Latest uncomfortable experience: interview with a QAnon devotee. Now that I’m transitioning into conducting a few hundred interviews this year for my dissertation work, I’m completely curtailing my active practice of being uncomfortable so I can put on my academia hat. That said, sometimes an opportunity is too good to pass up. In this case, I had the chance to talk directly with an adamant believer in QAnon.
The uncomfortable part of this experience is not the fear of being sucked into some conspiracy or stress that I can’t hold my own in a convo, though I get some could have this concern. For me, this was the challenge and deliberate practice of being so open, gracious, and sincere in trying to understand how one believes such a theory rather than laughing, interrupting, walking away, or shutting off. Recently, at BAM, we’ve been doing a lot of work to “respond,” the emotional intelligence choice rather than “react,” the pure emotion choice. I don’t need to tell you what humans typically do, especially right now in America’s climate. A discussion with a QAnon believer is probably your varsity level kind of practice. That said, I’ve had a few uncomfortable experiences now with pro-lifers, 2nd amendment diehards, and so forth, so I’m getting decent at these interactions and keeping my best straight, curious face in tact.
I got in touch with this QAnon believer because he’s the dad of a friend I have. This friend is horrified and increasingly distant from her dad, understandably. It doesn’t help that her dad is constantly telling her to “be ready” for the “Great Awakening” to happen. (That was predicted by QAnon with the inauguration but has since been moved to early April for reasons I don’t get. Nonetheless, be ready, my interviewee pleaded.)
Before this interview, I thought about channeling childlike wonder. If an adult came up to you and said, “Hey, did you know there’s this big fat guy up in the North Pole that’s watching your every move? Yeah, he’s going to deliver presents all over the world to good girls and boys with all his reindeer. Oh, there’s one that has a red nose that lights up, too,” then how would you respond as a five year old child vs your crusty adult self? Granted, I was already a crusty adult as a child who “did not play well with others in her age group,” according to one report card from preschool. Still, this is the mindset I went into.
My interviewee sent me a Youtube link as a primer for what QAnon was about. Not going to lie: I laughed out loud many times during this video. The dramatic graphics and music, the rhetorical questions, the heroism of Donald Trump are sensational. It’s a pure emotional play with no actual facts or mention about how, for instance, the Queen, Obama, the Bushes, Oprah, and Miley Cyrus are actually all criminals in some international mafia scheme. I told myself to reel it in for my interviewee though I wondered if I was getting punked. Maybe QAnon is a meta punk. The believers actually don’t believe it but are so amused that the public believes they are believers. That seems more plausible because really: was I about to talk with a functioning adult who would say to me sincerely, “No, but really, Santa gets down all the chimneys on Christmas Eve."
The convo started with my question of how my interviewee got to know about QAnon. For him, it was Donald Trump’s insistence in “draining the swamp” that pricked his ears. My interviewee also had a long history of being on interested in politics and in love with America, he mentioned. He watched a lot of World War 2 movies growing up, met Kennedy once (and is convinced the government killed him), was part of the Green Party years ago, and wanted to create his own party at one point. I asked how he sources what he knows about QAnon and any facts that support it. He responded nonchalantly, “It’s out there if you look for it.” A few seconds went by, as I was so struck by this. I said, “Oh indeed. That’s the internet,” but he didn’t pick up what I was conveying. I would call his response the slogan of the internet, the perfect phrase that encapsulates the horrors and delights the internet is.
Our conversation wound all over the place. That since Kennedy’s assignation, the world has been in total turmoil, that citizens around the world are being pinned against each other to stay distracted by things like Black Lives Matter, that Biden is currently in Culver City on a set that staged the whole inauguration, that Trump was recruited to legally and diplomatically show the world of this international crime ring that includes Putin to Beyonce who are currently aiding communists in China and sexually abusing children. It’s so wild and wide. My questions just spurred more matter-of-fact responses. It’s as if I continually asked, “so how does Santa get to ALL the houses of boys and girls around the world in one night?” Continual answer: “With his reindeer.”
This was perhaps the oddest and most vexing conversation I’ve recently ever had. It leads to a lot of existential questions: Are you insane? Am I insane? What is the requirement of reality? Clearly none.
Here's a screenshot of the opening scene of the video that was sent to me.
Latest uncomfortable experience: Egg Freezing
Uncomfortable experience (application): A few years ago, I got to hang out with nurses for half a day and watch them do injection after injection of needles to do blood draws and shots to WILLING people at a local clinic. As I cannot stand needles, this was a queasy experience for me, but indeed: exposure therapy is pretty valid. At least I walked away from that day with a good ability to watch injections happen, or worse: see blood fill up a tube.
This uncomfortable experience was a good primer for another experience I just did: egg freezing. Funny, they don’t show the 20+ injection needles you’re going to need in the brochure nor the red little “sharps container bio hazard” box you’re also going to tote around like a lunch box from hell. My fault for not asking more questions at the start of this absurd and equally miraculous ordeal. That is pretty amazing-at least in America and if you have an employer who pays or subsidizes it (yay for BAM), you can pluck out your eggs, even match them with sperm if you’d like (I did half and half), and put them on ice until you randomly decide when, if ever, you want to defrost them. That is utterly unbelievable.
But back to the needles: As a sales strategy, I’d bet, the number of injections you’re going to do to yourself over a 7 to 10 day period is not overstated. The first question my doctor said to me upon seeing me in person for the first time (we did a Zoom meeting before after we knew I was a “very good” candidate for egg freezing), was, “so, did you watch the videos?” There are indeed several videos somewhere on my online portal that show you how to prep, mix, and inject each kind of injection. Had I watched the 60 or so total minutes for all of the videos where they show you’re going to do up to three shots a day to your stomach, some of which take a minute or so to fully deploy, I’m not sure I would have been in the room with that plastic sheet thing on ready to go. But there I was, and like all uncomfortable experiences, there is a clear “well, I’m here” moment that pushes you over the edge to just get on with it.
The first night, Cliff was ready to help, but since he was making dinner, I told him just to watch me so I didn’t faint or do something stupid like impale the seat cushion and squirt out the expensive egg elixir. This was the other unbelievable part: there is quite the assumption made that you’ll go home with your drug pile worth thousands of dollars and just get to the skin popping with your 1.5 inch needles like a seasoned junkie. This experience did solidify how horribly powerful addiction must be to endure injections to yourself on the regular.
Helpfully, you have to pinch a little chunk of your stomach for the injection to go in, and somehow, this mentally gave me some peace of mind knowing I was going to hit some layer of fat with the needle and not some vital organ that would then bleed out. To get a better chunk, I slouched over and just went for it. Some of the drugs give a little burning sensation but most actually aren’t more than a pinch once you get the sucker of a needle in yourself. Every injection was like a little victory. Oddly, I kinda liked doing the prep work for the little syringes eventually. Something is satisfying about getting all the little air bubbles out by tap, tap, tapping them away. That’s about all I liked.
During the whole injection period, a lot was going on. One person asked me, “are you ready for (insert very tough convo)?” I said, “I already injected myself with three needles today. What else you got.” Weird how injections give you an invincible perspective.
Latest uncomfortable experience: 2-mile Open Ocean Swim
Latest uncomfortable experience: 2-mile open ocean swim. There’s an easy way to verify if you’ve just completed an uncomfortable experience: the desire to not do it again. I’d put the open ocean swim in this bucket, for sure. It’s one thing to paddle around and snorkel under clear water to look at cute clownfish like in Turks and Caicos. It’s certainly another thing to maneuver past the surf, swim through slippery kelp beds, dodge birds and sharks, and get yourself from point a to point b in a few hours before sunset. This was a particularly uncomfortable experience for me because I’m not a swimmer (I can count on both hands how often I’ve swum in the ocean as an adult) and want nothing to do with the dark and murky waters of the Pacific Ocean.
First, I did make sure I had the right gear. I had a wetsuit, tinted goggles, cap, earplugs, and a blow-up neon “floaty” that doubles as dry storage as well as a beacon for people and boats to spot you. You can also rest on the floaty, which I did a number of times, and it had a belt so I was able to loop a water bottle around it as well. Second, I picked a hot, busy day on the beach so I knew surfers, kayakers, and lifeguards would be out and about. Something about other humans floating about, even from pretty far away, made the whole ordeal less scary. Also, beforehand, I told myself repeatedly that hundreds if not thousands of people a day go into the ocean FOR FUN in La Jolla. Maybe this would be fun!
I got on the beach around 2 pm on Friday over by Scripps pier in La Jolla. It’s an easy landmark from the water, and La Jolla cove is about 1.5 miles away. I’d go from the pier to the cove and then back in towards the beach. It doesn’t “look” far when you stand at the beach and look south towards the cover, but I have flown plenty of helicopter flights over the area to know how far indeed it was.
I got into the water which was at first a relief: I was already sweating in my black wetsuit and the water wasn’t cold by any means but at least it was refreshing. I soon got past the waves and out to the end of the pier. This was my first mistake: thinking that that was the hard part to just get past the waves. Out at the end of the pier, I could see surfers more towards the shore and lots of people on the beach. It was quiet and calm, and because of my earplugs, I could just hear the swooshing of my own arms in the water. That was a bit disturbing. Here I was, with probably 40 feet of water under me, and all I could detect were my own movements.
I’d like to tell you that I found a blissful state of meditation out there just doing one stroke after another (thanks for the tip, Jen!!) but that was not achieved. I think you get in that state once your base operations are under control, and mine was not. I was occupied by three rotating thoughts. The first was, “what the hell is in here?” I was never that “I want to be a marine biologist when I grow up” kid. As soon as I found out that dolphins lived in saltwater, I was out. Saltwater, to me, always tasted like seal piss, and who wants that in the body. So, on top of the taste of seawater, marine life was a concern. I know logically the chances of getting attacked by a shark (there are Great Whites spotted in La Jolla on occasion) is ridiculously rare, but I could not overcome the duality that I was in “the shark’s house.” Worse, and this is really the worse, guys: I’m pretty sure I saw one, a shark, that is. Resting on my floaty for a minute after about one hour out there, I was peering out at the ocean and saw something about 50 yards away with a large, white belly flop and lash out over the water. To my knowledge, that ain’t a seal. Then it flopped about again, and I just about lost it, swimming as hastily as I could away from the white floppy thing. Perhaps it was a massive stingray. Whatever it was, it was out there with me, and that’s a troubling thought.
