victimless crime at worst.  Last night, I realized I was wrong.  I came face to face with the face of Solipsist Nation abandoned: a reader--perhaps my ONLY reader--who had come to rely on YNSHC to bring a little joy into his apparently insufficiently joyous life, and whom I had so cavalierly abandoned out of some sense of entitlement--entitlement to rest, to relaxation, to the right to plunge myself into a beer-fueled alcoholic stupor on a regular basis!  Who did I think I was?!?  So, to this Fanatical Follower of Solipsist, I simply say, I shall strive to do better.

Speaking of entitlement, I've spent the last day or so pondering this story in yesterday's paper, about a semi-common occurrence on airplanes.  Apparently, some ultra-Orthodox Jews refuse to sit next to women on airplanes, for fear that they may accidentally come into contact with members of the opposite sex.  Despite the fact that a prominent Orthodox rabbi has given dispensation for whatever incidental contact might occur, a number of Hasidim feel they would rather not chance it.  As you can imagine, though, problems arise when women refuse to relocate to accommodate the--let's face it--medieval strictures of their fellow travelers.

Those of you who follow me on Facebook know that I proposed a simple solution: If the idea of potentially finding himself seated next to a woman so fills a Hasidic gentleman with fear, then all he needs to do to avoid the situation is purchase an extra seat on the plane.  This comment of mine generated a number of comments--tongues more or less planted in cheeks--about the unlikelihood of Jews ponying up the cash for two seats (it should be noted that these comments all came from fellow Jews).  But the point, of course, is social not financial.  If these folks want to avail themselves of the conveniences of modern society (like airplanes), then they are simply going to have to accept the conventions of modern society (like the fundamental equality of the sexes--and let's not get started on THAT; that's a topic for another day).

Ultimately, I don't really have a problem with the Orthodox desire to maintain a separation of the sexes: If that's what they believe, that's what they believe.  The issue I find offensive is that the airlines and/or the other passengers should go out of their way to accommodate them.  I wouldn't have an issue with a Hasidic gentleman going up to another passenger--and for all I know, this happens--and saying politely something to the effect of, "Excuse me, Sir/Madam, I'm seated over in ___, but the seat next to me is occupied by a lady, and my religion prevents me from sitting next to her.  I was wondering if you would be willing to trade seats with me?"

I'm sure he'd find a taker.  Hell, what does the Hasid-proximate lady look like?  Maybe I'll trade seats.  After all, I'm single now.  Think of the possibilities!

"What was that all about?"

"Oh, his religion forbids him from sitting next to beautiful women."

"Really?"

"Well, strictly speaking, his religion prevents him from sitting next to any women.  I threw in the beautiful part."

"Oh, Solipsist!"

Cha-ching!  Mile-high-club!  I love Judaism!