Six Steps to Suicide

This is a fascinating piece in Scientific American about the six primary steps in the escape theory that culminates in probable suicide when all the criteria are met.

In considering people’s motivations for killing themselves, it is essential to recognize that most suicides are driven by a flash flood of strong emotions, not rational, philosophical thoughts in which the pros and cons are evaluated critically. And, as I mentioned in last week’s column on the evolutionary biology of suicide, from a psychological science perspective, I don’t think any scholar ever captured the suicidal mind better than Florida State University psychologist Roy Baumeister in his 1990 Psychological Review article , “Suicide as Escape from the Self.” To reiterate, I see Baumeister’s cognitive rubric as the engine of emotions driving deCatanzaro’s biologically adaptive suicidal decision-making. There are certainly more recent theoretical models of suicide than Baumeister’s, but none in my opinion are an improvement. The author gives us a uniquely detailed glimpse into the intolerable and relentlessly egocentric tunnel vision that is experienced by a genuinely suicidal person.

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The Afterlife: So Long and Thanks For All The Fish

Lots of folks badly want to believe that there's something after this. An afterlife.

Heaven, Shangri-la, Paradise, Zion, Arcadia, Valhalla for all you viking dudes. Nirvana for the Buddhists in the house. Falak al aflak. Some beatific Hotel California where all your dead relatives can check out anytime they want, but they can never leave. Just like Christmas time. Pause for a Joe Walsh guitar riff.

I don't know why it's so important to believe there's something majestic awaiting us once we pull up the sod covers. Perhaps people are terrified of their relative insignificance in the spectrum of time, or they believe the combination of a legacy on Earth and celestial potluck dinners will bring them closer to living forever and ever, amen.

My belief system is just that. Mine. I'm not trying to convince anyone it's better, or put the kibosh on what gets the rest of you through the long, cold winters of life. By the time you become an expert on what happens next, your calling card is canceled or there are no cell towers on the other side, otherwise someone from the billions of the dearly departed would have shouted over the fence by now and clued us mortals in.

Life is a roller coaster ride. You get one ticket, strap yourself in, and off you go. Some people love it, Some hate it. A few shit their pants or won't open their eyes. Occasionally some dumb ass falls out and dies early because, well, that's what dumb asses do. The rest of us ride until the cars stop, and that's it. Ride over. You don't need to go home, but you can't stay here.

Someone posted an afterlife question over at Dear Coke Talk, and I really liked her response, so I'll post a snippet. I'm interested to see if you agree. You have to promise to go read the whole thing, though. It's only fair.

I understand why it makes you feel better to believe in some nebulous metaphysical afterlife, but at the end of the day, if you’re claiming to have revealed knowledge about a consciousness beyond death, you’re still just making shit up.

Nobody knows what happens after death. Odds are, not a fucking thing. It’s probably just a vast sea of nothingness stretching out to an eternity that we were never meant to comprehend in the first place.

I know. It’s scary. You’re born pink and helpless into an infinite universe. You experience a narrow, self-centered consciousness still very much tethered to its lowly reptilian origins. If you’re lucky, the grey meat behind your eyes keeps warm long enough for you to experience about forty million minutes of self-awareness. That’s it. That’s all.

When the blood stops flowing to your skull, your consciousness will simply cease to exist. Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing.

As I study Buddhism and wrestle with the concept of impermanence as it pokes reincarnation right in the eye, part of me pines to see my mom and dad again, my daughter, two sisters who perished far too young. But I also yearn for the occasional Five Guys burger and a jolt of capsaicin on my tongue. One is achievable, although it might hasten my boat trip down the River Styx, while the other is a wish, a hope, blue-sky aspiration.

As I grow older and feel time slipping away, it's important that I live this one life taking in "forty million moments of self-awareness" rather than cruising at certain places, thinking that somehow this is just the first leg of something.

I've known those who voice regrets as their hours slip away, rueful cries of what they might have done differently if given the chance, but none of the alternate storylines changes the final scene. We're here and then we're gone, unless you're into one of those ghost chaser shows on TLC or History Channel.

I've watched the light grow dim in someone's eyes until it flickers out, leaving nothing but two orbs taking in an eternity of darkness. Muscles relax, the face sags, and they are gone. Maybe it's their spiritual energy that has flown away on the wings of angels. Hard to prove either way. The truth is we're not here. We are not we. And once we stop being we, there's nothing to grasp but a biological vessel that begins to decay and smell in the hot summer sun.

So I'm trying to be present, here and now, experiencing as many of the millions of self-aware moments as I can, with family and friends, with strangers, alone at times. This is my ride and there's so much to see before it ends. I don't want to miss bits and pieces while I'm shilling for a good seat in Utopia.

David Letterman was asked what he thought heaven was like, and he said, "It's like a really big gymnasium." When prompted for how we saw himself there, Letterman quipped, "With really bad seats."

I would rather have front-row box seats to my life than to hope for something with sight-lines not blocked by girders in the Everlasting Ecumenical Tostitos Bowl, and I don't think I'm the only one. And that's as equal an act of faith as putting your eggs into the God basket.

I believe. I believe I'm here to live my life and to share it with those who have come before and those who will remain when I'm gone, combination Venn diagram and low fat diet with a Crestor thrown in like an after-dinner mint.

For some, the ride lasts too long. For others, too short. I want to be baby bear. Just right.

