Go forth and multiply…not! Books, husky dogs, babies and Deep Thoughts.

OK. I’m one of those frustrated ‘creative’ types. I’m sure you’re familiar with this sub-genus of humming beans. The type that endlessly poses such timeless questions as (to quote now-disgraced actor Bill Cosby) ‘Why is there air?’ but doesn’t wait long enough for a truly qualified chemical authority to step forward with a half-reasonable answer.

Since Suckatomato (CA) is such an intellectual waistland (sic…there are far too many morbidly obese inhabitants here), I am forced to rely upon my books to provide the cerebral stimuli that catalysing conversation with other thoughtful people might otherwise provide. This is to a great extent why I have thousands of volumes in my personal library…and likely one of the reasons my long-suffering wifie loathes my bibliographic excesses.

It’s not that Suckatomato doesn’t possess a few genuine, card-carrying intellectuals amongst its hoards of beer-drinking, hamburger gobbling, pick-up truck driving, smart-phone addicted proles. It’s due to the fact that as this city increasingly resembles the urban sprawl-blighted wastelands of Lost Angels (sic), it becomes harder and harder to make contact with the few who still exercise their brains in other (i.e. non-social media) ways (such as reading…a lost art, in case you are unfamiliar with that term) than by gazing stupidly at small hand-held display screens all day long.

And it’s not because I am a neo-proto-Luddite (although I tend in that direction), either. In fact, I have all the leading-edge high-tech gizmos we are beset with these days. I even have the latest Apple Watch Series 4+ (GPS and cellular) to use with my late model iPhone. I just don’t use it (I’m half-seriously thinking of ordering a custom-made T-shirt that says “I have an Apple Watch but prefer my old Timex Analog”, just so that folks don’t reflexively regard me as a hopeless, clueless geezer on first sight). Is that Luddite, or what?

Be this as it may, one of the ways I compensate for the lack of meaningful conversations with other smart people is by daily, early AM grazing in my book pasture. This typically takes form in my habit of rising at 5AM each day, inhaling a Thomas’ English Muffin (130 calories, excluding butter) and sitting down in my reading room (e,g. library) to consume pages of printed wisdom on whatever subject strikes my fancy at the given moment.

I suppose having had undiagnosed childhood ADD has something to do with my habit of scattered foci when it comes to selecting a book to read each morning but although I try valiantly to make it through at least several chapters of my chosen work, I typically get only so far before what I’ve read catalyses my reflective resources, causing me to switch on the PC and start pounding the keys anew. It’s an interesting process. Very much like attending a conference of rocket scientists, all presenting synopses of their latest research, and then returning home with mind blazing away, pondering new twists and approaches to timeless questions of great import.

One minute I’m sitting there, absorbing ideas from the selected book of choice, the next I’m virtually foaming at the cerebral mouth as I redact feelings, attitudes and impressions into hard, physical paragraphs of thoughtful reflectivity; at such times my mind is racing, leaping ahead of my body’s willingness to move quickly, like a team of huskies eager to hit the trail.

Since (and speaking of huskies) my alpha pack-mate (‘Nala’, who is an 8-year old Siberian Husky dog), simultaneously demands an early AM belly-rub while I am reading, my useful term of perusal is substantially influenced by her insatiable affection requirement. This usually consists of her exclusively engaging the motor skills of my left hand for about 30 minutes, as I gently run my fingers through her thick coat (in what MUST be the canine equivalent of a full-body massage), at the end of which time she seems to be satiated and moves slightly out of reach to indicate that the limits of furry pleasure have been reached, thank you very much. The right hand, meanwhile is required to multi-task between holding the selected book open AND stirring my morning cup of peppermint/green tea. All in all, not an easy requirement that sometimes degrades my ability to absorb what I’m reading (depending on whether or not I’m also working through a thick post-nocturnal stupor or not).

Huskies are, for those unfamiliar with the breed, a most unusual and singular mix of affection and independence. Whereas Alaskan Malamutes (it helps to think of them as merely a larger, heavier iteration of huskiness) are substantially more affectionate (often ‘kiss machines’ when it comes to expressing regard for their people), Siberian Huskies have a uniquely independent streak in their doggy make-up that…to me at least…has a distinct appeal (since I tend to like ‘independent’ women as a rule, no matter the breed or genus). And typically, they will let you know when it’s time for a ‘rub-rub-rub’ just as they will unhesitatingly make you aware when they need to be somewhat apart for the moment. It’s an interesting quality and granted not a uniform rule, since some huskies are more expressive of their need for affection than others (just as are humans). For someone like me, who tends to have my own high-quality ‘alone time’ needs, it’s a near-perfect balance.