My second rotating thought was, “DAMN. This is a long-distance.” I remember in middle school when I thought running a mile was the most horrid activity ever. Now I run every day and did 50 miles in an ultramarathon once. I bet this is the same with swimming: you just have to build up your distance. I did no training for this and was just suffering the consequences of that, which is fine as that’s the point of being uncomfortable. I was certainly tired, and my neck was getting a rash from my repetitive glances back at the shore to make sure I wasn’t off course.
Between these two thoughts, I had occasional blissful ones like, “wow. It’s really beautiful out today,” or “Wow. I am floating in this overwhelmingly huge ocean like a speck of sand,” but those were not my main ones. That’s a function of being focused on the goal to get back on the sand. I did after about 2.5 hours. Overall, this was a great physical test with a side heaping of a psychological one. I will not be back in the shark’s house anytime soon.
Latest uncomfortable experience: Recording A Rap
Obviously, this is an uncomfortable time for the world and America as it should be. I’ve been keeping up my practice of being uncomfortable and have paused on posting anything, but I’ll put up this one now though it happened weeks ago.
As for rapping: I love rap. It can be poetic, profound, and pretty tough to do well. Given that I can’t sing nor have any interest in recording anything that will be listened to by anyone in this art form, I had this one my list. Next level: I’d record a rap for my team about BAM and let my employees judge me, which I did.
Like many of these experiences, you need a teacher or guide with a crap ton of patience. I needed a really patient one given my complete lack of skills in this area. Fortunately, one of my best employees, Ramel, has been rapping for 14+ years and agreed to run me through his 6-week course and help write and record a rap. He has a great non-profit as well, which I’ve included here and donated to. This was a good little reminder: when you share what you’re looking to accomplish or do, someone is usually in your midst who can help, be hired, or get you to the right person.
One thing we had to ask ourselves though was this: is this cultural appropriation for a white woman to record a rap, even if taught by a Black man? Or just cultural exchange? My teacher decided it was cultural exchange as I’m not looking to profit, demean, or use my power in any way to take this art form away from the Black men who have created and performed it for decades. You can look into this further on your own, but I wanted to include the consideration here because it is relevant and something I consider in doing any of these uncomfortable experiences.
For the coursework: Week 1 started with a word exercise. This included by personal persona, brands I liked, phrases my family has used (or in this case, BAM uses), colors and more. Pretty fun and easy. Week 2 dealt with rhymes which include Syllable rhymes, Macaronic rhymes (rhymes words from different languages), oblique rhymes, and end rhymes. Sometimes, you gotta reach to find any phrases that could plausibility pass. For “crisis” as in a PR crisis, I found a syllable rhyme, “acantholysis.” Not sure how I would weave that in so that was a clear pass.
Week 3 was an exercise of figures of speech. These include hyperboles, eggcorns (a word or phrase that results from a mishearing or misinterpretation of another), Malapropisms (the mistaken use of a word in place of a similar-sounding one, often with unintentionally amusing effect, as in, for example, “Dark Vader ”), Acronyms, wordplays, and Paraprosdokians (figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence, phrase, or larger discourse is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part). After putting down a few dozen figures of speech, then we worked on week 4 which is about writing 16 count bars. This is the part where you’re now taking the phrases, words, and sayings and fitting them into actual beats.
Up until this point, the coursework was fun and a bit challenging as I love words and writing. But the actual beat making, even though I was doing it with just myself, had that element of ridiculousness, the moment you’re saying to yourself, “well, this is wildly, amusingly ridiculous.” But then you get over that, laugh a lot, and keep on it. I picked Megan Stallion’s Savage song for its simple beat and wide appeal, which I knew some of my team would at least know. The remaining weeks are about perfecting and fitting the 16 bars.
Eventually, Ramel put all the phrases, words and so on together in the whole rap (he’s the true writer, creative director, and producer here), and I went to his studio (socially distanced) to record the whole thing. Ramel is brilliant and knows his craft. He ran me through several recordings, some harder, some less aggressive, some more carefree, one after another. Given his cool and directive approach, I didn’t have time to fret about how well or not well I did. It was pure reps. Perhaps this is what studio recording is like? I can imagine Nicki Minaj and 6ix9ine recording TROLLZ and talking about their rainbow matching outfits for the music video between takes. Of course, there’s millions of dollars on the line in those convos. For me, it was an experience of playing with personas in a way I don’t usually do.
For our “debut,” Ramel and I surprised the BAM team and dropped the rap in a speech I gave for our Toastmasters club. We’re keeping it in the BAM Slack for now, but if you’d like a full listen, just shoot me your email. Full lyrics are below. Highly recommend this uncomfortable experience to expand your creativity and expression.
Queen B(BecK)
You can't fuck with me.
Balenciaga Sneakers and a cold one piece.
My Emmy at the house, he don't really hit the streets.
My haters want my paper; they don't really want no beef.
So let's talk about it, let's walk about it, let's be about it, let's eat about it.
We ain't even gotta IG we ain't event gotta tweet about it.
Don't waste my time. I'm always on my grind.
PR don't sleep, rain sleet, or shine.
Got an office full of bad bitches I mean bad women.
And we running like we lappin them no cappin them.
We have meeting after meeting cause we out to get the bag.
We just closed an MSA on that ass.
Yo I'm a BAMf
I only want the mail if it's checks
Whip the Corvette to the Cortez.
BAD ASS MOTHA FUCKA
BAMf, im a BAMf!
Yo I'm a BAMf
I only want the mail if it's checks
Whip the Corvette to the Cortez.
BAD ASS MOTHA FUCKA
B-A-M-f, I'm a BAMf!
Yo I traveled round the world, fact I just got back from the dr.
Read between the lines tldr
my inbox full of email keep that on the DL
im bout to do some fly shit but I can't tell the details.
(Pause) Splash , that's the way it sound.
When you got so much drip you can make'em drown.
I can make you better than you are right now.
We don't play around we will turn a WAMf around.
Yo I'm a BAMf
I only want the mail if it's checks
Whip the Corvette to the Cortez.
BAD ASS MOTHA FUCKA
B-A-M-f, I'm a BAMf!
Yo I'm a BAMf
I only want the mail if it's checks
Whip the Corvette to the Cortez.
BAD ASS MOTHA FUCKA
B-A-M-f, I'm a BAMf!
I'm Proactive with the Purpose
my soul can't be purchased.
And there ain't no such thing as perfect.
I'm Positive I'm Powerful all my Partners Magical
Radical
Candor
Venture
Capital.
Latest uncomfortable experience: Mime Class and Performance
Two weekends ago, I spent 7 hours in a course that taught the art of mime in a little historic theater in a random spot in Hollywood. Have you ever watched a mime perform? With the white gloves and suspenders? It always seemed silly to me, and I’m not a really silly or expressive person (at least in my head), so this was on my list of uncomfortable experiences although this one wasn’t a “10 out of 10” on the uncomfortable scale. If I’m being honest, though, nothing is high of a score anymore, and that just tells me this practice pays, and it surely has in daily life. Also, I don’t have really any photos beyond the ones I snuck because it was closed doors and cell phones free to be distraction-free.
I had no idea who to expect in the “class.” Supposedly, actors and actresses do this course to help hone their skills, but I wasn’t exactly holding my breath for Scarlett Johansson to pop in. Still, it was Hollywood, so who could guess. The class had 8 people, and we were quite the menagerie of all ages, races, and so on. Maybe someone in there was somewhat famous, but I’m the last person to ask. We all seemed eager but somewhat “told” to be in this random theater on a Sunday afternoon. Adding to the motley crew was our teacher, a man with bulging eyes, a strong nose, and a serious love of mime which has been built over 30+ years.
The class started with an overview of mime. Like many of these uncomfortable experiences, what seems simple is far from it. For starters, the history is immense. Mime performance dates back to Ancient Greece, and there are books upon books written about how to perform it, the various styles adopted over centuries, the evolution in modern theater, and so on. I appreciated our teacher’s definition of art: representation + stylization equaling an interpretation. So mime is representing real life but with a flare that makes it more than just “acting.”
Our instructor then broke out several charts to help us understand the origin of root, “spir,” which is used in mime for “inspire,” “respiration,” and “spirit.” “Spir” means breath and everything about mime surrounds this. Since the audience can not see a light bulb turn on over our heads, for instance, we have to show “spirit” which translates to “the life force,” or visually, a little quick inhale that physically shows a change in thought. We practiced finding and plucking an apple off a tree for about an hour to develop our “spirit.” That was a lot of spirit work, but such a seemingly simple gesture makes a mime great.
We spent another good chunk of time around “stage presence” which is valuable to anyone, as well as exploring various “movement centers” of characters. This was particularly interesting: Movement centers (the head, neck, chest, stomach, hips, or legs) can completely dictate a persona. A boastful, asshole guy? Movement center in the chest. An old man who penny-pinches and chases young ladies? Movement center in the stomach. A coy lady who gossips and is a servant? The neck, and so on. Round and round on stage, we went with these movement centers, our stage presence, our apple picking, and so on. I thought I would lose it laughing a few times, but the class was serious like our instructor so I held it together. And maybe it’s because we were stuck in that room so long or so immersed in perfecting the skills that no one seemed to care how ridiculous we all looked. Perhaps that’s the big take away: get so immersed into something that you lose yourself to externalities. Isn’t that how the best performances are done anyway?
Latest Uncomfortable Experience: An Interview to join a White Supremacist Group
Spoiler alert: it only lasted four minutes and forty seconds because the interviewee politely asked me if I was a male or female. I wasn’t disguising my voice so it was tough to continue (see below). Let me start from the beginning on this one.
It’s pretty uncomfortable being eye to eye with another person you adamantly do not agree with deep down in your bones. I’ve had a decent share of uncomfortable experiences now with my Scientologist interview, the “cult,” and the protest with the pro-lifers who were out on the streets with baby fetus posters and megaphones. The challenge is to find the aplomb, human decency, and even empathy to hang out with “others” and have a respectful, curious conversation even when you want to shake them and go off the handle. Though I’ve now had a few of these kinds of interactions, the practice of being uncomfortable is just that: a practice. You’re never “done” testing yourself, and white supremacists were as extreme as I could think of when it came to “people I do not agree with on any fundamental level.”
