Monthly Archives: November 2016

* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we like our inner peace accompanied by outer laughter. Follow the soothing voice of Emily Schleiger into a place of terror and darkness.

Guided Imagery: Freedom From Your Smartphone

By: Emily Schleiger

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A warm welcome, all of you, to the Balanced Dreams Wellness Center, and to this Guided Meditation class: Freedom From Your Smartphone. My name is Harmony. Congratulations on taking your first step toward release from addiction. Together in this supportive space, we will envision the course of a day without the psychic burden of your tech device.

Let’s focus by closing our eyes. Inhale deeply, exhale slowly…practice gently lifting your chin upward…not down as if you were reading text from your palm.

As we visualize our day without our smartphones, remember: if panic overcomes you at any point, imagine yourself on a tranquil beach listening to waves.

Yes? No, Mike, you’re not worried about sand getting in your phone, because, of course, your phone isn’t there. No, there’s no chance the babysitter from Sandals’ Kids Club might call. This is your happy place. You control it.

I’m sorry, you have your hand up, Andrea? No, you can’t listen to seagulls instead of waves on your white noise app. The sound is a gift from your imagination. If your imagination chooses seagulls, hear seagulls.

Pause a second, everyone, to feel the infinite energy of your soul, the power that needs no cord, no outlet…

Derek — yes? I don’t know how you got to the beach without your Southwest Airlines or Uber apps. Perhaps your soul lives just a short walk from this beach. Yes, that close. No need for Google Maps.

Let’s try to hold questions until the end, okay?

Being present now, we’re heading back to the visualization. Imagine beginning your day with the sun streaming in. Take a moment to stretch, connecting with your spirit. It is a relaxed Sunday. Now, picture yourself cooking a delicious breakfast. Invite yourself to bacon, toast, poached eggs…

Janet, yes. Well, you’re making the eggs by memory. Without a Pinterest recipe.

So! After breakfast, envision taking in the senses of the running water in your shower. Clothe yourself and remain present. Meditate on loving kindness…

Janet again. No, it’s a beautiful day and there is no need to check your weather app for a hail forecast. It’s just a visualization. Yes, you’re safe to put the top down on the Sebring convertible later.

Mike, you appear to be breaking out in a heavy sweat. Can you verbalize your feelings? No, you don’t need to check in anywhere on Facebook. How will your wife know where you were? Um…

Oh, wow! Time flies! That sound means our time is up! What? That’s your Tinder chime, Janet? You have a Tinder account? I mean, you look a little…outside the age demographic for Tinder, but…good for you. Wait — you should not have a ph– that’s your “back-up” phone? Place it by the incense now. Right now.

Look how long you’ve made it without your smartphone! You might celebrate this later! Make room in your heart for newfound feelings of freedom!

Now you will visualize walking your dog. No, Karen, no need for My Fitness Pal app. Assume you burn a few calories.

And it’s a quiet walk, so, no, Madison. No Spotify.

And no, no selfies on Instagram! This is a selfie-free visualization!! No one meditates about selfies! Got it?!

What’s that, Janet? What kind of bird is that you hear on the walk? I don’t know!! You get to invent it. No, no! You do not need your Audubon Bird Guide app to figure that out! Who has that?! Who has both an Audubon app AND a Tinder app?! Why, why, why?!

Ok, now, focus on your dog, after your walk. Does your dog feel distressed not having a smartphone? The answer is no. It’s no, dammit! Don’t even talk. You people are hopeless.

Breathe.

It’s time for our visualized lunch. Now, this is the real test….can you meet a friend for lunch and avoid looking at a phone? I don’t believe you can, but you need to believe.

Madison…you’ve already planned to meet this friend for lunch. It’s a restaurant you like. You don’t need Yelp, you don’t need to text your friend to ask if she’s arrived, and you don’t need to tweet your excitement. Just go eat the damn food. Is that…are you wearing an Apple Watch?! Place it near the incense. No, you will not die without it! Listen up people. Today is my last day teaching this class. Please just try to engage, ‘k?