That just-referred-to streak of independence in huskies is, by the way, probably a vaguely remembered vestigial remnant of their traditional duty pulling sleds, since more than once that strongly independent husky will has kept a musher out of dire straits, when they have been urged by their human to cross dangerous terrain (such as thin ice) despite the fact that their doggy instincts tell them it is unsafe. It may also relate to even more primordial memories of their wolfish ancestors of 17,000 or so years ago, who hung back from human campfires waiting for cast-off bits of food, while not quite fully trusting those bipedal creatures who clustered around the fires. At any rate, it’s a lovely quality in my opinion and seems to share something in common with cats, who are notoriously independent by nature (it might therefore possibly be that a husky is a reasonable ‘first dog’ for a cat-lover who harbors turncoat feelings about switching from felines to canines).

But this is all backstory (and those of you who me, know how important ‘backstory’ is for someone like myself for whom context is all important). This AM I had picked up a book I recently acquired entitled ‘Selfish, Shallow and Self-Absorbed’ (edited by Meghan Daum and released initially in 2015).

In this fascinating collection of 16 respected writers’ collective thoughts on the wisdom (or not) or having children, Daum presents a cogent insight into a subject that has always captured my thoughts with a regularity that few others exert in a similar manner. Simply put, her question posed to these sixteen writers is this: “What are your thoughts on procreation?” Phrased differently (and perhaps too simply), “Are you for having children or against?”

In the 278 pages that comprise the book’s contents, each of these sixteen writers present some high-level and vastly engaging reflective comments on the question of whether creating little clones of one’s self is a wise idea or not. Six of these sixteen individuals are male, making it even more interesting, for it’s one thing to ask most women what I call ‘mommy-questions’, but a whole different kettle of North Sea Plaice (that’s a sort of Flatfish and an uber-yummy ingredient of truly superior English-style fish & chips) to pose similar questions to men.

For myself, this matter of whether or not to have children has always held pride of place among my own deepest thoughts, since I (as a single child) lost both parents at an early age and early-on entered what I call ‘orfinkhood’ (apologies to Elzie Cristler Seger, the creator of the Popeye the Sailor cartoon strip and to Max Fleischer, whose short cine films of Popeye created an archetype that still lingers in most older individuals’ minds). As a result of this traumatic shift in my early life, I resolved as soon as I learned where and how babies are created that when I grew up I’d be the best damn dad the world had ever known.

You see, my parents were quite noteworthy individuals and it was only the fact that they decided rather late in life to have a child that I became more than a twinkle in my Da’s Irish eyes. I’ve covered this ground adequately in other blogs, so I won’t belabor you all with further accounts of their accomplishments, but suffice it to say that both were uniquely talented, interesting and singularly unique people, Da being a retired Army officer/writer and Mum having acquired a graduate degree in art long before most women were even considered college-worthy.

From puberty onwards, I grew up with the question of whether or not to eventually spawn never quite forgotten and even at the worst moments, the thought was never far from my more immediate thoughts. Having grievously missed out on so much needful parenting as an unwilling orfink, lacking the tenderness of a loving mother and the masculine role-model example of a formidably versatile father, my original resolve was, when I had finally found the perfect wife, to create a child and provide it with all that a dedicated father possibly could.

Then, I hit college (quite literally with a thud, when I ran into a brick support pillar on the commons on my very first day) and began to immerse myself in the disciplines of undergrad philosophy, political science and social anthropology. As the possibilities of thought and reflective inquiry yawned broadly before me, I began to develop a world-view that has never once deserted me through all these 7 decades of life I have lived. Among the many realisations I came to possess were these: 1) all religion is absolute horse exhaust, being collectively a projection of humanity’s insecurity over the prospect of existing as merely a terribly isolated fluke of biochemical existence in a vast universe beyond our comprehension; 2) the world continues to fill up with human beings regardless of very cogent intellectual arguments that we shall eventually overpopulate the planet and make ourselves extinct through sheer coital excess; 3) that human beings are emotional creatures first and foremost who have only incidentally evolved the mechanisms of logic and reasoning, such that we will reflexively continue to totally ignore them whenever critical analysis of an issue is mandated; 4) that whatever else happens, once we are dead, we (and all our thoughts, ponderings and bewilderments) are effectively out of the picture entirely, thereby making no pro forma demands upon us to ‘leave a legacy’ or posterity for others to admire (they won’t, of course, unless we’re one in a million); 5) the world is entirely indifferent to the matter of whether or not we leave behind physical progeny that carries or perpetuates our own personal genetic code.