I doubt anyone needs a refresher on the tiki torch carriers who stomped around in 2017 with a “Unite the Right” message that horrified the nation, or sadly, at least a segment of it. The group behind this march is called the Patriot Front and to be clear, it is still active. Do any Google search, like I did, under “white supremacist group” and many articles will pop up. You may think, “Well, this must be a hard group to find,” but nope, the organization’s website is easily found. (I do recommend having a VPN if you start getting down the black holes I do when searching and reading up on various uncomfortable experiences.) There’s an “application” on the website and to be fair, the website is pretty well branded in red, whites, and blues alongside videos, social media links, a manifesto, and an “updates” section. The manifesto is paragraphs and paragraphs long, biblical sounding, and in most parts, exceedingly vague. There are quotes thrown in from Roosevelt, Andrew Jackson, Hamilton, Washington, George Patton, and Calvin Coolidge (?). Here’s the second to the last paragraph for instance:
“He will no longer know the age of material, of illness, and of disunity. His neighbors will fit the term in more than just a nominal fashion. He will be removed from decadence and given community. He will be protected from barbarism and given civility. His nation will be an extended family, not a collection of strange faces passing by him on the way to a shallow grave. He will no longer be sold a life that will never come; a life of working for something that is neither rewarding nor spiritually beneficial.”
I filled out the brief application. It asks for your age, your political ideology, what “skills” you could offer, and why you’d like to join. Note: there was nothing about selecting your sex or race. I guess this group assumes you are white and male. I wrote that I had heard about the group and was interested to learn more. Also, that I wanted to have an honest conversation with a member.
About two weeks passed and then I got an email response with the subject line, “Your Application.” There was a message board of sorts I could log into and then await an interview slot. I’m including the screenshots so you can see that there is some clear thought and organization going on with this whole process. I then got a DM with the log in info for me to join the call.
The man on the other line, “Michael,” was assertive and confident. He asked how my day was going, and I complimented how efficient the interview process was. He then said, “I don’t mean to be offensive, but are you a male or a female?”
By the way: I recorded the interview on my desktop so I have the audio file and am giving exact quotes here. I replied that I am female and asked if the organization worked with females in any way. “Unfortunately, no. We do not accept female members,” he said. I asked why, and there was a pause.
“I’m sure Thomas, the founder of our organization, could give a much more eloquent answer, but we, uh, follow basis standards of operation and uniformality.” (The actual word he used was a mash up of “uniform” and “formality,” which is not a real word.) If you were to have a female in the type of activism that we do, it could be seen as a weak point or out of the ordinary. It goes out of the morals we have set and the roles of gender that we believe women have. That is my personal statement as a member.”
Now, this is where I could have said a whole cornucopia of choice words, but that would be my comfortable MO. I went on to ask if instead my (non existent) husband could apply to which the answer was, “oh, absolutely. If he likes what we stand for and reads the manifesto, then absolutely.” He encouraged me to point my husband to some of the group’s Youtube videos, social media, and more. I asked about membership, and he said that there is no membership fee and absolutely no donations accepted; the only requirement is “hard work and loyalty.”
I started pressing him about where members where located, were there local hangouts, why did he join, why did they believe what they believed, and so on. It was then that I got hit with a repeated, “We can’t go into details like that.” We promptly wrapped up and he thanked me for my time.
In truth, I felt a bead of sweat roll down my armpit when I was dialing the number. I didn’t “feel” nervous, but the body has its own agenda in situations sometimes. It was a pure physical reaction to the anticipation of having a conversation with a person who I knew for a fact was a Neo-Nazi advocate. And that’s interesting: it was because I “knew.” How many people do we sit next to at a coffee shop, the subway, a plane, or even the dinner table at Thanksgiving oblivious to knowing that that other could be adamantly and completely against what we believe? I don’t know the answer at all to that.
Three dumpsters, all different
Uncomfortable experience: Dumpster Diving
Latest uncomfortable experience: dumpster diving. First thing to note: “dumpster diving” is legal in the US except by local regulation. A Supreme Court ruling back in the 80s declared that if someone throws something away, that item is now the public domain and fair game for snatching. As a general rule for the practice of being uncomfortable, too, I never do anything illegal or that is physically harmful. In this case, I took a pair of sturdy gloves because who knew what I would find. And, to be clear: this seemed like a pretty gross and also awkward activity to do, so it was definitely on the uncomfortable list.
There were many things I learned in this experience, so let me dive in (ha): Perhaps the biggest lesson in this experience, which I’ve also learned in several other of these uncomfortable experiences, is that there is an art, a finesse, and even a skill to doing a seemingly "easy" or "simple thing. (See my panhandling and silent meditation experiences as two examples.) For instance, the time of day you go will can be correlated to your “success rate,” so it’s best to go in the early morning or after the dinner rush if you’re trying to find edible goods. I went around 9am on a Sunday morning, hoping to fetch whatever was left from late night clubs and restaurants about Pacific Beach.
One of the locked dumpsters
Another key lesson here, again like former experiences: there’s a whole entire world organized around dumpster diving that I had little idea about. I knew and have seen plenty of “binners,” people who pick out metals or recyclable goods that they turn in for cash, often as a means to survive poverty. But I didn’t know there were whole internet personas and online groups that chatted about tips and their prizes from dumpster diving, some for sport and others for environmental reasons. Then there’s a whole realm of identify thieves that pick through your trash to find any intel or personal identification info. Long story short: dumpster diving is a vast and varied practice across the world.
One out in the open
My goal on Sunday morning: find something I’d actually want to consume. Net result: I found a banged up green apple and about a dozen soggy chips. As I mentioned, there’s a skill to this, and I haven’t honed it at all yet. The first thing I did was suss out and find dumpsters. Note: I only went for actual dumpsters-those big industrial ones, not people’s individual trash bins they roll out to the curb. You know how when you’re looking for a certain kind of car and then you keep seeing it everywhere? That’s what it was like-I hadn’t realized how MANY dumpsters were all over Pacific Beach, some right in front of actual restaurants, some lined up within parking lots, and others just randomly placed about.
Despite thinking that I was in some mecca of dumpsters, I soon realized was that there are an array of dumpster types. Some are locked. Some are for landscape clippings, and some are just for recycling. Given the 20 or so that I looked in, I’d say only a quarter of them were able to be opened or had remnants of food.
shrimp tales in this one
Probably 10 or so dumpsters in, I was getting less bashful about the fact that I was rolling up to dumpsters and flinging open the tops like a bargain shopper at Marshalls. I was on a mission, and really, I just didn't care. As usual from these experiences (minus the ones when I’ve been on a stage), people also don’t care about what you’re up to when you seem confident in whatever you're doing. This is both troubling and liberating for various reasons. At the 10th dumpster, I propped up the top and was convinced I found the mother lode. Inside this dumpster were heaps of tied clear bags, most likely from a restaurant kitchen. There was one bag of shrimp ends, another of vegetable stems, a real nasty big bag of heavy brown sand-like material (which I still can’t hope to label), discarded cartons of food items, hundreds of egg shells, and a bunch of take out boxes. The smell and flies were disgusting to say the least. Still, I felt confident I could dig up some left over taco or burrito bits. After 30 minutes of digging, I came up empty handed but for the chips and apple. Another 10 or so dumpsters later, I still just had just the chips and apple. Honestly, I was surprised by this. And that’s the other lesson to perhaps here:
The one apple
Maybe there’s a reason we don’t see dozens of people lining up at dumpsters to do this kind of work (at least in America). Maybe it yields so little, is so disgusting, or is so belittling that people just stay away from it and would rather ask for handouts or beg for money if the goal is to get a meal. Yet maybe I was in the wrong area at the wrong time. Maybe I gave up at 20 dumpsters when I should have gone for 30. It’s hard to tell, and at least now I know there’s a whole realm of dumpster diving I just barely started in on. Despite all the maybes, this was a valuable uncomfortable experience.
entry way to the ranch
Uncomfortable Experience: visit with a cult
Latest uncomfortable experience: visit with a cult. This is one of these uncomfortable experiences where I think it will be bad to horrible but this one turned out to be mild and just slightly unnerving. That’s the meta part of this practice: you have to get comfortable knowing the experience itself can have an entire range of uncomfortably depth. The other thing about this particular uncomfortable experience is that you go down a rabbit hole of questioning what is real and what the f is actually going on, which is probably the first step of getting sucked into a cult of any kind.
First, I had to wonder, “what is a cult?” Aren’t we all in some cult of some sort whether it be Soul Cycle or Game of Thrones or being “a New Yorker” or even a company I created called BAM? Possibly, but not likely as the Oxford definition is ,“a relatively small group of people having religious beliefs or practices regarded by others as strange or sinister,” emphasis on sinister.
The particular cult I visited is one of the Twelve Tribes, a group formed in the 70s that now has groups spread all over America, Europe, Australia, and South America, so dubbed “the commonwealth of Israel.” Apparently, if you join, you give up all of your possessions and work on the land and with one another in order to live. I found one such faction of the Twelve Tribes in Southern California with a quick Google search, and this community of about 50 or so people openly welcome volunteers to their organic farm, according to their website. (Out of respect and my promise to this faction, I am not mentioning which particular group this is.) According to lots of media outlets, blogs, and the internet in general, the Twelve Tribes upholds beliefs in child labor, child abuse (to “secure a place in heaven”), slavery, no birth control, and producing “an army of 144,000 male virgins, who would prepare the way for Christ's second coming,” among other things. They also operate a chain of delis called “the Yellow Deli,” an often locally beloved little cafe that most guests don’t realize are operated by such cult. I called up the number listed on the website of this faction and asked if I could come by for a tour since I did these uncomfortable experiences and like to garden in general (I always disclose my practice.) A gruff man said I could show up, but to give them a heads up say 1 hour before I was planning to arrive.
Yellow Deli
As one would imagine, the location of the cult is indeed down a long windy dirt path, deep off any highways or roads. As I pulled onto the dirt road mid-morning last weekend, it did strike me that there wasn’t a soul in sight. It was well past 10am, a bright and brilliant day, yet nothing was stirring. I thought I was in that damn preview of that movie Midsommar and started to think this wasn’t a great idea. I was rather in the middle of nowhere, on someone’s private property. I parked in some dirt plot of land and sat there for a minute, the moment when you say to yourself in these uncomfortable experiences, “you know-we don’t HAVE to do this right now.” That’s the moment to seize, though. I got out of the car, locked it, and started walking up a small paved driveway of sorts, past a large sign of the cult’s ranch name. I knew I was absolutely in the right spot.
For about 15 minutes, I was just strolling around. There were some cows, some geese, several fields, and just the sound of “shhht shhht shhht” as sprinklers sprayed the strips of grassy landscape. I eventually spotted a tall man by a barn as well as two little boys. I waved, like I knew them, thinking that's the friendliness gesture I could show. The man inside the barn greeted me warmly and told me he was happy to show me the farm. Another man came by inside the barn, also with two little ones, and gave me a similar warm greeting. We walked the fields, admiring the greenhouse, the peach trees, the dirt where carrots would be planted soon, and the irrigation system. We chatted easily, about how a lot of farming is about failure, much like the startups I work with, and how dealing with people is always hard, even if you love all 50 of them.