Mike, your wife approves of your meeting this friend for lunch. She does not suspect you are having an affair. You’ll just talk to, who, Suri? Oh you mean… Siri. No, you won’t, Mike. Siri is part of your phone and she won’t be at lunch. She is a tiny, conscience-less, voice-activated robot, Mike. You shouldn’t have included Siri in your lunch reservation, because she can’t engage in actual conversation. Mike, how about you ask your wife to join you for lunch? No, still out of town with her male boss named Sebastian. For five weeks. Okay. Um…Mike, maybe you want to sign up for our Healthy Boundaries in Relationships Guided Meditation? Mike, no — I don’t think you should wear a wire so your wife will trust you. You poor man.

Oh my God. Did Madison just…spontaneously combust…when she took off her Apple Watch? What-the-

Oh, that gong means our time is up. We weren’t able to finish the guided imagery, so you’ll have to visualize surviving the rest of the day independently. Good luck with that.

Open your eyes, inhale, exhale, bring your hands to heart center. Just an announcement: after today classes will no longer be held at the Wellness Center. As you may have noticed, the lobby was turned into a Pokemon GO Gym, which makes conducting these classes even more difficult. If you need more practice, today’s exercise will be available as a podcast on our website.

Peace on your journeys.

 

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where, as the fate of our republic and indeed the whole world hangs in the balance, we focus unerringly on the most important issues of the day. Like, um, the game of peek-a-boo. Put your hands over your eyes and say hello to Katie Clad.

I’m Blowing Your Kid’s Mind With My Version Of Peek-a-boo

By: Katie Clad

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You know how it goes, this game for babies. You find a receptive tot and you mug a little to get their attention. Then you take a blanket or your hand, whatever, and you cover your face. You wait a beat, drop the thingamajig and — surprise — it’s your face. The baby smiles, maybe even laughs, game over. Yawn. See, when it comes to infant cognitive development, I like to “think different.”

Janet, they said, why mess with a classic? Play peek-a-boo the way it’s always been played. Right now, it’s simple; no props needed and the little one learns something about object permanence and differentiation of self. Make things easy for yourself!

Sorry, but I’m not about just going with the flow. Where would we as a society be if everyone did things the way they’ve always been done? We’d be naked and sitting in the dirt, trying to eat the bugs that fly past our mouths. Each of us has a responsibility to push the human race forward. At least, that’s what I believe.

So when I play peek-a-boo with some cutie pie, I leave the blankie up in front of my face. Peek-a-boo! I shout, then wait a beat and shout peek-a-boo! again. I can’t see much, but I’m pretty certain the kid is all: who’s yelling that? Where’d they go? Pow! Suddenly they’re questioning everything they’ve learned about the world.

Or, I’ll wave at some little angel, put my hands over my face then jump onto a nearby tricycle and pedal furiously away. They’ll totally forget that youngish and still-attractive lady they met in the park. That is, until two or three hours later, when they’re headed home. That’s when I jump out in front of their stroller from behind a trashcan. PEEK-A-BOO!

I briefly considered earning a degree in early childhood education. Alas, I soon realized that my approach was deemed too radical by the powers that be. They took issue with my stated goal of industry disruption, sniffing that the only thing I was “disrupting” was a healthy attachment process. Well, I found their coddling approach to be a disservice to this country’s future tastemakers, in the long, long run.

Sure, you could call me an innovator. Innovators make waves. They aren’t afraid of making people — of any age — a bit uncomfortable. It’s been proven that we humans learn best when pushed out of our comfort zone. So when I’m in a playground and I spy a chubby li’l cherub, I’ll position myself right in their line of vision. Then I’ll hold my hands flat in front of my face and wait a few beats before lowering them slowly to reveal cold, dead eyes and a horrifying maniacal grin, frozen in silence. Marinate on that, you adorable rug rat! Where’s your rapprochement now?