A possible 6th realization was more of a vaguely discomforting awareness that if by some odd stroke of bad luck one instigated a child (conceived is the correct term), one thereupon had an iron-bound obligation to be there in perpetuity for that new little life-form, so as to help it grow up, mature and become another fully actualized member of the race. Anything less would be criminally neglectful (hello, all you fellow males who are ‘absentee fathers’ and who scatter your seed around like a gambler caught in the destructive throes of making large bets you can’t cover).

Here and there I stumbled across certain authors whose views on this subject were (to me at least) profound and thought-provoking (chief among these, individuals like French physician and author Celine…nee Louis Ferdinand Auguste Destouches; for a discussion of his thoughts on children, see the very first installment of this blog, dated 28 Jan 2008). The overall impact of this immersion in a far more ‘globalist’ perspective on humanity than most people develop was to make me aware that it is a matter of the upmost indifference (to the universe) whether I pass along my personal genetic assets to humanity or not.

For this reason principally (but also due to the fact that I had not yet encountered anyone worthy enough to regard as the virtuall ‘test-tube’ of such a legacy...if that sounds a bit Sheldon Cooperish, my apologies), all thoughts of having a child were driven completely to those dank, dark little back chambers of my mind that are seldom visited on a regular basis. There they remained chained to the walls of that isolated tower of non-regard like prisoners of a warlord captured in battle and forever lost to the blessings of sunlight.

Then, in 1981, I met an exquisite creature named X, while working at Alameda County’s Highland General Hospital in Oakland. X was an intern at the time and I the ostensible Cardiopulmonary Program Coordinator, whose job entailed running both the pulmonary functions lab and the invasive cardiac catheterisation lab almost single-handedly. Since I’ve written about this before (and even written poems about this part of my life), I again won’t dwell on this much further here other than to say I was madly, passionately and unreservedly ‘in love’ with this pretty and very bright Chinese ‘paper-daughter’ (who had entered the country illegally, as the supposed relative of person who was of no actual relationship to her…a very common tactic used to circumvent the infamous Chinese Exclusion Laws that restricted Asian immigrant entry to America).

So certain was I that X was that special woman I had been searching for up to then, that I didn’t give much thought to protected sex (despite the fact we were both well-educated medical people who knew better, at a time when AIDS was first raising its ugly head among many of our patients). Sure enough, it soon became apparent that she was pregnant. This was understandably not a fortuous occurrence, in that she had just begun her 2nd year residency and a teaching hospital is no place to be screaming around doing arduous residencies while pregnant. Hence the foetus was aborted and that was as close I ever came to being a father, unintended or not.

Due to the fact that we frequently engaged in ‘doggy style’ coitus (prone entry, otherwise known to clinicians as Lordotic sex), which typically enhances the possibilities of creating a male child (it’s a shorter route to the ovarian eggs than the Missionary style position for hard-pressed male spermatazoa), I am convinced that my ‘almost-baby’ was a boy. Actually, I think I would have preferred to have a girl, since I was so much in love with X that I wanted nothing better than to create another small image of her in our child, but the argument is now moot, of course, since we eventually separated (after she began an affair with a UC Berkeley law student who did some carpentry at our place…her place, actually, since as a doc she made far more money than did I and I had moved in with her after she bought a home near the hospital).

Needless to say, I felt terribly betrayed by her infidelity. After all, we were living together when this happened! I was so upset, I shortly thereafter took a position overseas at a Saudi Arabian hospital…my equivalent of joining the medical foreign legion, I suppose. A few years later I finally dared to ask her why she had sadly (to me, at least) violated our trust and she mentioned something about having been committed to marriage, while I seemed to be NOT thinking that far ahead (her read).

Mulling that over in the subsequent decades, this struck me as the greatest of ironies, since being fully aware of how important it is (despite the passions of youthfulness) to get to know someone as well as possible before tying that all-important-knot, I had merely proceeded on the logical course of trying to be able to approach marriage with sufficient confidence that it was ‘the right match’. By her reckoning, that slow & cautious approach apparently signified a reluctance to commit and her biological clock was ticking away! My, how grievously we can misread each other at such ‘tender-in-years’ moments!

I note with some chagrin that I said I’d not dwell on this matter at length but I suppose it’s a measure of how profound my feelings for X were that I periodically lapse into another of those little moods like this when I reflect back on certain forks in the trail of my life that could have proven momentous.

