Book Review: Billions and Billions (1997)

Billions and Billions: Thoughts on Life and Death at the Brink of the Millennium brims with the late astronomer Carl Sagan's faith in science and the human potential. The book contains Sagan's brief writings about mathematics, sports, religion, global warming, the abortion debate, and more.

Billions and Billions also includes a reproduction of "The Common Enemy," a paper of his that points to uncomfortable truths in the recent history of the US and the Soviet Union. In the piece, Sagan urged both countries to think in the long-term, and repeatedly used the pointed phrase: "We make mistakes. We kill our own." The essay was published in both countries (with some censorship in the Russian version).

Sagan begins the book by describing exponents. I was puzzled at first, but then he segued into the vastness of our universe, and how we can begin to comprehend the scale of it using math. He also pointed out how exponential notation can be applied to population growth, microbial organisms, and radioactive elements. The elegance of the narrative flow made me swoon.

Part I of Billions and Billions occupies itself with physics, astronomy, and related fields. He makes it all seem so fun and wonderful and enchanting. In Part II, Sagan earnestly implores humans to recognize our commonality before we destroy our earth. It's the only one we have! He documents efforts by scientists and religious leaders to work together toward the cause of environmental preservation.

In the final part of the book, Sagan adds his reasoned input into the abortion debate. He talks about the different political strategies we use in everyday life, advocates for nuclear arms reduction, and, at the end, shares details about his sickness with readers. He was diagnosed with a rare disease that eventually took his life in 1996, when he caught pneumonia that his weakened immune system couldn't fight off.

His beloved wife and cowriter, Ann Druyan (referred fondly as "Annie" throughout the book) wrote the epilogue of Billions and Billions, because Sagan passed away before its completion. I was sobbing throughout the whole thing. It's so inspiring that we had (and still have, in Ann) people with so much love and enthusiasm for life, who think nothing of sharing that love and their enormous talents and clear-eyed insights with the rest of us. If I had known about Carl and Ann in high school, I'm confident I would have chosen to study environmental sciences in college, my poor math skills be damned.

Well, that's what kids are for, amirite? "Mommy didn't get to be a scientist, so here's a chemistry set and a TI-84 and the complete works of Sagan, Einstein, Curie, Planck, Bohr, Salk, and Fermi. Happy fifth birthday!"

Best. Mommy. Ever.

Literary Juice Published My Story!

Literary Juice, an online lit magazine, has a section called Pulp Fiction that challenges writers to create a story with exactly 25 words. My piece, "Mole," is on this page. Hurray!

I winced when I saw the author bio. I sound like an asshole. The instructions were to describe myself in 75 words, so I threw in my life story. In hindsight, I would have just included the last two sentences. Well, lesson learned.

F***, F***, F***

As promised, the post with the title that reflects my current disposition.

I had a group interview at HBS yesterday. Let's start with the bad news. For funsies, we'll alternate with the good news.

Bad News #1: I had a bad case of the shakes owing to being barely on time for the interview. (Traffic.)

Good News #1: I got over it toward the middle.

Bad News #2: The person beside me brought her A-game right from the start. I was impressed.

Good News #2: I was the best dressed of the bunch.

Bad News #3: I got an email this morning informing me that they "didn't see the right fit" for me.

Good News #3: Now I can get my weekend started with the full certainty that I suck, rather than wondering about it for a week!

Now if you'll excuse me, my therapist, Dr. Meowsalot, will see me now. 

The Unbearable Lightness of Being...Unemployed

I have an interview at Harvard Business School (HBS) tomorrow. It's a group interview with two interviewers and who knows how many fellow job applicants. It'll be my first time doing such a thing.

For interview prep, my three-step plan to success consisted of:

Step 1: Read about group interviews.
Step 2: Re-read the job description.
Step 3: Read about HBS.

The process made me reflect on my previous interviews. I only had three so far, and have not heard from any of them. The last one made me happy because the interviewer called me a "strong candidate," but I haven't received any communication within the timeline explained to me during the discussion, which means someone else likely got the job.

I realize that no matter how I prepare, key things remain out of my control. Oh, I can take care of any number of variables -- I can dress snappily, and I'm usually articulate and cheerful. But someone else could have more experience than me, or dress snappier, and be so bloody bright as to eclipse the sun. Or I can make a mistake and shoot myself in the foot.

