The Self-Approval Bias

It is amazing to me how fiercely people love what is theirs.

Some person, some object, some place--insignificant and unattractive--takes on a whole new level of value once it has been claimed.

What once was clay becomes gold. What were flaws are ignored. There is no more critical evaluation, no more analysis. No more doubts.

It is unequivocally good because it is yours. It is part of you. And every man loves himself.

It is almost always annoying to hear these self-approving people talk about their objects of approval.

But some, a minority, do not love themselves. They do not pronounce, like God, that they and theirs are good. These people's company are bearable if their self-criticalness is tempered with charity and grace.

I need to join a support group...

...but until then, listening to The Voice (aka Barbra Streisand) sing this classic from Feinstein Michael will have to suffice.

Where do you start?
How do you separate the present from the past?
How do you deal with all the thing you thought would last
That didn't last?
With bits of memories scattered here and there
I look around and don't know where to start.

Where do you start?
Do you allow yourself a little time to cry?
Or do you close your eyes & kiss it all goodbye?
I guess you try.

And though I don't know where & don't know when
I'll find myself in love again
I promise there will always be
A little place no one will see
A tiny part within my heart
That stays in love
With you

First comes love, then comes 30.

I can no longer deny I’ve moved into middle-aged adultdom. There, I said it.

Last year, I didn’t know a single person that was pregnant.

This year, everyone and their cousin is pregnant. Literally, off the top of my head, I can list 9 people I know who are popping or have popped in the last 6 months. And that’s not counting all the Facebook pregnancies of more distant “friends.”

It must be because I’m turning 30. There, I said that too.

Ever since I was a teen, the age 30 had a magical quality to it. Like a harbinger of death, or at least fuddy-duddiness. 30 is the end of fun. The beginning of solid responsibility, sensible shoes and corporate hair. The time you really start to look like your mom or dad did.

And, what I’ve only recently discovered, 30 is the age for having babies.

Sigh, kids. Is it really time for all that? Sigh.

I have no problem with kids, but I guess I was hoping to avoid all that…drama. I feel like there is a manic penumbra surrounding the topic of kids that I don’t want to go anywhere near. It’s like, normal, reasonable, self-deprecating people suddenly morph into obsessed, wild-eyed crazies when it comes to their children. I know this is a generalization, but you know what I’m talking about!

Even when polite parents try to conceal it, you can see the gleam in their eyes. It’s a gleam of pride, exaltation, TRIUMPH! The gleam says: Isn’t my kid a piece of work?! I once read an interview of Katie Holmes talking about 1 year old Suri and how Katie is in awe of Suri. Simply in AWE. Suri teaches Katie about how to be a better human being and she’s so incredibly courageous.

Courageous?

Is Suri fighting off rabid bears out behind the Hollywood hills? Is she grappling with the existential angst of living in a fallen and broken world? Is she even struggling with an awful childhood illness that requires multiple surgeries or radiation?

Then…how…? Help me out here Katie.

And as much as I want to tell myself that I don’t want to turn into THAT mother, what hope do I have? Doesn’t (almost) every parent turn into a puddle of child-goop because that is the power of kids? Sigh.

I don’t mind the sagging, the wrinkles, the weight-gain and the loss of vigor so much (okay, that’s a lie, I’m going to fight those tooth and nail)--but when it comes to aging, save me from parenthood!

p.s. And no, I'm not baking something in the oven, so to speak!

Welcome to My Hood

Everyday I go out my front gate I see this:




And if I walk just a few blocks, I'll see what can only be described as 'blight', and dope fiends pushing grocery carts and bangers on the corner, waiting for 'business'. It's straight up "The Wire" (literally, the show was based in part on Oakland).


But in a few spots, there is irrepressable artistry--all the more stunning given its context.


And speaking of irrepressable artistry, here's a little gangsta' soundtrack to go along with the view:

Look at the situation, they got me facing,
I can't live a normal life, I was raised by the state.


So I gotta be down with the 'hood team,
Too much television watching, got me chasing dreams.


I'm an educated fool with money on my mind
Got my ten in my hand and a gleam in my eye.


I'm a locked out gangsta, set tripping banger
And my homies are down so don't arouse my anger.


Fool, death ain't nothing but a heart beat away,
I'm living life do or die, what can I say?


I'm twenty-three now, will I ever live to see twenty-four,
The way things is going I don't know.


Power in the money, money in the power,
Minute after minute, hour after hour,


Everybody's running, but half of them ain't looking
It's going on in the kitchen


But I don't know what's cooking.
They say I gotta learn


But nobody's here to teach me.
If they can't understand it, how can they reach me?


I guess they can't,
I guess they won't,
I guess they front,


That's why I know my life is out of luck, foo!