If you’ll excuse the foregoing as yet another of my famous digressions, Meghan Daum’s excellent book on whether to spawn or not is certainly a catalyst for thoughts like the previous paragraphs contain, for she presents a range of rather insightful opinions on why having children may not be an absolute categorical imperative for leading a fulfilled life.

Toward that end, most of us sooner or later realise that as we age it becomes a natural tendency to gravitate towards certain groups; ‘Married with children’ tend to socialize with other similar families and friends, whereas those who choose not to have kids tend to seek out similarly married but childless individuals. It just seems to be a natural sorting out process we undergo.

I know from personal experience just how difficult it is for one of the latter types to retain a relationship with a former friend who now has kids. This even came out in my interactions with a male associate at work whom I used to go out kayaking with. His grown-up kids had their own kids, so (occasionally at first) he sometimes bowed out of our sessions on a local lake to do ‘granddad duty’. When he finally retired, he seemingly became even more unavailable due to further obligations to take care of the grand kids and that eventually queered any further kayaking recreations we might have had. This, despite the fact that we had a number of other interests in common.

This children/childless sorting process is just one insignificant dynamic mentioned in Daum’s anthology. There are many others of far more substance.

Among the writers included is Lionel Shriver, who references three female friends he had who are similarly childless by choice. One, named Gabriella, whom Shriver describes are a journalist, ‘bright, broadly traveled, well educated and physically fetching’, mentions the sacrifices that being ‘in a family way’ requires, lamenting the fact that if she had children, she would ‘stop having interesting conversations with adults my age and settle for glaze-eyed exchanges with others on similar mommy-duty tracks.’ It is a quintessential expression of the operative MO of today’s society, a sort of awareness that the past pretext of life’s justifying motivations (living for others, sacrifice, duty, responsibility to society, etc.) have now traded poles with a ‘be here now, since you’ll soon be gone’ mind-set. Redacted, that boils down to what the title of this book alludes to in its ‘selfish, shallow and self-absorbed’ motif.

The critical difference is that it is only ‘selfish, shallow and self-absorbed’ if we’re referring to individuals who lack far more sophisticated awarenesses and broader understandings (call it intellectual curiosity) of that ‘greater picture’ of life we ideally should cultivate. In other words, people whose intellectual gifts may be an order of magnitude below those in the top echelon, or…expressed crudely…the dipshit, proletarian hoi-polloi drudges who are easily distracted by the overwhelming flood of material sensory delights Western style capitalism is so adept at providing consumers.

A few of Daum’s authors further reflect unease with the fact that as education increases, both fertility rates and actual procreative results drop off remarkably, as the converse also holds true. In specific context are the birthrates of certain white Anglo-Saxon nations (such as Germany, to cite only one prominent example), which translates to a growing disproportionate ratio of white to non-white groups…something that most liberals are loathe to even discuss unless very privately to others in their own (white) racial group. This free-floating angst underlies much of the outspoken right-of-center US population’s sentiments as the Trump Administration continues to irritate and repulse those on the leftist progressive side of the spectrum.

It is, of course, understandable, since white European culture is (arguably) largely responsible for most of the greatest advances in civilisation’s ‘progress’ made over the past 500 to 800 years and that group of influential people (formerly constituting the majority) are now destined to become a distinct minority as Hispanics, Arabs, East Indians and others (who may even be technically Caucasian, but are visually ‘different’ due to skin color, etc.) replace them as the dominant segment of American society.

Another observation made by one of the contributors to the book is that ironically, many of the truly talented, gifted and deeply insightful individuals who would be best equipped, genetically speaking, to advancing the quality of humanity are reluctant to have families, leading to a disproportionate number of what by one assessment may well be the ‘least genetically qualified’ making up the difference by having many children (who at best may be extremely mediocre in the brains department).

As things stand now, white Europeans are having alarmingly lower numbers of children whereas those non-whites in the poorest nations are cranking kids out at a startling rate. This is, in one sense, neither good nor bad, since it is a matter of the utmost indifference to me personally what the demographic makeup of the planet is after I die, but it can be understandably a concern to many who feel otherwise (i.e. who believe in religious creeds, ‘life after death’, etc., or who feel that bloodlines do matter) and to those with children.