But more than anything I want to soak in my minutes, wrap them around me to comfort me when I'm alone and cold, sharing when I see others chilled. The Gospel of Kev: Do Unto Others and Watch Everything You Can, Lest You Perish With Unused Minutes on the Clock And Unsaid Words On Your Lips.

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Roger Ebert's Quest for Frisson

Finally, I have a label for it. Frisson.

Roger Ebert pens an elaborate essay that incorporates Twitter, classic works of literature, and neurophysiology into an enlightening companion piece to a Wired article on how the Internet is helping to change our neural pathways.

The French word frisson describes something English has no better word for: a brief intense reaction, usually a feeling of excitement, recognition, or terror. It's often accompanied by a physical shudder, but not so much when you're web surfing.

You know how it happens. You're clicking here or clicking there, and suddenly you have the OMG moment. In recent days, for example, I felt frissons when learning that Gary Coleman had died, that most of the spilled oil was underwater, that Joe McGinness had moved in next to the Palins, that a group of priests' mistresses had started their own Facebook group, and that Bill Nye the Science Guy says "to prevent Computer Vision Syndrome, every 20 minutes, spend 20 seconds looking 20 feet away."

Like it or not, I'm exhibiting the exact behavior that Ebert describes. Long a voracious reader, it's unusual for me to pick up a novel or lengthy printed essay, and even more unlikely that I would spend significant time perusing it if I did.

Instead, I take my information in short bursts before moving on to the next thing I find interesting. Frisson.

I wonder about something. With the invention of channel surfing, and then web surfing, have we all become rewired? Has the national attention span dropped? Is that why kids like shallow action pictures and why episodic television is losing to reality shows? And why sports, which offer a frisson every few seconds, are more popular than ever? Is that why slogans are replacing reasoning in our political arena? Is an addiction to video games the ultimate expression of this erosion of our attention span?

Is that a bad thing, or simply an evolution of thought patterns in keeping with how the world operates these days? Unless you are in a position involving research, the ability to be adaptive and flexible is a required skillset. Agility is the key. The companies (and nations) that are agile are the ones that are kicking ass. Agility has becoming a mandatory trait for success, but not one that you'll normally see listed in many online job postings.

Try to be successful in the business world by leveraging your ability to spend a lot of time on one thing. A yearly performance review lauding you for singularity of focus? Good luck with that.

There's such a skitterish impatience in our society right now. The national debate is all over the place. Talking points take the place of arguments. Think up a snarky name for someone, and you don't have to explain any further. The oil spill is in Day 40 and enough, already. We've been there, done that. In some circles it has become Obama's fault, not for any good reason but perhaps because that breaks the monotony.

Something has happened. Do we even know it has happened? We look out from inside our brains. We notice differences in things. But how can we notice a difference in the brains that are noticing them? One reason meaningless celebrities dominate all of our national media is that they are meaningless. They require no study, no reading, no thought. OMG! Heidi is leaving Spencer! OMG! Russell Brand is a sex addict! OMG! Matt Lauer never dated or slept with Alexis Houston, and all that time he didn't know Alexis was a man! OMG! Top Kill has failed! WTF. ROFL.

When a culture moves from a one room schoolhouse to Wikipedia, it's understandable that how we seek and process information changes. Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? Who knows? And frankly, who cares? The world is constantly changing, and as organisms of the planet, we're changing with it, seeking homeostasis.

How we incorporate technological ease in obtaining information with practical application of vast knowledge stores is the outstanding question. Embrace the future. I hear it's where we'll all end up someday.

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Demon Robot Breaks Leg, Fearful Masses Rejoice

Two points to make here.

1. This is one scary-ass robot. I'm going to have robot domination nightmares all night. I can tell.
2. I'm glad it broke its leg off. There, I said it.

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Anti-Gravity Ramps Rock My World

Via BoingBoing

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The Secret to Pooping in Space

Trust me - you don't want Tootsie Rolls floating around in zero gravity.

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Fake Science

Beautiful in its simplicity, Fake Science is an amusing collection of fictional scientific facts, so to speak.

In a nation where 40% of the public believes dinosaurs and man walked the earth simultaneously, this site should become quite popular.

Via Neatorama

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ABC and Fox Hate Fat Chicks

Lane Bryant wanted to run this commercial for their lingerie during Dancing With The Stars and American Idol. Seems harmless enough, right?



ABC said no. Fox made them edit the ad three times, and then restricted running the commercial to only the final ten minutes of the show.

I call bullshit.

Lane Bryant called out both networks for their double standard, and rightly so.

Set up a study where you put the body type from the ad up against a skinny Kate Moss type, and male responses will be toward the curvy girl every time. It's science, bitches.

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What's With All The Anal Sex Studies?

The NYC Department of Health recently released a report entitled, "Women, Unprotected Anal Sex and HIV Risk", in which female respondents between 18 - 64 weighed in on their butt sex habits.

I know what you're thinking: I can't get my girlfriend/wife/boyfriend to play Alabama Hot Pocket, and granny is grabbing her ankles on a regular basis? Damn.

Also surprising - only 23% of women use a condom during the rusty trombone, but 61% of gay men do, which drives a very clear message. Gay dudes don't want to touch poo with their dicks but straight guys aren't so picky if given the chance.

Wear a condom, people. We'd like Mildred to be rockin' the doggy style well into her 90s. And Murray, too.

Via Gawker

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