The typical day looks like this: The whole group gets up at around 6am daily, has an hour of reading together (the Bible), and then gets to work for rest of the day. I turned to the little boy and said, “and what do you do every day?” He immediately said, “Anything he says,” pointing to his dad. That’s probably a typical response for any 6 year old, but I caught myself wondering about it because of my obvious bias. People come and go from the group-some stay for years, like the man giving me the tour, and some stay for weeks or just a couple of months. I asked how one gets accepted to be part of the group, careful to never say "cult," and he said that once you were baptized, the group decides on whether you can be a part of the group or not, in some form or another. This was a bit unclear. I met a few other guys during the tour, all of whom were kind and welcoming, asking where I was from and how I liked the farm. I was perplexed by how handsome every guy was. Perhaps that’s my own bias thinking most people would look weathered and a tad worn working the land everyday. Instead, all of them had a glow to them, a brilliant, broad smile, chiseled bodies, and a radiance of happiness. WTF, I thought. I started to make up a story that these where the “models” put out to pasture when volunteers came by. But that’s ridiculous, I told myself. Maybe that's the power of organic greens and a life removed from domestic terrorism, mortgages, and gridlock.
We visited the dozen baby goats, the 7 new kittens, and the great house which was the central meeting point for the group. This is where I finally saw some women surrounded by slews of other children. Like a number of the photos you’ll see if you google the Twelve Tribes, the attire the women wore was straight out of Little House on the Prairie. None of the women spoke or addressed me unlike the men, so I couldn’t get any details about their days. However, the Twelve Tribes website says the following about the role of women: “Our ‘characteristic social behavior’ is that we help the men, because woman was originally created to be the helper of man,” and that, “Our woman on the flag is weak. She chooses to live by the strength of her God, not with her own strength as her god.” I did note that my guide abruptly ended his questions about what I do in the world when I said I own my own business, have sold one before, have dozens of employees, and so on. That was “interesting,” he said.
At the end of the tour over a few hours, my tour guide said to wait for a moment because he had something to give me. “Oh shit,” I thought, but he simply handed me a giant crate of fresh vegetables and three giant bottles of the green juice they sell at farmers’ markets. They encouraged me to come back any time, to stay the night or a week, if I wanted. I get the allure of the invite: here’s a place, so removed and simple and safe compared to the bat shit one “we” otherwise exist in, where one can work on the land, where the only bleating you hear is from an actual baby goat instead of some pundit or politician on the news. I can get it, I really can.
I dropped a postcard in the mail the next day, thanking the group for their hospitality, their openness, and kindness. There's a lot more I could say, but I'm saving it for the book.
Uncomfortable Experience: nudist on a nude beach
Latest uncomfortable experience: being nude on a nude beach. A few years ago, I did the nude modeling experience which was nerve wracking, but being nude in broad daylight in public is another experience all together, which I now know.
Start of Black’s Beach
Oddly enough, nude beaches aren’t as accepted as one would think in California. Los Angeles county has zero, and there’s only one north of Sacramento. Several “indecent exposure” penal codes exist, particularly California Penal Code 314 PC. (I was curious so I researched this as I thought I could get arrested if I was on the wrong side of the very official cones on Black’s Beach which officially indicate where nudity is allowed.) Black’s Beach is one such beach that is absolutely stunning in San Diego. Along with nudists, surfers, joggers, and locals stroll this beach year round.
The official cones
Around 9am, I had reached the beach. (Black’s Beach is in front of a huge cliffside.) Despite how early and sheltered this beach is, it was already packed with several dozen surfers, walkers, tourists with those damn selfie sticks, and even families. “Oh shit,” I thought. “I can’t be jogging down the beach with some 4-year old pointing at me.” Here I thought I’d been a tad wimpy and easy on myself, going out relatively early to avoid gawkers and tourists. Apparently not.
At first, I didn’t see anyone nude. I asked one surfer, “Isn’t this Black’s with the naked people?” He said, “oh yeah. But the nudists are up a bit more. But seriously, dude, it’s just a bunch of old men you probably don’t want to see naked.” I kept strolling for half a mile or so, and once I passed those official cones, you could see the beach spotted with a few bare bums. I strolled up to the first bare butt I saw. I was curious to know why he was out here, and I wanted to be near someone who was also stark naked as this was NOT the dominant going on at this beach.
Let me tell you about this dear man, Eric. He was the color of an almond from head to butt cheek. Given the lack of tan lines and his perfectly swept long grey and white hair, I figured he had be out here often as a nudist. Indeed, he said he loved the freedom he felt being naked on the beach. You could feel the whole sun, the whole ocean on your body when you didn’t have clothes on, he said. He wished he still could feel that burst of freedom like he did so many years ago, but he was now more than 60 years old and has been out here many, many times. He also said that you have to watch yourself out here, which is a sad thing. Some people will come and just watch you, fully clothed, in a rather creepy way. He’d dealt with that before. He also said a lot of women have a bad experience because some guys “can’t handle it and act out.” Eric was kind and sincere, but I have to tell you, it was odd having a full conversation with a man who just turned over on his towel and was now fully nude right in front of my face, in full sunlight, right there in public. This was a great moment for me. My internal voice was saying, “ahhh! He’s naked right here! What is happening!” I laughed at this later. That’s our culture talking. “Naked is bad. Naked is indecent,” is what American culture teaches us. If you think otherwise, consider that crappy crepe garment you “put on” in the doctor’s office.
I told Eric I was going to do it! I was going to run to the ocean, splash around, and walk back up the beach. Maybe I’d do a cartwheel. It happened to be low tide, which made the distance from the beach to the water line particularly long. “Go. Be free,” he insisted, and then he turned back on stomach to read his book. “See. Eric doesn’t care I’m about to be naked out here,” I thought. I looked up and down the beach. I even looked at the sky, as the hang glider port is located above the beach. Like someone is going to see me from the sky! I laughed at myself. This was so ridiculous which is the best part of being uncomfortable: you often get to a point where you find it outrageous that you’re all caught up in your silly discomfort. It’s so dumb. I had previously thought, “What do I care,” but then, you face the reality of your situation, which is where this practice of being uncomfortable gets interesting.
I whipped off my shorts, top, and sports bra and started a dash to the water. Isn’t that funny? What the hell am I running for? Also, sports bras were made for a reason. Maybe I thought the water would hid me. But damn, that water was cold. Once I was over the shock of the coldness, I sloughed out of the waves back to the beach. I’d like to think I was like some mermaid emerging from the sea foam in some naked two legged glory of sorts, but please. I laughed but it was that delightful kind of laugh. Eric was right. It’s nice to feel ALL of sun on your skin. I strode back up to my spot, probably a hundred yards from the water. Nonchalantly, I put my clothes back on and eventually got back to my car. It was great to be naked. Highly recommend this one. Say hi to Eric out there.
Uncomfortable Experience: being with bees
Latest uncomfortable experience: being with bees. I’ve never been stung by a bee, and the thought of touching a whole hive full of them was a tad disturbing to me. Hell, I didn’t even know if I’d have an allergic reaction if I were stung, so that was another consideration of this uncomfortable experience. Long story short of this post: I get stung, I’m fine, and bees are incredible.
I found an adorable bee keeping business in National City, Girl Next Store Beekeeping, that helped me with this experience. Hilary, the owner, removes bees from properties, teaches classes, harvests honey, and promotes the magic of bees to anyone who will listen. She also has several hives in her backyard that literally buzz with the sound of tens of thousands of bees bustling about in the coffers of the honeycomb. We did a tour of her hives and checked the status of the queen bees which are often marked with a colored dot on their bodies. (Like cattle or dogs, there are queen bee breeders who tag/mark their prized animals.)
Hilary pointing out a hive
I told Hilary I didn’t want to get stung per say (physical harm on purpose is not the objective of practicing uncomfortable experiences, at least in how I practice) but in order for this to be uncomfortable, I’m going to need some real exposure. Just a little. She did say I was the only one who has requested this, ha. We suited up in the bee keeper suits and zipped, Velcroed, and padded ourselves in from head to toe. Hilary said she gets stung often enough, particularly if she’s removing or transporting hives. Bees can get fairly agitated and scared-even waving your hand swiftly across a palate of honeycomb makes many of them jolt a bit. Similar to a school of fish or flock of birds, bees can move as a mass unit, connected by communication humans can’t even fathom. They typically get feisty when threatened and sense a source of danger, and a few female bees will buzz aggressively around the source of agitation, resorting to stinging if all else fails. Hilary and I had a brief philosophical conversation around this: do bees know they’ll die if they sting? Or is this just programed biology? Bees only live 42 days with the exception of the queens that can live 2 to 7 years so perhaps some of those bee fighters just figure a Kamikaze mission doesn’t matter, minus a couple days of life.
Me glove free with a new comb and worker bees
Once we looked at the palates for a bit, I took off my gloves. Stupidly, I thought I’d notice a bee buzzing by my hand if there was an issue at all, particularly if we were being calm and gentle. I could easily hold and even pet the bees on the honeycomb palates, for instance. Those bees are so busy building, they don’t mind a human pinkie poking around. The bees on the honeycomb are oddly calming. Although I knew all of them could sting (these combs didn’t have any of the male “drones” which lack stingers), I didn’t get a sense any of them wanted to attack me though my first couple of minutes, I was dripping with dread inside kinda like the honey on the combs I was looking at. It wasn’t the happy worker bees that got me, though. At one hive while standing next to Hilary, I felt the immediate puncture of a push pin in my thumb and knew it had happened. Hilary had warned me it was possible with the swarm that had stirred to life with our sudden presence at their doorstep, so this was completely my fault. She took the stinger right out within three seconds of me flailing and cussing about (I was surprised!) and then we just continued our review of the honey combs. The sting hurt. like. Hell. I now have a good appreciation for the power of a little sword from a bee’s butt.
Hilary told me a ton about bees, and there’s so much I could write here. Honey is completely sterile; it’s the only food that doesn’t go bad; it takes 12 bees an entire working life to get a single teaspoon of honey. One must-do, if you get the chance, is to smell the insides of a hive. It’s an odd aroma of warm bread and ripe banana with a hint of, say, yeast. We tasted a bunch of honey after getting out of our suits, and I told Hilary honey tasting could easily be the new wine tasting. There is so much variety to the color and taste of honey depending on the pollen bees collect. In Southern California, for instance, there’s an essence of eucalyptus in many varieties.