Here, again, chance plays a role. I've applied to jobs where the description matched exactly what I've done in the past, only to be passed over. Typically, the first question that pops into my head is, "Do I suck that badly?" and I guess the answer could be yes or no. The point is, it's out of my hands, so why worry?

I saw an article yesterday on Slate about how the long-term unemployed have a harder time getting jobs. I feel for those people. I've only been unemployed for a month, and it feels... well, both awesome and awful. The awesome part comes in when I plop myself down on the couch and peruse job listings. I turn in my applications, so very hopeful and positive. Then I go clean something in the house.

The awful bit follows after, when I hear the chirping of crickets from the companies I want to join. My self-esteem goes away and takes a nap. That's when I find a recipe for a new drink. I know how to make sangria now! Go double on the brandy, mommy needs to forget the pain.

Black humor aside, I'm pretty okay. I've achieved a state of semi-homeostasis. I have a routine. I write out goals for the day, and get them done. It could be something like, "Apply to one job today," or "Put together list of items for amenities basket for wedding." I reward myself afterward by playing a game or watching TV. Oh, and my first unemployment deposit arrived today, so I'm all, Now I can pay for my ridiculously expensive healthcare!

Seriously, that healthcare subsidy is a primo reason for the nine to five. When I worked, it cost me a bit over a hundred bucks per paycheck. Now it costs me...hold on to your fashionable hats...SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS a month. I'm paying full price because no company has my back. FML.

I shall be sure to report on how tomorrow's interview goes. If no post comes within a week, assume that I have thrown myself dramatically into the Charles River, and cannot type anymore due to a horrific mutation resulting from the icky waters.

And if I do write a bubbly post about how I totally aced it, reserve judgment until the inevitable followup post -- possible titles include, "I Was Wrong About Everything," "How to Maintain a Delusion Until Reality Kicks You in the Face," or "F***, F***, F***."

Ding! Lunch time.

Movie Review: Insidious (2010)

Insidious, I am disappoint. What started out okay turned into schlock. Movie spoilers in the review below.

Insidious opens with the Lambert family having just moved into a spacious house in the suburbs. In between taking care of three energetic kids, the mom (Rose Byrne) notices things out of place, like books and boxes. Things escalate quickly when her eldest son goes into an inexplicable coma. Unnerved by a sudden onslaught of ghostly visitors, the Lamberts move to another house, but the hauntings continue.

This is basically Poltergeist, but the kid is haunted, not the house. After the mom, all alone in the new house, naturally, gets spooked almost out of her mind, she convinces her husband to call "someone who can help." This person brings a team with equipment. Again, Poltergeist. The expert explains that the child is in another place, and must be brought back before it's too late. Say it with me: POL. TER. GEIST.

Despite that, I was willing to give Insidious a chance. I thought it could be enjoyable if considered as sci-fi, rather than horror. I could have forgiven its non-suspenseful writing -- for example, the dad's (Patrick Wilson) connection to all the strangeness is telegraphed within the first ten minutes of the movie -- but the dumb ending ruined everything. Everything! Sure, the real villain's INSIDIOUSNESS makes the title apt, but the Big Bad is nowhere near as fleshed out (figuratively, of course) as the freakish watery corpse-monster of Mama.

Insidious also has too many WTF moments. One, what is with the poster? At no point did the kid look that creepy. Two, what was the point of the scene where the girl killed her family? Three, where is the payoff for constantly flinging the grandfather clock in the audience's face? Practically every three minutes the camera is pointed at the clock, with dun-dun-dunnnn! music playing in the background. It's even there at the murder scene. It must be important! Except, it's not? Finally, what is the point of making sure we know that Patrick Wilson's character is vain? Why did Rose Byrne's character not have a personality? Why is this movie not marketed as a prophylactic against having children? WTF?

I hear they're doing a sequel. If they have the same writer, the grandfather clock will probably turn out to be carved from the wood where a witch was hung, designed by her mad grieving lover, and then recovered from a Native American burial ground. Oh, and sold by a self-serving real estate agent. I hope I covered every possible trope from Poltergeist and beyond. Honestly, Hollywood should just hire me.