Rarely, there’s a tiny rascal who looks ready to create some neural pathways in a next level way. When I’m sure mommy isn’t looking, I’ll get that sweet moppet’s attention and pull the flap of my jacket in front of my face. I pop into my mouth a generous handful of these blood capsules I keep on me especially for these occasions. When I pull my arm back I’m making this awful gurgling noise while crimson ooze flows out of my mouth and drips into the sandbox. Admittedly, this is a tougher one to land. It’s very difficult to shout peek-a-boo over a screaming kiddo when your mouth is full of thick colored syrup.

Sure, I’ve been chased out of playgrounds by a few touchy mothers. I don’t let it get to me; the status quo will always have its defenders. For real change, you need to impact the next generation directly. I can tell that this precious darling is lucky to have a forward-thinking parent such as yourself who undoubtedly agrees that — okay, stop pushing! I’ll leave.

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where it's always your lucky day! Oh, the luck you're about to have. You have no idea! And neither do the makers of Lucky Charms. Heed the blarney of Luke Roloff.

Some Lucky Ideas For Making Lucky Charms Luckier

By: Luke Roloff

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To the Lucky Charms R&D Team:

Hello! My family and I love your product — especially the luck it brings me. Odds are, I bet you get this type of letter all the time, so I’ll just cut to the chase. While I have long relied on your hardened mallows for a serotonin boost at the breakfast table as much as a rush of dopamine at the roulette table, I see a few missed opportunities I hope I can tip you off on.

Lord knows your horseshoes, rainbows and shooting stars are proven ironclad luck makers, though I’d like to share with you a few additional charms bound to help me settle my scores around town. Starting with an obvious one — the Pot O’ Gold. Maybe I’m missing something here, but it’s pictured on the front of your box – why isn’t it floating in my bowl?

Every morning after spending some time and serious money playing online poker with the kids, I finger through a box of Lucky Charms probing for a Pot O’ Gold sugar nugget lucky enough to keep the bookies from breaking both kneecaps. I comb and I comb, but no matter how many deformed bits of brown I dig through, there’s no gilded pot to be found. All I can do is look down at the faces of my children and say, what are you looking at?

I make it a priority to teach my children that life isn’t a big game of trying hard and doing your best. I pray they’ll come to understand that it’s better to be lucky than good, and even better than that to be good at luck. Because as we both know, luck doesn’t just come along by chance. It’s not some hocus-pocus fluke. No. Good luck is the product of a good luck ethic.

After getting the kids off to the park to pick 4-leaf clovers for the day, I swing by the local cockfight and then head to the horse track. The key to me not losing borrowed money is my lucky underwear. Classic white briefs, if you must know. This is another missed opportunity I don’t quite comprehend. Lucky underwear is a common thread in achieving luck. Please add the white briefs marshmallow. And, I’m embarrassed for you to even have to bring this up, but the lack of a little horsey/jockey marshmallow in your lineup is as sorely missed as my left pinky.

The lies I told myself to justify losing my kids college tuition in scratch tickets alone – ha! There’s nothing you can do but shake your head and laugh as you blindly lay down another wild bet and constantly look for ways to acquire more luck. It’s a game of attrition. The more you look for luck, the less time you have for unlucky things.

This may come as a surprise, but I have a love for gambling. When I’m not on a bender in Vegas, I spend most nights bunkered inside a seedy underground card room while my kids are safe in the adjacent room playing craps. But not without my lucky jackknife I don’t. I’ve fought off dozens of cold streaks and angry thugs with it. And I feel the addition of a steel shank to the Lucky Charms family is long overdue.

What is luck, really? Some days you have it, most days you don’t. And on those days, you need even more of it. It ebbs and flows like the tide of the sea. You dip your toe in for the cool rush, and before you know it, a tsunami crushes the skull of your financial well-being and possibly your head if you don’t pay the piper. That’s when you begin to wonder, are my Lucky Charms magically delicious? Or are they just delicious? Deep down you know they’re infused with lucky magic, but sometimes you lose sight of the truth when you lose your house and family and kidney due to illegal sports betting.