Overall, I’m rather glad I got stung. It was uncomfortable enough having my hands on honeycomb crawling with bees, and I got the freebie of a relatively harmless sting to reinforce who’s house I was intruding on. Good reminder for life overall.
Latest uncomfortable experience: A Two Minute Full Ice Bath a la the Wim Hof Method.
Wim Hof
If you’re not familiar with Wim, he’s an animal. He holds 26 world records and does things like running a marathon on the arctic with only running shorts on. I’ve met him a few times, and frankly, he’s incredible. I saw the beginner’s course of the “method” being taught last weekend and decided to do it. For context: I can’t stand the cold. I have a heated blanket for Januarys in San Diego when it dips below 60 degrees. When I run in the snow, which I do, I wear three layers of gloves/mittens. Mostly, I have shit for circulation and am already long in the limbs so cold is not where I do best. File “death by ice water drowning” as my top way to go. An ice bath sounded like the ideal uncomfortable experience. I don’t ever watch Titanic because of that Leo drowning, gawd.
The four hour course had about 20 students, mostly dudes and many who were looking for ways to level up, change up their mental abilities, and expand their physical capabilities. It was a great vibe in there and notably supportive which was great when you’re having a bit of a break down in the ice. There are three pillars to the method that encompass breathing, mindset/commitment and “cold therapy.” The why of the cold therapy, according to the website, “Proper exposure to the cold starts a cascade of health benefits, including the buildup of brown adipose tissue and resultant fat loss, reduced inflammation that facilitates a fortified immune system, balanced hormone levels, improved sleep quality, and the production of endorphins— the feel-good chemicals in the brain that naturally elevate your mood.” Now, one would think: “of course you’d be fucking ecstatic to get out of a tub of ice,” but the course gets quite into the science behind inflammation and our immune systems. Before the bath, we did a lot of breathing work. Wim advocates to “get high on your own supply,” and after an intense set of breathing, a few people were indeed dizzy. I was loopy and lost hearing in one ear, and that’s just par for the course as a beginner. Long story short: you can REALLY get yourself pumped up with oxygen that can help power you through incredible things.
The last hour focused on the bath and just the prep to do it. As beginners, we had to stick to 2 minutes, tops, just so hypothermia and other deranged things didn’t happen. I could tell these guys were nervous and pumped at the same time, including me. Something about pouring bags and bags of ice in a pool, feeling the shocking cold of the ice just on your hand, and then thinking, “I’m now going to sit in that ENTIRE pool there” is daunting. Perhaps if the guys were brushing it off I would have had a different energy about it, but you could sense the trepidation on the patio as we all peered into that little blue pool. Our instructor, well aware of the contained fear, told us not to freak out. If we did, he’d come up to us and say, “blow through my hand” to aid in our controlled breathing. Then, we started the “whoo-HA”s, a deep squash and arm motion while saying “whoo!” and “HA!” with every hand motion. Frankly, we looked ridiculous in swim trunks standing around a little pool as kids played on a playground behind us. Some of the kids giggled and did modified whoo-has with us, and some Asian ladies sitting on little stools at the back of the shop we were sharing the space with looked onward at us with disgust. Whatever. We were too hyped about the bath and the whoo-HAs helped get a lot of blood flowing.
Our instructor then said, “Who’s first?” I and three others hopped reluctantly in. I wanted to be first because I wanted ALL of that ice bobbing around me. (Twenty or so minutes later it was still freezing but all melted with the additional bathers.) Then the two minutes began, which were quite the longest two minutes I can recall in recent history. There is something wretchedly painful about the ice. I recalled that sweat lodge uncomfortable experience I did a year ago, the one in which I thought at various times that my skin was on fire. It was hard to hold this memory when the pain was bolting through. I thought, “oh, maybe it will just feel like you’re completely numb which would be no feeling at all.” That is unfortunately not the case as the body is in complete panic mode trying to preserve your organs. I did feel almost a little shield of warmth around my thighs, probably from all the blood flow and workout I just did with the whoo-HAs. Thankfully, the group was all whoo-HAing hard, and there’s something to be said about a group of people encouraging you so sincerely. I had the instructor count down the last 20 seconds, and that was a god send. I hopped out pretty much the second time was called.
Latest uncomfortable experience: having pointed conversations with dozen of gun nuts at a gun show.
So many uncomfortable things in life are simply conversations-the ones you try to avoid, not have, or never dare push for because you think (and make a dangerous assumption) the “other” will be unyielding or unreceptive. At this point, I’m pretty solid on asking anyone anything, but this muscle needs to be exercised to stay in shape, and I encourage you to work yours, too.
First off, I’m not appalled by guns. I grew up shooting them, I’ve had training, and my dad would take us shooting growing up. However, I don’t think they should be a right, shouldn’t be in the hands of teachers, and shouldn’t be given out like cigarettes at gas stores. A bit surprisingly, a number of people at this show have at least the same mindset or are somewhere on this same spectrum. I had a bias of thinking, “Well, this has to be the nutty-ist of nuts at this show, waving their trump flags and putting rifles in the hands of kids here.” Sure, there are “those people,” but those are the rare ones, at least whom I encountered. Driving into the parking lot, I noticed mostly trucks, a number with bummer stickers you would think to see. I expected mostly men, but it was about 97% white males, mostly in their 40s to 60s, I’d say. For comparison, I was at a Beyonce concert two nights before in San Diego, which was about 40% male and equal parts black, Hispanic, white/other.
My mission was to ask a few dozen people an assortment of “controversial” questions such as: What do you believe is the solution for school shootings? Do you believe background checks should be done on everyone who owns a gun? What is wrong with America right now, if anything? I wasn’t there to have wild arguments, but rather listen and encourage conversation. One thing I’ve learned in doing these uncomfortable experiences is that if you don’t pounce and protest what people say and allow them the dignity to say a full thought, they will keep sharing. They will ask for your thoughts and comments, too. This is an advanced listening skill and often hard to do, but man, can you take this skill anywhere in life.
For the most part, many people were not “gun nuts” at all. (This reminds me of the pro-lifers I met in another experience who weren’t extreme “bible bangers,” for the most part, either.) They are proud Americans, articulate, and want a world of self-reliance. Some got into guns because they grew up with them. One guy had sons who were in the military, and they would go shooting as “good bonding time.” Hobbies convert to businesses. I asked one guy, “So do you think any Democrats are here?” He said, “Nope. Unless they have a bulletproof vest on.” Another said, “Oh, certainly. There are some here. Many moderates are here. I actually voted for Obama.” One said that gun safety starts at the home and that the recent Florida shooting was a failure of government many times over to listen to reports and flags that were sent. Another suggested that each school should hire 2 vets who have been well trained in firearms as part of the solution for school shootings. I asked one guy if he did the hunting, and he replied, “Oh, I couldn’t, ma’am. I do volunteer work with rescue animals.” The more you listen without judgment, the more surprising kernels pop out of people. On the topic of gun rights, EVERY person I spoke to was in favor of background checks, and many mentioned “extensive” ones, ones that connected to national databases, and so on. When I said, “Well, there are gun advocates who don’t believe in any background checks.. . .” many would shake their heads, chuckle, or say, “no, not at least at this show.” One lamented that it is so sad at how the two party system has aggravated the polar opposites in our country such that these people can’t even hear one another. He thanked me for our conversation. I spoke with cops as well and asked, “Do you want citizens to have guns?” Both cops (white and male, BTW), said, “Responsible ones? Then absolutely,” and “yes, without a doubt, but that’s my personal opinion.”
Interestingly, I learned that a CCW (Carried Concealed Weapon) permit is a hot ticket right now in Orange County, which is expected to have more than 25,000 permits granted by end of this year, even 30,000. (Orange County is a notably conservative bubble in California, also notably white by about 65% of the population.) I couldn’t help but think of a guy in a polo shirt or with a surf board polishing his gun from his mini mansion overlooking Laguna Beach, but see: that’s another bias I just thought up.
Note: photos were supposedly not allowed, but no one escorted me out despite my obvious photo taking spree. Probably another white privilege to add to the list.
Overall, this was a good experience and a solid reminder to challenge your biases often. One of the things I mention in the book is that experiences like these wear down your bias to a nub, and that’s a good thing: they don’t tend to keep your mind and ears open.
Latest Uncomfortable Experience: Dancing in front of thousands of strangers, in silence.
How about dancing in front of thousands of strangers, in silence, kinda like you MAY be utterly deranged? This was my latest uncomfortable experience last Thursday afternoon at rush hour on a freeway overpass. Scene: me dancing, ecstatically at times, for over an hour as cars crept home. If you’re from San Diego, you may be familiar with the famous “mariachi man” who dresses in full costume and dances over freeway passes on random weekdays. Look him up-the guy has great press. This is where I got the inspiration for this uncomfortable experience, but I didn’t bother with a costume or any theme. I just went out there and started dancing. It’s funny. You may think, “Oh, whatever. That doesn’t sound so bad.” Indeed, this isn’t one of my “extreme” experiences, but there is something needling about standing out in broad daylight, by yourself, with no one else hearing your soundtracks, and just going for it. Over the course of an hour, one of four things would happen: Most people don’t even notice. I could see the drivers’ faces because the traffic was slow and the overpass wasn’t too high. This is a good reminder that really, no one gives a shit what you’re doing. Some people would give a slow, eventual stare that seemed to convey shock, dismay, or flat out disapproval a la, “Oh, that stupid white girl.” Some people look up somewhat sadly, I think in a sense of wondering if I’m just another homeless mentally ill person, but at least a seemingly happy one. And then there we those who were utterly delighted, both men and women. They’d honk and wave, give a thumbs up or fist bump. A few would just give me the biggest damn smile they had, and that was pretty fun and rather surprising. At some point, I just got really into it, dancing up and down the whole sidewalk, because somewhere in a lot of these experiences you pass the “no f*cks” line which completely liberates you into a full-frontal expression with little regard for societal norms. Some of you may comment, “oh, like Burning Man!” or “oh, like an acid trip!” but Burning Man and group drug use are both in spaces where participants agree to a norm of being fully expressed. Even that uncomfortable experience I did panhandle is "a norm" that isn't questioned. This little experience gave me pause on how often “we,” be it in a city, at an event, in a nation, or in a company, have silent contracts with one another on what we embrace as “the norm.” Just think of yourself singing your next coffee order to a barista or doing cartwheels in an airport terminal. Those little acts would be outside the contract unless perhaps you’re three years old. Interesting to think about. One petite girl, probably about my age, walked by on the sidewalk at one point. She said, “where’s your dance partner?” And I said, “It’s you, now!” She eventually did a few salsa moves for everyone and we laughed.