In conclusion: watch something else horrific that came out in the same year as Insidious, like The Crazies, Let Me In, or the 2010 Midterm Elections that swept the Tea Party into political power. Let the nightmares continue...

Bride Power, Make Up!!!

Now that the danger appears to be over, we return to our regularly scheduled fluffy programming. Today's post: turning beast into bride!

Last weekend, Special K and I ventured into Sephora for my beauty appointment. Makeup Lady, or ML, was professional, knowledgeable, and had me looking like a magic fairy within the allotted forty-five minutes.

In between applying all forms of chemicals to my face, ML answered Special K's beauty interrogations. Special K loves makeup and trains herself via YouTube, but her homegrown knowledge proved no match for one of Sephora' s operatives. ML told her, in no uncertain terms: SPF is okay, liquid foundation is superior to powder, these are the brushes you must have, et cetera.

At the end of the session, everything that touched my face went into a little box, and we jaunted off to the cashier. We used Special K's Beauty Insider card for the Super Sikrot 15% discount. Our purchase entitled her to a VIB card. That's like being able to stay at the MGM Grand for free because you gamble so much.

Special K, conscientious grad student, tried to return some items so my credit card would stop screaming, but I assured her it was okay. After all, I'm going to win the lottery any day now. Yup... anyyy... dayyy...

We went back to my place and she replicated what ML did in thirty minutes. Truly, Special K is an artist. See, this is why I opted for a friend instead of a salon -- I trust Special K with my face, and she'll be around all evening for touchups! Whoop whoop!

We agreed that the price I paid for all my bridal makeup was worth it, because they would last me a long time. Before we went to Sephora, I only owned crappy eyeliner and mascara. This was my first major makeup purchase, and it's probably comparable to what a normal female human buys in a year. I had to look at it as a long term investment.

To look at least 12% prettier on my wedding day (one month away! eeeek!), I bought:

• Three shades of eye makeup
• Three brushes for eye makeup
• Concealer
• Brush for concealer
• Primer
• Foundation
• Brush for primer and foundation
• Rouge
• Lipstick
• Brush for lipstick
• Lip gloss

Total: $443.43

---

"You still wake up sometimes, don't you? You wake up in the dark and hear the screaming of your bank account."

"Yes."

(The Silence of the Funds, 2013)

By Chance

I was there with a friend three-plus hours into the 2013 Boston Marathon. We squeezed in with the crowds and joined them in cheering for these determined strangers. We shouted louder when a soldier marched past, laden with a full backpack. We laughed at the utter disregard for open container laws. There was so much energy and excitement.

We got to the finish line and took pictures of the runners, who looked exhausted but jubilant. I remember telling my friend, "Look, some of these guys have been running for almost four hours!" Then we wandered off. I went home, kissed Fiancé hello, and sat down on the couch to read. Moments later, he yelled, "WTF?" and told me to turn on the TV.

The scenes shown were unbelievable. I was just there, literally at that spot. If my friend and I had hung around for another fifteen or twenty minutes, we would have been caught in the blasts.

As I watched the news, I kept thinking about how there were so many people. The sidewalks were packed when we left. There were children and pets everywhere. The only bright side was that the explosions occurred near the medical response teams.

There are three dead and over a hundred injured. By chance, my friend and are I am not among them. By chance, we decided to leave when we did. By chance, we didn't go into a store, or do anything else that would have kept us there.

Holy shit.

The casualties were mostly spectators, but we checked in with the runners we knew. Our friend finished and left before it happened. There were runners for the place where I interviewed last week, so I emailed my interviewer to say that I hoped everyone was fine. She replied that they were all safe. At our gym, the trainers and members who ran were apparently all okay.

I'm relieved. It really does hit you hard when it strikes close to home. I love Boston, and this is some fucking bullshit, pardon my French. I'd donate blood, but (a) they already have enough, and (b) no one wants anything that came from my third world veins. Well then, thoughts and prayers it is.

In conclusion: Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert pay tribute to Boston following the bombing. 

Ang Bruha ng Balete / The Witch of Balete

One day, a giant bamboo sprouted from the earth at the top of the mountain. When the bamboo split open, its two halves revealed the first man and woman. They awoke and lived in the mighty bamboo forest that bloomed from the remains of the dead giant.