Among the points raised for thoughtful regard in Daum’s book is an examination of the common wisdom that children somehow make one happier. What needs to be understood here is that ‘happier’ translates to ‘preoccupied’ (or perhaps ‘bemused’) in that children largely negate any further pondering of the truly Great Questions, such as what is the meaning of life, why do we exist, etc. When one has children, one no longer has the time or luxury of engaging in endless self-doubt, ponderings about ‘meaning’ and so forth, since life ‘after conception’ presupposes endless servitude aimed at taking care of children, helping them grow, mature, and etc. While this is generally true, it is only however true for those not as richly blessed with higher reasoning facilities, since a truly bright or intellectually gifted person will continue to concern him or herself with the most esoteric mysteries of human existence, regardless of the distractions posed by small children or the burdens they impose (and they are, have no doubts, burdens) on our personal time. It simply takes an energy level an order of magnitude beyond that of most ordinary souls.

Several of the authors who contributed to Daum’s book (and who are female) mention this in repeated sub-contexts that focus on the fact that the obligations typically imposed by motherhood work at severely cross purposes to the creative act (as in writing) and the point is hammered home throughout their discourses that, unlike Sylvia Plath, one is extremely hard-pressed to live the lie that society has foisted off on the post-feminist woman that she can in fact have it all (“I am woman, hear me roar!”), do all things superlatively and be successful both in art and motherhood. It is, as history, circumstance and even basic biology have repeatedly demonstrated, all but impossible (except perhaps in fanciful progressive TV show plots).

Men, naturally, have far greater latitude to deal with this perplexity, since they are not child-bearers (a role that presumes continued nurturing well after birth). In fact, many male individuals in the lower levels of intellect and/or those who are in a lower economic class deal with these categorical burdens in a much simpler manner, by virtue of the fact that men can elect to participate in the child-supporting role or not, at whim: should they choose to, they can merely walk away from it! This unhappy fact accounts for the grossly disproportionate percentage of fatherless children in certain parts of the south and throughout most of the black American demographic segment.

One thing that Daum’s book does not discuss or even hint at (it is, after all, political dynamite to even faintly breathe the possibility) is consideration of the role enlightened eugenics may someday, far off in the future, inevitably have to play in coping with an overcrowded world. Although our scientific cleverness and technological adeptness will spare us from having to prematurely cope with this necessity, it is a certainty that at some distant point in human history we shall have to resort to the same sort of culling processes used by animal breeders. In this sense, Adolf Hitler ceases to be a monster as much as a prematurely astute and prescient seer, far ahead of his time and uninhibited by religious bugaboos.

Another point that several authors in Daum’s book alluded to is that the popular societal view of the mother/child support matrix has remarkably changed over the past century or so. In previous eras…not all that far removed from our present one…children were often regarded merely as small, imperfect adults. They were consequently (more often than not) treated harshly when their natural childishness prompted them to misbehave, transgress the (adult) dictates of family harmony and order. Draconian dictates, inflexible discipline and a certain meanness of spirit and expectation (e.g. as was most common in England and the European countries, back near the turn of the century) were the former hallmarks of child-raising until relatively recently.

It has only been in the unnaturally well-off post-war economic era characterised by the United States’ rise to world power ascendency (thanks to having escaped any of the physical destruction suffered by most other nations in that war) that what I call the ‘mommy-cult’ approach has elevated motherhood (and the way children are treated in the wealthier segments of America) to a sort of media-supported and academically sophomoric paradigm of permissive adulation. The operative word being excessive indulgence.

Speaking of this modern dynamic that sacred PC doctrine holds so close to its collective heart, before I stopped watching the daily network news programs (because the media is both brazenly biased these days and prone to mediocre doting on sappy emotional ‘human interest’ filler stories), I regularly witnessed a rather nauseating example of exactly how this factor has been embraced and exploited by local media stations to the point of wretched excess.

I reference the local media TV stations employment of a stable of women anchors and reporters who seem to obsess over any story involving small children, motherhood or (my term) ‘mommyism’. It may be a very small point in the larger argument, but I object to the universally favored term ‘mom’ as a catch-all female descriptive. And why is that, you may well ask? Because it is used to evoke a highly charged, emotionally smarmy response from viewers.

One of the prime offenders (and a good example of whereof I speak) on a certain local media station (CBS) is named Lisa Gonsales. She’s an attractive young woman (who could stand to lose about 10 pounds, nevertheless) and every time a story comes up about local mothers and their children, out pops the term ‘mom’ and ‘moms’ from her commentaries. She practically waxes ecstatic over any story relating to babies and toddlers, gushing on with all the mushiness the term ‘mommy’ engenders, literally dripping with emotion as she covers the story. Ugh. Lisa admits to being a ‘foodie’ (another sin, in my opinion) and is an excellent example of how what used to be serious news has now degenerated into infotainment excess aimed directly at middle-class women with little or no higher-level intellect left in their ‘mommy’ heads. Call me old-fashioned again, but I much prefer serious male news anchors, delivering serious news…not manipulative infotainment filler material prepared with female consumerism in mind.