This is a good uncomfortable experience you can try any ‘ol time. Highly recommended. Maybe “the norm” will shift to people dancing over freeway overpasses during rush hour soon. Crazier things have happened, like people riding electric scooters in flocks, a hatched norm now.
Latest Uncomfortable Experience: Needles in the body.
Now that the book is written and is being shopped, it’s back to the practice of being uncomfortable. I’m convinced this is a fantastic and easy (many things cost nothing and/or need no prep) practice to adopt if you want to rocket through life with unshakable resolve.
Today’s experience: needles in the body. I was that person that NEVER looked at needles. I would occasionally faint as a child getting shots or having blood drawn so I’ve avoided every blood bank donation ask and any situation where getting a “B12 shot” or completely optional “boost” was offered. Ick, it just grossed me completely out: the whole vein thing, the needle pushing in, the blood coming out, or the IV drip going in. I’ve wondered how heroin addicts dealt with it, honest to God.
Aaron Keith hooked me (many thanks, Aaron!) up with his clinic (Spark Health) that does IV drips, blood work, shots, and more. This is the kind of place where people willing go in, get a needle in them, and watch bags of liquids get soaked up in their veins or pop in after hot yoga to get a B12 shot in the butt “real fast.” I would never be one of those people. But, Aaron has two lovely doctors who helped me this Saturday, and I eventually called them the “blood babes.” These two ladies were in LOVE with their jobs. They gush about blood (ha), “get excited with gore,” and “are one with the vein.” ONE WITH THE VEIN. Wow. You need to make that into a bumper sticker, Aaron. Goes to show: people love all kinds of things, and when they find their callings, man, are they happy. This was fun energy to be around, and I learned something: it makes you feel silly to wince at something another person just adores. The patients clearly loved these ladies. They felt the doctors' delight, perhaps literally in their own veins.
Both doctors let me watch, with permission from all the great patients, IVs get set up and shots get done. The first patient, a regular, had massive arm veins. I watched the whole process from about two feet away, all the way to the IV hook up. “How are you doing?” the doctor asked. She wasn’t asking the patient-that question was for me. It looked so. . . shockingly gentle, so I was just fine. We did a few shots in people’s butts who had no problem dropping their draws with me standing a foot from their asses. The needles to the butts weren’t so bad: it’s so plump back there that you just (very precisely) “throw” the needle like a dart to the chunk of butt you’re holding between your fingers and thumb. Back to the IV drips-I watched a few more and noticed you DO need to “feel” the vein. They’re hidden little buggers on some people. Regardless, it LOOKED painless, and I started to suppress a shudder or “aggghhhhh!” every time a needle was going in, something the doctors were probably rolling their eyes at with a smile until I got that under control. One of them then offered to draw my blood, insisting I watch the whole thing. That sounded utterly horrible, which is exactly the “strike zone” of being in a truly uncomfortable experience. But! I watched the whole thing, starting at the needle as it went in and the crimson blood fills the tube. I had to sit for five minutes to make sure I was stable, as I felt immediately light-headed. I was just fine though.
I’m not joining the blood babe brigade anytime soon, but with this experience complete, I know I’ll be fine in any situations related to needles and blood. If you need me to inject you, I got you. Special thanks to Aaron’s wonderful patients and superb doctors who showed me the odd love of blood.
Latest uncomfortable experience: A traditional Native American sweat lodge ceremony.
Maybe you think, “oh, but I do hot yoga, how bad can this be?” It’s like that, but four times hotter, in a hut with everyone knee-to-knee, with non-stop chanting and a chorus of earsplitting drumming, people crying and screaming, with smoke billowing, and in the pitch, PITCH black in the dirt. I really do not like saunas, and I have to contain my eye rolls at everything too “woo” and spiritual, particularly when professed from a white guy donning a man bun and some East Asia tattoo that probably translates to “dip shit” in whatever ancient language. So, this experience was probably a good one for me.
I showed up at this remote spiritual center to see a guy with long grey hair, a grey bread, no shirt, a cigarette, and a sweatband with some spiritual stamp. He must have been in his 50s or more, sitting behind a fold out table with the tag from TJ Max. He’s been doing these ceremonies for nearly 30 years, and his wife also has. For all I know, he was 90, weathered but jolly, tired but radiant. He said Burning Man was for gringos who have no ceremony or heritage so they created something where they can all look at each other and party, though he admitted he’s never been. He is Native American and just returned from Sundance. (I thought, this can’t be the film festival I go to-that’s in January) so I asked despite my ignorance. Sundance is a sacred ceremony that’s been going on for centuries in Native American cultures which includes several days of dancing in the sun without water and food. People also “attach” themselves to trees, hooking their skin to the branches. His wife, who was also quite kind and welcoming, showed me some of her scars. She was mostly Irish, and her two “roads” she was walking were Native American and Celtic ceremonies. Other people have roads that include medicines, but that was not her thing. There were plenty of transformative experiences like the sweat lodge that didn’t require medicine like frog poison which I learned others were learning in the Amazon.
There were just 5 or so people there when I showed up, but over the next hour, about 20 others trickled in. Most people were in their 30s, though there were some older women. Most everyone knew each other and hugged and rejoiced to see each other. It was endearing, and I was surprised at the array of the backgrounds of people. One guy was an ex Navy Seal, one was my former employee at my food tour company, one women had cropped grey hair and wore khaki shorts and a golf polo shirt while building the fire. There were Hispanic people, Asian people, Black people and others. Two women about my age discussed how they were “Neo Hippies.” In the hut, however, it is pitch black so just our spirits can mingle without context of race, sex, and age. I liked that. I’m sure some lovely liberals would say this is cultural misappropriation given everyone was NOT Native American including myself, but I loved the diverse mix of people who eagerly seemed to honor this sweat lodge tradition. I thought about how messed up and sad we’ve become in believing “others” do not welcome or want to share traditions with different “others.” What is this called? When did this happen? The wife said this ceremony was for all humans.
The women were the first to go into the hut, and we had to wear long pants or dresses before crawling in. I’m actually thankful for that because the fabric helped block the scorching heat. We got to sit on a towel, and once everyone was in the hut, each person went around stating who they were the sons and daughters of, the brothers and sisters of, the mothers and fathers of, and so forth. No bullshit on where people worked or whatever as that wasn’t relevant thousands of years ago. People stated who they were praying for as well. We each got a piece of sage which helped for breathing. I thought we’d have water inside, but water was not allowed. The husband and wife duo called us all sisters and brothers and said they would protect us physically and spiritually in case we panicked or couldn’t breath. This is about the time I started thinking, “oh shit.” How would you even SEE someone fainting? One guy looked quite nervous. He was new and said he didn’t do well in contained spaces. The wife soothed him, and he returned timidly back to his spot.
There were five “rounds,” each with a purpose and several songs. Some rounds were for other people in our lives, some for each other in the hut, some for just ourselves, some were for humanity and the healing humans all needed. Each round lasted perhaps 30 minutes (who knows-it is a time warp) and was a full soundtrack of Native American songs and drumbeats. I don’t think I’ve ever listened to so much Native American music, and it was deafening and helpful to concentrate on it because of the immense heat. For each round, several wood fired rocks were rolled into the hut. The door flap was then closed, and the shroud of blackness wrapped us all immediately. Then the songs started. The heat was absurd. I thought my clothes were on fire a few times but all I saw was blackness. One trick the wife told me was to go to the ground, smell Mother Nature. It was more bearable on the ground, and I pretty much gripped the ground every round, inhaling what I could from the dirt and my little bushel of sage. I never thought dirt was so divine; I think it saved me in there. People weeped, sighed, and chanted every round. I didn’t know any of the words, but as the wife said, you can get the meaning, and I did. The wife flicked water on us with her big sage brush, but the rocks were also showered with water, which released more and more burning steam in the blackness. I don’t know how she could billow the high pitched songs so well, but she had nearly 30 years under her belt. The combination of the steam sizzling, the drum beats, and the sighs made for a throbbing chaotic symphony of sorts. A round would end with the door flap opening and more rocks were piled on.
Once done, we climbed out one by one. I felt wobbly but not parched, and some people helped the older people stand up. My heart was racing, but the wife said that was normal and good. I felt utterly exhausted and slept nearly 10 hours straight that late night. Certainly an experience I would recommend.
Latest uncomfortable experience: a 50 mile technical trail ultra-marathon
Indeed, I’ve limited my uncomfortable experience practice to finish the book this year, but this practice is one you must keep doing once it sinks into you.
As I’ve mentioned, what’s uncomfortable is quite personal. There’s plenty of people who’d fancy a 50 any given Sunday like Mitch Thrower, Ryan Alfred, Travis Steffen, and Matt Clifford. Though I’ve done 3 marathons (one that was a trail in Death Valley), I assumed this 50 miles one would be uncomfortable, to say the least.
It was. I did win 2nd in my age category, but I’m sure there were three of us in total. I didn’t have the energy to ask and figured ignorance is certainly bliss in glory, ha. Like a number of these uncomfortable experiences, I’ve found myself in a moment of thinking, “OH F. This is BEYOND the level I thought I signed up for.” There were about 100 runners, many whom have done 100-mile ultras and several 50 milers. Before the race and after chatting with a few of the old-timers, I realized this course was no joke. Not for novices, not for little, limber runners like me who are used to paved, wide roadways and combed, leafless trails. I imagine the old hats have a name for clueless newbies like me, similar to “sparkle ponies” at Burning Man. Whatever. I made it. Many parts were through paths just the size of your foot, through several grueling up hill sections, over knobby tree branches in the Muir forest, and over rocky sections where one misstep was a sprained ankle for certain. Though brutal, it was just beautiful. I have a real appreciation for NorCal scenery (and respect) like never before.
Motivation is a funny thing. Sometimes you get it when you compare yourself to others who are physically, tangibly “ahead of you” and think, “okay, I can surely beat THAT.” It’s a fun game to play while you’re out there for 11 hours. There’d be a guy at least double my age ahead of me with a little potbelly, and I’d think, “Okay. COME ON now,” and I’d eventually catch up to him. At the starting line, I was surveying the runners, a motley group of folks age 20 to 70, all shapes and sizes. There were the “serious” ones with their gear bags, strapped on gels, technical watches, and latest slick camelbacks or gear bag flaunted like the “it” Prada bag of the season at New York Fashion Week. There were the short, weathered ones looking like they just came from Burning Man, complete with rubber chickens, feather ribbon crap, and some tie-dye attire, obviously custom made. There were the brawn “bros,” in just tank tops and shorts, psyching each other up with, “Dude, dude. We like, totally, got this.”
