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Why Failure Is Good for You and Your Neurons

The Thinker: Auguste Rodin

I’ve finally gotten around to reading a book that I’m pretty sure my sister gave me for either my birthday or Christmas.  Either way, it’s taken me somewhere between 8 and 11 months to get to this book, which is pretty much par for the course.  At any given time, I usually have 3-4 books going, and sometimes it can take me years to get through a book because I get distracted or just lose interest in that particular genre.  Until I finally finished it about five years ago, I had been reading On the Road since the 90′s.  We’ll see how this one pans out, but at the moment I’m on pace to finish it well before the world ends in December.  Thank goodness for that.

The book I’m reading is How We Decide by Jonah Lehrer, who, unfortunately for him, is probably now best-known for being fired by The New Yorker for fabricating facts in his recent book on Bob Dylan.  The book is all about how the brain makes decisions.  I’m not very far into it, but last night I read a passage that was–ironically, given Lehrer’s recent fate–about the importance of failure in learning.  The passage detailed a study conducted by Carol Dweck, a psychologist at Stanford, in 12 New York City Schools with more than 400 fifth-graders.  The results of the study highlighted the roles that failure and how we administer praise to students play in the learning process and our neural development.

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Vermin

Stray cat on porch of 4101 Spring Garden Street

This morning, I let the dog out in the backyard to do his business and discovered that one of the neighborhood felines had dug a hole and taken a crap in the middle of my vegetable garden.  FOR THE SECOND TIME THIS WEEK.  When the first incident occurred earlier this week, I took to Facebook to complain about what happened and suggest that perhaps I was planning on poisoning the neighborhood cats.  Of course, I knew I was inviting the ire of that special breed of human who believes that cats are God’s gift to the earth and we should try to save every last one of them, even if that means we turn the planet into one big litter box.  (Fair warning: If you happen to be one of these people and are easily offended, you may want to stop reading at this point.)

And I did get a number of feline-friendly, but completely useless, suggestions about what I should do.  In fact, when I’ve lamented the cat situation in my neighborhood before, I’ve usually gotten the same battery of useless responses.  Let’s take a look at them.

  1. Cat Hotel - 4101 Spring Garden StreetYou should talk to the owners.  Um, that might work if there actuallywere owners.  These cats are strays–some feral–and there are no owners.  As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, to make matters worse, my neighbor has set up a cat hotel on his front porch.  (See picture on right–oddly devoid of cats at the moment I took the picture, but you get the idea.)  He feeds the cats, gives them shelter, watches them mate (I wish I were kidding.), and does nothing to control their population.
  2. Try citrus peels.  Tried that.  It doesn’t work.  I’ve also tried hot pepper.  It also doesn’t work.  I even went to the trouble to spend $40 on an ultrasonic cat repeller device.  It worked for a little while, and then it was stolen from my front yard.  That’s how it works in West Philly.
  3. Call animal control.  BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  In Philly?  Are you kidding me?  Have you heard about Philly’s animal control?  Besides which, I’ve called them on my neighbor in the past, and when I tried to follow up (because of course they don’t bother to let you know if they’ve been out to investigate), I couldn’t get a real person.
  4. Get a trap and take them to a shelter.  Why should I have to waste my time doing this when I haven’t caused the problem?  Plus, I don’t even like the damn animals.

As far as I’m concerned, no one would suggest any of these solutions if we just called these stray cats what they actually are–vermin.

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I loved your artwork so much that I ate it.

Envelope drawn by Maurice Sendak

Is there really a higher compliment one can receive than having someone eat your artwork?  I don’t think so.

I like to eat.  A lot.  I have a circle of four friends from high school in which I’m known for that particular character trait.  One of the four tried to match me once on our annual trip to small-town Pennsylvania (affectionately named “Podunkapalooza”–more on that sometime in June, when the trip actually happens) and regretted it for the rest of the night.  In fact, here’s a picture of me eating breakfast on one of those trips.

Sam eats breakfast surrounded by a wall of condiments.

Notice the wall of condiments and beverages I’ve built to keep people from eating my food.

Okay, great, you get it.  I like to eat.  What does this have to do with anything?

Today I was saddened at the news that Maurice Sendak had passed away.  Sendak’s work was a big part of my childhood, and although I know Edward Gorey gets most of the love here on my blog, Sendak was probably equally as influential in developing my love of somewhat dark illustration.  As I read his obituary in today’s New York Times, I couldn’t help but be struck by the similarities between Gorey and Sendak, from their love of solitude to their depictions of childhood as a time fraught with perils to their prickly reactions to being described as “that guy who does children’s books.”  I can’t count the number of times my mom read Chicken Soup with Rice or Pierre to me as a child.  Nor can I recall the number of times I rushed to the children’s section of the Bethlehem Public Library to see if any of the Little Bear books (illustrated by Sendak) were there so I could pore over the illustrations from the comfort of my bedroom’s purple shag carpet.

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