There are many terms used to describe mothers and motherhood, but few that are (to me, at least) more nauseating than the objectionably familiar word ‘mom’. Mothers are no longer called mothers. Now every mother is automatically a ‘mom’. This attitudinal stance has penetrated the dulled-down, mediocre intelligence of the majority of our public to the point that even street protestors marching with signs proclaiming causes mothers feel need to be championed inscribe those signs with ‘Moms against…etc.’

As an old-fashioned person who resents insinuative glibness in today’s far-too-informal social milieu, I much prefer that ‘mothers’ remains in the nomenclature as ‘mothers’ and not as ‘moms’. It is a slick emotional trigger that media exploits every other minute to twang the heartstrings of our smarmy, herd-like fellow citizens and I furiously resent such Teflon-coated semantic manipulations that pander to lowest-common-denominator awarenesses.

Finally (although there is a great deal more to this marvelously stimulating book than I have even begun to allude to here), the argument against having children is quite sufficiently elucidated…not with emotional tricks and manipulative arguments of questionable substance…but driven principally by highly logical, profoundly intuitive yet also highly educated reflective analysis on the pat of the book’s stable of masterfully cogent and articulate contributors. This book deserves to be read (and perhaps re-read) by anyone who has ever wondered what it is about us humming beans that drives us to regard motherhood as the greatest biological reward any woman may strive for in her life. And it certainly lays out enough compelling arguments to make any thoughtful person pause to consider the consequences of any highly volatile mix of interactions like ‘passionate love’ and ‘unprotected sex’. Unfortunately, the very individuals who most ought to read this book are far too absorbed in the world of social media (and too young) to take the time (and mature reflection) required to bear these overwhelmingly important considerations in mind before they too are caught up in that virtual tsunami that is motherhood and childbearing. [This seems to be another of nature’s nasty little jokes, viewed in a certain way.]

One last observation on a more personal and direct level warrants passing mention. Last evening, my wife of 31 years (and childless, she’s STILL a fox!) and I attended the cross-cultural wedding reception for the daughter of one of wifie’s friends at the Chinese Christian Church (yes, wifie’s a God-fearing Christian while I, long-since lost to perdition, am a god-unfearing atheist). Winnie Chung (by name), the gorgeous and bright young bride followed the preference of many of her cultural cohorts and married a handsome young Caucasian chap named Paul. They met by accident on a BART train in San Francisco back in 2012 and after several years decided to marry. Both are intelligent, talented and well educated (his specialty is environmental law) and it was very clear last evening that both families are eagerly looking forward to having plenty of grandchildren from the pairing, as is the Asian expectation.

From a certain standpoint, I wholeheartedly agree! This is the finest example of ‘enlightened’ diversity I can think of and these are clearly two of the best exemplars of what we should all hope for in terms of furthering humanity’s highest aspirations. Not dirt-poor, ignorant and uneducated people of low mental acuity who crank out unwanted kids like so much sausage, but creative, responsible and capable individuals who will assuredly achieve prominence in their respective endeavors, judging by all the favorable indicators seen last evening.

And here’s an irony for you to dwell on, as I wrap up this diatribe: despite my strong philosophical reservations about the (ill-advised) wisdom of having children, and regardless of a certain antipathy I have towards Caucasian babies, I am absolutely and inexplicably blown away by the inherent ‘cuteness’ of all Asian infants. There are fewer things that reach out and tug on my heartstrings more than the sight of a young Asian mother with child (or children).

It is that picture in my mind of what I had hoped for myself, those many years back when X ruined my chances of achieving that outcome. Despite all my stern invocations of forbearance and admonishment against reckless, thoughtless procreative urges, I’d probably willingly have sacrificed it all in a heartbeat for my own chance to spawn a new human life with an Asian woman of grace and intelligence like X.

Life is fickle, certainly, and that utterly arbitrary fickleness remains unresolved in the deeply convoluted, perhaps terminally constipated patterns of thought that dominate my own (now almost over with) life. Put that thought in your dish of chow fun and munch on it for a while, eh! Think of it as virtual sauce for the virtual noodles.