An old balete grew at the edge of the bamboo forest. The tree became jealous of the giant bamboo. It too wanted to produce new beings and help give birth to a stand of fellow trees. But try as it might, it could not create a man and a woman as the bamboo did.

One day, in desperation, the balete asked an eagle flying overhead for advice. The eagle replied that it could not help, for the answer lay in the ground, and not in the sky where the eagle soared.

The balete went deep inside itself, and with its roots, felt for the truth of creation. Many long years passed as the tree continued its search.

At last, it found the answer. It shouted in exultation. At that exact instant, a bolt of lightning struck from the heavens and killed the tree. The witch emerged from its charred remains.

The first man and woman saw the lightning strike and went to investigate. They saw the witch and invited her to their home. She went with them and regaled them with many tales, for she knew all truths. She also told them how to make other creatures like themselves.

The first man and woman gave birth to many children. The witch stayed with the family for several generations and taught them how to thrive. Eventually, the people of the mountain-forest decided to leave the mountain to seek their fortunes. The witch warned them to stay with her, but they went anyway. Over time, they became corrupted by the world outside.

The witch stayed behind, tasked with guarding the knowledge that the lightning bestowed upon her.

***

Notes:

Balete Drive in Quezon City is apparently the prowling grounds of the infamous White Lady. Rumor has it that hapless drivers will suddenly see a woman wearing white, brake too late, and run her over. Then, puzzled by the lack of impact, they would get out of their car and investigate, only to find nothing. When they go to drive away, they'll glance in their rearview mirror...to see the woman sitting in their backseat.

Dun-dun-dunnnn!

This story combines the Filipino story of creation (the bamboo one, not the one where god bakes) and the link between the balete and the White Lady. I like the idea of re-imagining witches as forces of good, like Terry Pratchett does in Discworld. Hence, the balete as the unwitting recipient of knowledge / mom to the most charming people in all of Asia.

Writing with Two X Chromosomes

Photojournalist and author Deborah Copaken Kogan wrote a candid piece on Jezebel entitled, "My So-Called 'Post-Feminist' Life in Arts and Letters," wherein she shared her personal experience with gender discrimination. Kogan endured being ignored by reviewers, being slandered, and being labeled primarily as a stay-at-home mom despite her previous career as an award-winning network producer and a photojournalist. "Would you call a male author a stay-at-home dad?" she asks.

No, I call 'em alcoholics, hur hur hur.

Joking aside, publishing baffles me. Reading is subjective. There are good works, there are classics, and there are Fifty Shades of Gray and its ilk. According to Kogan, she barely had any say in how her books were titled and sold, which, hey -- she's the author, they're the publisher -- she writes, they print it, package it, and sell it. Simple, no?

I'm puzzled about why there wasn't more collaboration, but in her case, I do have a counter example for her anecdote about having to fight over the covers of her books. Darrell K. Sweet, R.I.P., created all the cover art for the Wheel of Time series (except A Memory of Light). Readers made fun of those covers because they were so cheesy, and more to the point, they didn't appear to reflect any of the book's content. If nothing else, the "Sweet" cover arts generated a lot of humor posts in the early days of the Internet. The point is, there's a lot going on in the various departments of a publishing house, and not all of it is optimal.

Kogan's most salient point in the article involves the three words that kept her silent for so long: "They'll smear you." The fear of speaking out, of expressing her reality, held her in its grip. She says it best:

The lack of respectful coverage, the slut-shaming and name-calling, all the girly book covers and not-my-titles despite high literary aspirations, has worn me down, made me question everything: my abilities, my future, my life. This is what sexism does best: it makes you feel crazy for desiring parity and hopeless about ever achieving it.

Then she heard Bob Dylan sing, "When you ain't got nothing, you got nothing to lose." By this time, all Kogan had to lose was her fear. And she tossed it aside and held out herself to us, and told us what she'd been through, and what she'd expected of the feminist revolution, and what life hurled back at her. It's slow going, she says, and we're not there yet, but we keep fighting. First, we stand up for ourselves. Then we let our voices ring! Equality! Equality! Equality!

In case you're wondering, I'm still working on the first part: standing up. No, seriously, this couch is so comfortable.

Fortunately, I can draw inspiration from actual women doing actual things, like Kogan. And after inspiration comes perspiration, amirite?

Next post: A trip to Sephora! A credit card weeps! Stay tuned!