I didn’t have a bag, just my water bottle, and a sweatshirt with a few zip pockets where I’d stuff peanut M&Ms in for mid-aid station motivation. “If you get to THAT hill, I’ll give you FIVE M&Ms,” and such is what I’d tell myself. I ate a lot of fucking M&Ms. My mental space was consumed on getting to the runner in front of me and to the next aid station. There were 11 aid stations, and I ticked them off one by one. Once I made it to the aid station after the halfway mark, I knew the 17 miles or so left were in the bag. At this point, I also played the game of "how many things can I be grateful for," and I came up with more than 90 things, including the fact that I could physically even attempt this course.
I came in right as the sun was setting, and it was stunning. Many runners were still out on the course and would be using headlamps until the close of the course at 11 pm. I made “no headlamp” part of my motivating mantra as well.
I can’t say I’d recommend such a grueling experience to anyone, but an ultra is a good test of grit, endurance, and determination. One of the older runners said, “You’ll get used to them! And then you’ll get ready for a 100 one.” I didn’t have the heart or breath to tell him this was a ONE TIME experience.
Latest uncomfortable experience: hurling yourself over a building.
Maybe last week or so you felt like hurling yourself over a building. For my latest uncomfortable experience, I did.
I’ve done a bit of canyoneering, and I’ve never been “scared” of heights. However, when you’re 29 stories on the highest hotel on the waterfront of the West Coast (The Grand Hyatt in San Diego) with your ass hanging by a relative thread, your body cannot help to alert the brain that something is very, very wrong.
This experience was facilitated by “Over the Edge,” a company that puts on fundraisers for all sorts of causes around the nation. In this case, the cause was fundraising for brain cancer. I didn’t mind so much what the cause was since I was more interested in the experience itself, but it was wonderful to see so many people scared out of their minds to do the loooooong trek down the face of the building on behalf of a loved one fighting cancer.
You spend about an hour to get prepped, going from one volunteer to the next who helps you with the ropes, the harnesses, the GoPro, and the “dos and don’ts” for ensuring you don’t have a panic attack on the rope. A few people have fainted before, for instance. They do strap on walkie talkies so you can talk to the crew in case of an issue. When you get to the floor of the rappel and see the stunning skyline of the city at eye level, it strikes you how indeed high up you are. I looked at the bearings and ropes clamped onto the ledge and building itself. Sure, a lot of people had already gone, but how was I to know for certain that one little fastener just didn’t pop off a corner on some contraption? How many And how long did it take legal to work on that release form? Hmm, I wonder if they spent 100K just on that. This is the shit you think about.
When I got to the “edge,” a team of guys helped clamp me in. The conversation went as follows:
Guy: “So, how are you feeling?”
Me: “You know. Good as long as I’m strapped in here.”
Guy: “Oh, for sure. Look down! It’s amazing.”
Me: “Jesus.”
Guy: “Why don’t you do the plank?”
Me: “From where?”
Guy: “Right here. No one has done it yet. Just lean all the way back. Then put out your arms.”
And I did. You pretty much have to have your mind convince the rest of you that everything will be fine. Then I went down, which took a good 10 minutes or so. The Go Pro footage is probably filled with a number of F-bombs I would say on occasion for 1) for how long indeed that wall was and 2) how absurd the height was.
More details later in the book format. If you get the chance to do one of these “over the edges,” then take advantage.
Latest uncomfortable experience: being a patient escort for women seeking an abortion.
Perhaps this uncomfortable experience is more apropos with this election cycle. Mostly, this was uncomfortable because one doesn’t often spend hours listening to people you don’t agree with a real-time, face-to-face, and in an open manner where there are high distrust and tension among two groups, one of which you belong to. I’m not a religious, pro-life person at all, but okay, I listened and talked with the religious pro-lifers. Why not.
Neither side of this “debate” had spent much time with the other side, I learned, and this is unfortunate because as noted below, both sides have crystallized their disdain for the other such that police are now involved.
Special thanks to Vanessa Vee for pointing me to this experience.
Here’s the situation that was detailed to me. Every Thursday and Saturday morning, women wanting an abortion to come to this clinic by appointment to have the procedure done. Every Thursday and Saturday morning, a group of pro-life protestors or “counselors” as some refer to themselves as, situate themselves in the parking lot of said clinic. Once a female parks her car (and apparently looks pregnant), the protestors swarm the car. Statements such as “You are a murderer,” “we love you,” and “we will pay for your baby’s college” are some of the statements shouted and other times said quietly. The “escorts” were implemented by the clinic to help the pregnant women navigate these intrusive situations. The escorts also led the women into the correct door because there is another “business” NEXT STORE, called the “Pregnancy Resource Center,” that seems to be similar to the services of the clinic. The “PRC,” however, is a place where women are told the “church” can help them birth the baby, support it, and so forth. Ultimately, the supporters of PRC want women to “not commit murder,” according to Jesus or lord or Mary or whoever otherwise views this as a very grave sin. Note: a “human” is formed at the moment of conception, not at a certain time in the pregnancy, according to pro-lifers.
Fast forward to the scene of my arrival: First, two cops were in the parking lot writing up a ticket to a man with a megaphone. Meanwhile, two other megaphones were going off, blaring that Jesus wants something or another as about two dozen people stood along the sidewalk waving signs or murmuring scripture. Odd military warfare planes (this was in San Diego near a base) flew overhead and cars honked incessantly while driving by. Women in neon pink vests, the escorts, were dotted along the sidewalk as well. It was a loud menagerie of 25 or so people in board daylight on a sidewalk. I spotted a car with four Asian women whip out the parking lot, and two of the women in the front seats were crying. I could only imagine being a teenager and trying to end a pregnancy in this confusing, outré scene.
As I soon learned, the tension between the protestors and escorts got unruly a few weeks ago to the point that police now regularly patrolled the parking lot to ensure neither protestors nor escorts are physically on-premise. Apparently, some of the megaphone users used to stand in front of the clinic’s main doors, yelling repeated speech about how the women inside were sinners, going to hell, loved by Jesus, and so forth. The clinic insisted this was intrusive and the police apparently agreed. By the way, this clinic is in a strip mall. “Metro Flooring,” the tenant-right below the PRC and clinic, was probably using the lord’s name in vain at this point.
I first spoke with one of the cops. He sighed with a slight hint of sorrow. “People have a right to free speech, but it gets messy if it is intrusive or physical. We are here to keep everyone safe.”
I approached the first clan of escorts, all women. The apparent leader gave me a vest, and I put it on. I was going to talk with every pro-lifer there, and I did. One of the escorts said, “You ARE? Oh goodness. They’re crazy. Good luck.” Others looked miffed at this as well. I asked, “What are you afraid of? Are they THAT convincing that you’ll go to the other side?” I laughed, but that was an uncomfortable moment. One woman said it can sometimes get “heated.” Another said, “That one there. She’s the craziest. She spit at us once.” I responded, “Okay. Then that’ll be the first person I talk with.”
This woman was about my age, petite with freckles and blond hair. Her makeup was nicely done. She held the shown poster and stood next to a guy, also about her age.
“Hi there,” I said.
“Oh, hi,” she replied.
“I’m here to understand why you are out there. Would you tell me?” I asked.
“Well, you’re wearing that vest, so do you believe in pro-choice?” she countered.
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t listen to your position.”
“Oh, okay. No one ever comes over here.” She put the poster down like a knight lowering his armor.
That’s how we started. I asked how she became religious and why she came out here every Thursday and Saturday. Her claim was that she was serving the Lord, our savior, and she was called to this duty. In addition, what these women were doing was murder, and that’s a sin, according to the bible. We are all, in fact, sinners. She ran me through some questions:
“Did you tell a lie this week?” she asked.
“Oh, probably. Does lying to myself count? Ha.” I laughed.
“Have you stolen something this week?”
“Probably a pen, yeah,” I said.
“And have you taken the Lord’s name in vain?”
“Oh, hell yes. Oh, whoops. Does that count?”
“And have you looked at another man and thought him attractive?”
“Why, yes. I like men a lot. Have you looked around here? I mean, god. . .” I trailed off.
“So. You are a thief, a liar, an adulterating person who takes the Lord’s name in vain. You are a sinner.”
“Okay, I am a sinner.”
It went on from there. Accepting what was said was key to keeping a conversation going, and I purposely held off from rebuking their claims. I was there to listen, as hard as it was. (Note-this was the Catholic turf; the prayer people were Christian.) Many statements were “according to the bible.” I asked if adoption was a sin, as she mentioned the church, and even she herself would want to adopt one of the babies, and she was sure that was not in the bible. I asked if she had read the Quran, the Torah, the Vedas, anything else religious. She said she hadn’t. “Maybe the pro-choice people have something like the bible,” I ventured. “Something like the 2002 Reproductive Privacy Act is perhaps their version of your bible. It’s a bit more current, at least.” I didn’t say it in a belittling way. I agree to watch her Youtube birth video, and she agreed to read the law. We left it at that and thanked each other.
There were many conversations I had during the few hours I wore the vest, and I’ll detail just one here above and save the rest for the book. But here’s the thing: Every person of either side was confident, kind, and authentic. My approach, I thought, was confident, kind, and authentic. Maybe this is just the golden rule in action. Maybe this could be a template for civic discourse. Maybe this is a tactic of persuasion. No one in person, face to face, came off outwardly as a “yahoo” or “crazy feminazi.” This was surprising and a bit confusing. If you were a teenager, I could see how easily one could be coaxed. You envision meeting an extremist (of any side) and deduce, “See, this person is yelling. This person is a mess. This person isn’t pulled together. This person ISN’T LIKE ME.” And yet. Speaking articulately with an intelligent, calm person deflates those prejudices.
After a few hours and all at the same time, people simply took off their vests, folded their bibles, and removed their rosaries. It was like a silent lunch bell sounded and everyone knew the fetus frenzy was done for the day. Everyone walked to their cars, all interspersed among one another. One woman, an escort, waved to a protestor. I spotted a “Jesus loves you” bumper sticker on the back of his Honda as he drove out of the parking lot.