Robbing banks isn’t for everyone. It’s for people experiencing a small string of crummy luck. Now just spit-balling here, but I wonder if a machinegun marshmallow doesn’t make a lot of sense? And a little security guard man could be fun, too. Listen, with all due respect, I don’t want to tell you how to run your business, but I will if you don’t meet my demands.

Thank you for taking the time to read my letter in light of it being postmarked from San Quentin State Prison. I hope you find it lucky and not rude. Please consider making the aforementioned additions and greatly improving my odds of winning back my family from the bruisers who are holding them hostage.

Expectantly,

Greg

 

 

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where there is nothing more magical than the magic of democracy -- except the magic of Harry Potter. Thanks goodness J.K. Rowling is back to writing about him again...and again...and again. Listen to your literary correspondent Alex Bernstein.

Harry Potter Grows Up

By: Alex Bernstein

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Discovering that she is thoroughly unable to stop writing about her beloved creation, J. K. Rowling has announced a new spate of Harry Potter books chronicling his further adventures into adulthood.  Some upcoming titles include:

Harry Potter and…

The Nagging Quidditch Knee Injury

The Cursed Child’s Bi-Monthly Orthodontic Schedule

The Greatly Delayed Loan Payments for Three Damn Kids at Hogwarts

The Curious Explanation of Why Albus Does Not Need a New Broomstick When a Used One Will Do Just Fine, Thank You

The Long-Delayed Switch from Owls to Skype

The Juice Cleanse from Azkaban

The Inappropriate Trade of Snapchat Pix with Luna Lovegood

The Great Difficulty in Finding Platform 9 3/4s as well as Bathroom 7 8/10s

The Sad Realization that the More Butterbeer He Drinks, the Better Ginny Looks

The Awkward Confession that He Actually Misses Voldemort

The Embarrassing Arrest for Yelling “I’m Harry Potter, Dammit!” 100 Times at the Leaky Cauldron

The Awful Mistake in Telling Hagrid to Hit Him as Hard as He Can, Because Hey! He Can Take It!

The Annual Uncontrolled Sobbing at the Grave of Sirius Black

The Earnest Admission that Deep Down He Always Felt Muggle

The Visit to the Wonderful New Apple Store in Diagon Alley

The Oddly Arousing House Elf

The Powerful Spell of Ineeda Viagra!

The Acknowledgement that He Really Couldn’t Remember His Parent’s Names Even Before the Dementia Set In

The Quiet Realization that He Should Probably Put All that Magical Bullshit Behind Him

The Long Overdue Laser Surgery to Remove that Stupid Scar

The Bizarre Thrill of New Aluminum Siding

His Discovery of the True Magic of Yoga

 

And also:
Granger-Weasley Family Intervention

Where’s My Damn Sorting Hat?!

Magical Pests and How to Remove Them from Your Basement

 

 

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* Welcome to The Big Jewel, where we are preparing to celebrate the fun and the folly of this little thing called democracy. Meanwhile, our good friend Michael Fowler is preparing for the worst -- which comes to pretty much the same thing. When you've finished reading his latest bit of hilarity, be sure to check our blogroll on the right for a link to his book, God Made the Animals.

If Trump Wins, I’m Moving To The Sticks

By: Michael Fowler

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If Trump is elected this year, I’m moving to the sticks. Goodbye big city, hello boondocks. I’ll be looking for a town so tiny and moribund that not even the Donald can degrade it more.

I’m thinking something I can afford, say a river town with shanties, probably in the Midwest where I’m from. There are plenty of tiny burgs along the Ohio and Cumberland Rivers, for example, with populations of no more than 1500 where I can hole up and ride out the heinous Trump administration. I’ll sit on my wooden front porch, rotten and warped as it may be, and watch the river roll by, holding my head in my hands. “It’s not our country anymore,” I’ll say to my dog Colin, as he lies motionlessly, almost breathlessly, at my feet. “I don’t know who it belongs to now.”