Minecraft

Fiancé discovered Minecraft a few months ago and became obsessed with it for a while. He started with the iPad game, to try it out, and bought the full version on his PC. For hours, he absorbed himself in his "interactive Lego land," and would proudly show me a glass house he created underwater, or some sky columns that served some mysterious, world-building purpose.

I was barely interested because the interface is blocky and everything is made up of nineties-looking 3D polygons, but he loves it. He even bought the XBox version so he could play with his nephew.

I suppose it was his turn to be mindlessly obsessed with something, because I did spend over a hundred hours playing Xenoblade Chronicles. Well, we're a nerd couple, it comes with the territory.

A note about comics: I chose not to renew my fragrantelephant.com site, because (a) I'm not trying to make money off my comics, and (b) I'd prefer to keep everything I have on one site that happens to be free (thanks, Google!). So around April 25, that site will redirect to this one, if I do what I'm supposed to do. In any case, the "Comics" section has my best work.

Happy Hump Day!

Where Is My Relax

On my last day at the office, during snack and coloring time, I am not kidding, two coworkers revealed that when they got laid off, it was "the best time" of their lives. They just relaxed and eventually found new jobs. I felt relieved when I heard that. I prepared to also enjoy my unexpected stay-cation.

Except I've mostly been cleaning, doing wedding planning, running errands, and then cleaning some more. Fiancé seems to think I spend my days playing Ni no Kuni. I wish.

Why do I clean so much? Well, I had a troubled childhood, so ordering my surroundings is my way of creating a sense of control over my own circumstances as an adult. Just kidding. I'm actually a superhero and organizing everything is my superpower.

But honestly, this is awesome. I no longer have to drag my unconscious self out of bed so that I can stuff myself into a ladies' monkey suit and march toward a building to spend eight hours in a six by six cubicle staring into a nineteen-inch monitor. Instead, I have a leisurely breakfast with my betrothed, and then plop down on a comfy couch and look for someone to pay me to do stuff. Or I track RSVPs and pick out songs for the nuptials. Showers occur when I have an upcoming face-to-face interview, or have to interact with other humans who do not intend to enter into a lifetime commitment with me.

On a side note, why why why are interviewers always late? Is it fashionable now?

My days are made brighter by a sweet little spot of furry sunshine, who bellow-meows to get my attention and then gives me pointed looks that say, "It's nap time and I need you. As a bed." I often have Sheba on my lap as I type, although that tends to backfire when she rests her head on my forearm and prevents me from reaching the keyboard.

So I guess, in answer to the question, "Where is my relax?" -- it's right here, right now. These are my softly glowing days of hope, promise, and comfort.

Tune in for the inevitable followup post: "Where is My Paycheck," wherein we all know that the answer is, "No job, no paycheck!"

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to talk to a person about a thing at a place. Phone interviews yeahhhhh

Bachelorette

The crew: the Bride, Crispy, Special K, Vitamin E, Big J, and Shaffles. I earned the nickname "The Mean One" at one point.

The place: Foxwoods Resort Casino in Mashantucket, CT.

The reason: To celebrate my final days as a singleton.

We started out with two bottles of wine in the hotel room. Then we lined up for our resident makeup artist, Special K, who had brought an entire suitcase full of beauty products. Once prettification was complete for all, we headed for High Rollers, the fancy bowling alley. We had signed up for the Bachelorette VIP Package, which included appetizers, champagne, and a scorpion bowl the size of my head. Thus fortified, we bowled our little hearts out. After two bottles of champagne and healthy sips of the scorpion bowl, this is what I looked like:

"These balls are yellowwwwwww!"

Towards the middle of our two-hour session, I hit just the right level of drunk, and got strikes all the time. Then I lost my powers and everything became gutter balls. Weird.

And the night had just begun! We scurried off to the casino, where Shaffles and I each lost twenty bucks in two minutes at the slot machines. We debated going for some blackjack, but then wandered off to the Scorpion Bar.

Ah, the Scorpion Bar. The sticky dance floor, the athletic professional dancers, the sketchy men. We had a round of margarita shots and then switched to another scorpion bowl. Special K and Vitamin E kept going to the dance floor, and whenever I checked on them, they would follow me like ducklings for some reason. Ducklings doing a conga line, that is.