DISCLAIMER:
In January of 2015, I started a series of uncomfortable experiences to test a hypothesis: If doing and making bigger and bolder things happen are always achieved outside the comfort zone, then can you pro-actively practice being uncomfortable so that you become more comfortable with being uncomfortable?
More on this hypothesis and insights about what is to be gained with this practice here: https://creativemornings.com/talks/beck-bamberger
Some of these experiences may seem uncomfortable, gross, offensive, or outlandish from your perspective, and that's okay. These aren’t for everyone. In each of these brief experiences, I aim to illuminate, respect, and learn from the lives of others who give their permission to share their stories.
Latest uncomfortable experience: OM Meditation, also known as Orgasmic Meditation.
OM is a “consciousness practice that fosters the much-needed elements of connection and empathy.” I call it, “If women designed sex, then this would pretty much be it.” The most uncomfortable part is watching a women have an orgasm (or technically, be an Orgasmic State) for 15 minutes live amid 40 complete strangers with people calling out what sensations they are feeling. More on that in the below.
I went into the one day intro class expecting to be bombarded with some “woo woo” lectures about the journey of orgasmic flows or whatever and gong banging about the glory of all things vagina, but the course was surprisingly pragmatic and down to earth. Two longtime practitioners facilitate the whole day of the intro course. The duo that hosted my training were a New York native Jew and a San Fran based marketing professional. The class was filled with all ages, all races, and all relationship statuses. We did a round of names and reasons for attending. Some women wanted to “reclaim” their orgasms. A few guys said they wanted to know what the heck was going on “down there.” Many people wanted connection with their partners or even just another soul. I said I was there for learning and that I put myself in these niche groups to see what unfolds. The instructors conveyed that OM could be another tool in your tool belt, “along with your chains, or threesomes, and whatever” or have a more spiritual reason centered around attention and connection. Considering we were in San Francisco and that all attendees had signed up for this course, people were quite open. The teachers said OM was ideal for sensitive people coping with living in an insensitive world. That didn’t really fit me, but okay. I would agree we have a lot less real connection than probably before. The company that runs these courses, OneTaste, is so named after the Buddhist quote: “Just as the great ocean has one taste, the taste of salt, so also this teaching and discipline has one taste, the taste of liberation.”
The instructors spoke a lot about why they became OM coaches and why OM attracted them in the first place. We reviewed the chart about Orgasm 1.0 and their new framework for Orgasm 2.0. There are many parameters and steps to OM and for good reason: the whole notion of OM is that it is NOT a catalyst to sex; it is not a “tit for tat” exchange where anyone owes anything to the other; it is not about not hurting a partner’s ego; it is not about getting a date or getting laid; it is not meant to have a “finishing point,” and it is precisely timed so one (“strokee”, a woman, always) can be free for 15 minutes and not worry about when things are finished or when she has to perform anything. People asked what’s in in for men, the “strokers,” and the coaches explained the incredible connection one gets out of it is it. That’s it. You get connection. I’m listening to this as men are shaking their heads in nodding agreement. This is god damn brilliant, I thought. This expertly crafted marketing message heralding the ultimate feminist’s sex proclamation reads something like, “Here. These are the exact 18 steps to follow if I let you rub my clit. In exchange, I’ll let you feel what happens but only via the tip of your finger. Oh, and only if you wear gloves.” Things have come a long way sixty years since bra burning.
The live demo, done by one of the coaches leading the class, is confronting. The other coach insisted that everyone sit down as people have fainted before. Maybe you’ve watched a hot and steamy scene in the movie theater before, but the darkness of the theater and shortness of the scene cloaks a lot of uncomfortable vibes. This is for 15 minutes where you watch all 40 faces in broad daylight (OMing is always done in the light) with a live, full frontal view of spread labia. It’s odd to see a poised teacher with the coiffed bob become a moan machine. Some people were adamantly uncomfortable, glancing away or up at the ceiling. I did think of Frozen’s “Let it goooooo” classic lyric for a moment mostly because I was internally cheering the coach on. Staff from the back of room shouted out their live feelings, ranging from “I feel a tingling in my rib cage” to “I feel heat in my pussy.” After the chime that announced the OM session was over, we applauded (someone did ask if that was appropriate), and the class was asked to share their “frames,” moments in the entire session in which they felt something. Language is always neutral and descriptive in OMing.
Later in the day, we watched a live step-by-step clothes on demo to get the sequence of steps down from unfurling the “nest” where the OM takes place, to the placement of lube, to the request for pressure, to where hands are placed, etc. The “stoker” uses, for instance, just the index finger to stroke in about a 1.5 inch range. The practice is to be explicitly followed such that if someone in the OM community ever asks you for an OM, everyone knows the rules. I imagine one has to do it 30 or so times to just get the steps down, as all things needing practice. Many people practice OM daily or a few times a week, but no more than 5 times a day. If you want to learn more, there are tons of courses to take and a 7-month coaching program. (This is a business, after all. However, the coaches weren’t pushy.) And, after taking the course, anyone was free to OM.
I could write several more paragraphs, but I suppose this is why a book is in order. One last thing-I went on a long run after this class and Stereo MC’s “Connected” song randomly played. The lyrics seem oddly like OM’s anthem (if they had one). Here are a few:
I'm gonna get myself, I'm gonna get myself
I'm gonna get myself connected
I ain't gonna go blind for the light which is reflected
I see thru you, I see thru you
I see thru you, I see thru you . . . .
If you make sure you're connected
The writing's on the wall
But if your mind's neglected, stumble you might fall
Stumble you might fall, stumble you might fall
*****
Disclaimer:
In January of 2015, I started a series of uncomfortable experiences to test a hypothesis: If doing and making bigger and bolder things happen are always achieved outside the comfort zone, then can you pro-actively practice being uncomfortable to get outside your comfort zone? What happens when you become more comfortable with being uncomfortable?
More on this hypothesis and insights about what is to be gained with this practice by going to Creative Mornings San Diego and seeing one of my talks.
Some of these experiences may seem uncomfortable, gross, offensive, or outlandish from your perspective, and that's okay. These aren’t for everyone. In each of these brief experiences, I aim to illuminate, respect, and learn from the lives of others who give their blessings to share their stories.
Latest uncomfortable experience: Standup comedy.
I’m not funny, not subtle, not “off the cuff,” and not amusing. Pretty much the opposite on all fronts of that list, so this was an interesting experience to take on. When did I last tell you a joke? See.
Standup was on my uncomfortable list (FYI-I’m always looking for suggestions!), and I just needed a shepherd to usher me to a venue and give me the lay of the land. A few weeks ago I met up with David Klein who does comedy 5 or 6 times a week all around California. Thanks for being my guru, David!
People who are the best at their crafts make them seem so effortless, and I’m convinced this could not be more true for comedians. The surprising part is that unlike a Beyonce performance or a Serena win, one would like to assume comedians to be funny without tremendous effort, discipline or strife. Most great comedians seem to be casually coming up with stuff on the fly, musing at the audience and day-to-day happenings that strike their fancies to comment on. My pal Joe Apfelbaum just saw Jerry Seinfeld at a little comedy club in New York a few nights ago. As Jerry told the audience, he’s been doing comedy 40+ years and usually does 8+ hours a day of practice, still making it to hole-in-the-wall venues to try out the material. Still, try out material! Comics I met at my performance practice a set more than a hundred times if not more. This is a tad intimidating. Here I was about to give sometime a whirl with just a few go-arounds in my living room.
Brainwash is a landmark in San Francisco that hosts open mics nearly 7 times a night. It’s a weird place, fittingly, as it’s a laundromat, cafe, and yes, stage with lighting and microphones. Two dudes have been running the place for about 15 years. I went on a Monday night, thinking I wouldn’t be bombarded with the competition. To my slight dismay, about 25 comics, all guys sans one woman, were in line for the clipboard sign-ups at 6:30 pm on the dot. There must have been an audience of 50 or so as well, ranging from the seemingly homeless (though not, that’s just a style in SF I have come to note) to dorky techie. I sat down at a table with David and other comics. Everyone seemed to know one another, and like the drag queen, day labor guys, and S&M scenes I’ve found myself in with these experiences, it’s a close community. This is one of my favorite things about some of these experiences: plopping into a group where you get to be the outsider, the total foreigner.
I soon learned a number of aspects of standup in this group. First, that in the audience of mostly comics, it’s “the worse audience you’ll ever have, the harshest by far,” one comic told me. These guys aren’t here to laugh at YOUR jokes nor are you here to laugh at all. Second, that everyone in the audience was told to be supportive since, in comedy, “You’ll get your fucking face smashed in so many times in front of people it IS not funny.” Third, that as my first time, people were . . . comforting in the way a parent tells a kid the shot will not hurt at all. Someone patted my hand and said I’ll do great. Another guy said that it’ll be over soon, not to worry. Another guy said, “oh, wow. First time? Yeah. Oh.” I wasn’t expecting this. How big of a deal was this, guys? Guys?? As I heard these endless soothing remarks, I thought I might get a bit unnerved. Or worse, that I was missing the boat on something. Do you get blacklisted for getting up on stage again at this place if it’s crickets? Unsure. But what did it matter? I was here and this was it. If anything, if there was ever a time to say something offensive out loud, this was my crowd.
Most guys were crude, off-color, and offensive, commenting about penis sizes, police brutality, dating, and themselves. Most guys did okay, some were very good, and many were nervous or awkward. I knew I was at least in the company of amateurs unlike so many of my other experiences. After a hardy welcome (the organizers make a big fuss over applause for newbies), I was up there. I had a three minute set like the rest of the comics. It surely makes you appreciate comics who do 30 or 60 plus minutes. Here’s more or less how I opened:
“Okay. First, I’m not funny, so you need to get that expectation out of the way. .what is this place? You can fold your socks, eat a sandwich, AND be entertained? Sounds like some bull shit tech elitism once again. Is someone in here with a wearable tracking your DEQ? Daily entertainment quota? Oh yes. That’s your purpose (looking at a guy in the front) huh-saving the world from lack of amusement because a billion people a day aren’t getting enough laughter in their lives, you have the data, I know. . . . ”
And so on. It was over before I knew it, and it wasn’t a big deal. Perhaps a few of my other experiences have quelled any nerves I used to have over on-stage absurdity such as the stripping, spoken word, and nude modeling. This is a great result of the practice of being uncomfortable. You start to be comfortable with pretty much anything. One of the organizers said I should come back on Thursday when 50 or more comics will cycle through, particularly because I’m a woman and there are so few. I’m good though. And I’m not funny, thanks.
Thumbs up on this experience.