Of course I’d prefer fancier surroundings. The city apartment I have now isn’t bad at all, near my work and lots of nightlife. But I don’t have the funds to follow Whoopi and Babs to Spain or Portugal or whatever beautiful European coastal regions stars like that’ll be going to, to avoid Trump’s wrath. I wish I could go with them, but I can barely afford the airfare. They won’t miss me, of course, and I’ll do my best not to miss them, though it will be hard. They’re my kind of folks.

The town I choose, whatever it’s called, will likely be dying former ironworkers or coal miners and their tubercular wives, abandoned by the global economy and by their grown children. Or dirt-poor farmers too proud to accept ethanol subsidies. Not much affluence, not much hope, lots of drugs. I’m 31 and in good health, and Colin and I have many long days left to plant ourselves on that porch on Main Street, the ramshackle one I envision, hopefully down by the river, about three blocks from the shuttered mill or rusted foundry where everyone used to work. I’ll wave a somber hello to those who, like me, have escaped Trump’s mania, and we’ll exchange hushed greetings at the Dollar Store. We’ll all smile timidly into our plates at the Sunday spaghetti supper. There’s no question of the town becoming great again; it can’t. Its greatest claim to fame is being home to the first concrete street in America, built in 1935, or a cannonball factory that bolted its doors in 1865, or some such historical glitz. It will never reach that height again, with or without our mad new president.

I’ve never lived in a small town, and it surprises even me that I’m planning to transfer to one now. But it’ll bring back memories nonetheless. My parents used to take the family to a dump like the one I’m thinking of back when my sister and I were kids; that’s probably what makes me think of living in the boonies now. The town we visited was never what you’d call great, either, and I forget the name of it: just some hamlet off Interstate 75 in northern Ohio. We visited the dime store and a burger joint — Sookies’s, I think; great burgers — where we went for lunch when we couldn’t stand another meal in our kitchen. But what were we doing there in the first place? Why the hell would my family travel to such a benighted backwater? Oh, now I remember! We were visiting a lake a few miles away and were taking a break from our waterfront cottage with its cramped quarters and spiders and no TV. We were driven to the town by pure boredom.

Not that there was nothing going on at the lake. There was an amusement park alongside a marina and — I’ll never forget — a shop where you could buy donuts at all hours except at night. The donuts were made out of special ingredients but I forget what. There was also an area on the lakefront where you could jump on a trampoline and a pizza place with a pinball machine. Man, the memories. One thing I remember clearly, and ha! — it’s a funny story too. When my sister and I visited the lake years ago, we used to get so bored sitting in our cottage that she would threaten to shave her head if our parents didn’t take us home immediately. And I’d stick gum in my hair just to pull it out. Yet the entire family looked forward to going back to this horrible lake every year.

I have no intention of going back to the lake during Trump’s reign of terror, though. I’ve heard it’s completely changed now after 20 years anyway, and not for the better, with the amusement park closed and biker gangs trolling all the restaurants. Even the cottages have folded for good. The lake will never be great again. So there’s no question of my living there, and I’m just going to have to rent an apartment or lease a shanty in a small river town, as I said, and also get a new job, thanks to Trump. The job part is kind of frightening, since I don’t think anyone in the kind of town I’m looking at has worked in decades. Still, I’m reasonably optimistic. Something always turns up in my field of abstract art sales.

If I want nightlife or excitement I can hop in my car and the drive fifty or so miles to the city. But I’m thinking I’ll be selling the car and pretty much staying indoors around the calendar. Just me and Colin and the damp walls. How does the song go? “Hello, wall. It’s me again.” Maybe a line about a porch, too.

At night I’ll turn on a little blue light in my front window to let folks know I still have hope. Folks on the river will see it and understand. It may not be the life Jon and Cher and the in-crowd will lead in France or Italy when Trump wins, but I’ll get by.

Then after Trump serves out his final term or is impeached, I’ll fly to Paris for the international celebration.

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