We partied hard, chatted with strangers, and eventually returned to our hotel room. I sailed past everyone and into the bathroom, smiling serenely. I locked the door behind me and barfed everything I drank. We all did our ablutions and passed out.

The next morning I wanted to die. I had a blinding headache, and when I chugged water, my stomach immediately hurled it back out. Shaffles kindly bought me a breakfast of oatmeal and fruits, which I picked at miserably before giving it to Special K, who had to feed her tapeworm, Fred. Then I barfed what little I ate.

I perked up a bit when we went to MGM Spa for massages. It was glorious. We had access to all spa facilities, so we spent some time in the hot tub after our much-needed whole-body rubs. We could have all the water, juice, fruits, and bath products we needed. I softened my stance against first world overconsumption. Being pampered feels good.

We all went for a quick lunch at Al Dente. This was when my friends realized they'd forgotten to get me a tiara. Vitamin E quickly went all arts and crafts on our paper place mats, and made me this headpiece:

I wore my tiara/horns with pride.

In any case, I had recovered from my hangover by then and was ready for Night Two: No More Drunkenness. The second evening was indeed different from the first, in that the dance floor was jam-packed, not sticky, and the douchebag levels went up by 2,000%. This is because we went to Shrine, which fancied itself a classy joint, but really wasn't. I mean, girls were taking pictures of themselves in the bathroom. WTF? Plus, later in the night, the bar charged five bucks for bottled water, because they stopped giving out tap water. WTF¹⁰⁰⁰⁰??? Our bartender had no idea what an Orgasm was (so sad), and when I asked her for something that tasted like a Buttery Nipple, she made me a Slippery Nipple...with Sambuca and Amaretto. Wrong! So wrong! It's supposed to be Sambuca and BAILEY'S!!!

The best (worst) part of the night came after we finally settled down at an awesome spot: in front of the fireplace out on the covered patio. Other people mingled at a distance, so we had a semi-private lounge, almost. That all changed when an admittedly good-looking Stepford Smiler plopped himself down right beside me on the bed-sized bench. He tried to engage me in conversation, but I could barely hear him, so I just stared at him blankly.

He changed tact. "I'm not here for you," he smiled, "I'm here for the heat. You can't hog the heat." I shrugged and gestured that the fireplace was for everyone. Meanwhile, Big J was trying to send mind signals to the bouncers to get rid of this guy. I was saved when Special K made me go to the bar with her to help carry back drinks.

Stepford Smiler sidled up to Big J. "Are you married?" he asked her. She nodded, but he didn't get the go-away hint. "I'm divorced and in a relationship," he overshared.

Big J tried to be nice. "How is she? Or he?" We had just watched the Amy Schumer show and there was talk of gays, so she was being open-minded. Also, he was dressed metro.

Stepford Smiler went on a rant about "How could you think I'm gay?" and blah blah blah. He looked around and asked, "Where's the mean one?" and then went on about how he wasn't a homo. The rest of our group arrived, squeezed onto the bench, and had our own conversations as he yammered on, still smiling breezily. Eventually, he wore himself out and left. We were all, "W. T. F."

I tried to go on the dance floor, but there were too many people, and I was creeped out by how some guys' eyes would brighten when they saw our group. I found out later that by that point, Special K had been subject to a surprise Frenching, and Vitamin E had had to smack the offending dude. They also told me that they went back to check out the Scorpion Bar (I was exhausted and went home before 2 AM, because I am old), where some guy went, "ASIANS!!!" when he saw them, and some other guy (maybe the same guy, IDK) said to Vitamin E, "Fellow black person! I feel we must dance!"

So yeah...that was our second night. I think we toasted to love over dinner, and to fwendship the night before. Huh. It was like the toasts came true or something, but not in ways we expected.

The comedy of the next morning was the buffet breakfast, when our very nice waitress kept printing out our check, only to find that another person from the group had joined and was getting buffet, so she had to print another check. She did this like three times. We left a big tip.

Then off we went into the glorious springtime sunshine, each with our own and our shared memories, and with one-liners from the comedy show to sustain us. I'd offer my favorites, but I'm feeling family-friendly today, so I leave you with this photo of a food item and an ergonomic appliance:

It's better not to ask.

I'm out. (drops mic)