DALMATIAN SPOTS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-18-26)

 

     If you were unable to travel this year, allow me to be your guide along the Dalmatian coast, and on to Venice. Our journey began in Split, Croatia, which, while settled in the second or third century, BC, became a future tourist destination with the construction of the palace of Roman emperor Diocletian in 305, AD. It was essentially his retirement home, where he spent his final days raising cabbages, which luckily you don't have to raise very far. Diocletian, while extremely innovative in areas of taxation and governmental structure, had clearly overestimated the importance of coleslaw.

     Diocletian was established as emperor, possibly by poisoning his predecessor, at a time when it seemed like whoever had the most effective poison qualified themselves to lead an empire. That's why, if I was king at my meeting of the inner court, I would pull the old switcheroo when no one was watching. "HARK! Is that NOT Brad Pitteth?" And when everybody turns to see I switch all the wine glasses. There was a lot of back-stabbing going on. By the way, no one ever seems to complain about being front-stabbed. "Whom (I picture ancient kings having a better grasp of the correct grammatical usage of the word 'whom' than they probably did) I THOUGHT was my best friend tried to stab me in the FRONT. I suppose I had it coming."

     After Diocletian's death the place was passed around like my Mom's meatloaf, and everyone had a little taste. The Byzantines, the Venetians, the French and the Austrians all had a split of Split before its eventual secession from Yugoslavia as part of Croatia. Now the city is conquered routinely by bridal parties.

     You can stroll for free through much of the well-preserved remains of the walled palace, added to by subsequent regimes. Saint Dominus Cathedral was built later, as was its bell tower, which you can scale and wonder, as I did, if the Romans EVER ran out of steps. The Peoples' Square is a famous nexus, and we asked a couple American-sounding youngsters if we were headed there, the direction they just came from. "Were there people there?" we asked. "Yes." "Were they square?" "Some were." That was good enough for us.

     The Riva is a promenade by the waterfront long enough for a good stroll, amble or saunter, depending on your mood. A wide choice of open air restaurants make it easy to get a meal or a cocktail, or take in the sunset and watch the world go by. This is the place to see or be seen, so you might find whoever's looking for you, unless they see you first.

     Our time over, we did just what you would expect, and split. A passenger ferry cruises to the other islands and then down the sea to Dubrovnik, another Croatian city rich in history. Its fortunes as a tourist destination increased dramatically after the HBO hit "Game of Thrones" filmed extensively there. 

     The southern section of Dubrovnik, known as "Old Town," is ensconced in a fortress of thick ramparts over a mile and a quarter long. Started in the 13th century, it took four hundred years to complete the walls, as they might have been waiting for Mexico to pay for them. A tourist must-do is to scale the steps and circumnavigate the entirety of the walls, enjoying the stunning views of the Adriatic, the northern city and the bustling town below. You should note that the exercise includes 1,080 steps, so if you are in a 12-step program, you could relapse 90 times and still be cured.

     Below, Old Town's main road, Stradun, was laid from east to west, so that the winds gusting from the mountains in the north would not disrupt even a good game of solitaire. Restaurants, shops and bars line the narrow streets and alleys in this pedestrian-only charming enclave.

     The gates to the city included an antechamber where, announcing your business and identifying yourself, guards situated on the top of the wall could evaluate your immediate usefulness and deal with you accordingly. It was like when my Dad made us answer the phone to see if it was "The Guy from the Church," who presumably was canvassing for donations on the very day that my Dad was "Not Home."

     Since we were not staying in Old Town, as many do, we were brave enough to make the trip on city streets by eBike. In this case, "brave" is also synonymous with "stupid." However, our hotel north of Old Town in the Guza waterfront area was a good starting point to explore other areas such as the newer Lapad district, with its pedestrian mall of cafés and restaurants. 

     A stay in Dubrovnik would not be complete without a visit to the Blue Cave, so named because of the color I turned when I jumped into the "refreshing" waters of the Adriatic for the short swim into the grotto. "You'll get used to it," the guide said, meaning never having any feeling in my extremities. After the spelunking and dunking, a trip to a warm expanse of Croatian beach was just what the doctor ordered, especially with medication that included an umbrella swizzle stick.
     Next time, the romantic vistas of Venice....

AN IMPERFECT MATCH

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (06-04-26)

 

      Now that the weather is warming up, It's time to get back on the court and whack the old ball around. I consider myself an avid tennis player, which is a nice way of saying I suck at it, or I would have said I was a GOOD tennis player. I thought I'd be better at it because I chose the sport so carefully all those decades ago. I wanted to concentrate on just one recreational activity, because I knew I didn't have the time to suck at more than one sport.

    I carefully weighed the pros and cons of the other sports before I made my decision. I wanted a game where you can hit stuff that can't hit you back. In hockey you get to bang around a black four-inch disk with a stick while on skates, which in my case means, while also falling and breaking my wrist. It's a lot to remember at once. On the plus side, the puck goes so fast I doubt anyone would even notice if I actually hit it or not, but on the minus side the puck looks a lot like a Ring Ding, and I think that would throw my concentration off. I ruled out soccer, because you have to kick the ball with your foot while also running, so that you only have one foot left to accomplish either purpose. It seems like I'd need at least three feet to get the job done. You're allowed to use your head, but I've been allowed to use it all this time and it seems to have seen little use.

    Baseball is one of my favorite sports, you hit a small ball with a round club. It's a quirky game, but the bases are often stolen, and if you hit the ball over a fence it's considered good, and much of the territory in the playing field is foul. Also, you need 18 players and two or three hours. In golf you get to hit a ball as hard as you want, but it's really small and then you have to go find it, even if you hit it somewhere you'd rather not go, like your niece's baby shower. And, there can be caddy remarks.

    In tennis all I have to do is hit a decent-sized ball with a fairly large racquet over a 42-inch net. Really, the hardest part is figuring out the score. "Love" means "0," a number that you opposite-of-love if you happen to have it. It comes from mispronouncing the French word for "egg," which doesn't help matters. The first time you score you get 15 points, the second time you get another 15 for a total of 30, but you only get 10 points for the next one, and only one for each score thereafter. Even if you had a slide rule it wouldn't help you much unless you fully extended it and banged it over the head of the person who came up with that abstruse system. To win, you simply keep hitting the ball over the net until it doesn't come back.

     It can be played on any surface. Here in Somers' Reis Park the court consists of fake grass, which is mowed with a fake lawnmower. It can also be played on clay or real grass. Playing on a hard court only makes it harder. The court can be indoors or outdoors, but I don't like playing outside, where I'm subject to the elements. I don't like the rain, wind or sun, although I don't mind boron or cadmium. Some elements in the table I like only periodically. 

     Playing doubles tennis with your wife is the perfect opportunity to strengthen your relationship. Consider the following values: 1.) Communication. I always let my partner know when I have a better shot at the ball by calling out, "Mine." Afterwards, on the rare occasion that I might miss, she gently reminds me, "You missed again." And I say, "Well the ball had a ton of spin on it, but that's neither here nor there." And she says, "That's also where your shot landed." 2.) Empathy. You should be able to share the emotions of your partner, both good and bad. "Honey," I console, "That was such a crummy way to lose the point, hitting into the net after that long, long rally with so many great shots. By the way, I would have hit it into the net much sooner if it had ever come to me- we only have the court for an hour." 3.) Patience. Don't be impatient with your partner, even if when serving she tosses the ball into the air 37 times. Just tell her, "It's all right, Dear, as they say, '38th time's a charm.'" 4.) Conflict resolution. How you solve disagreements on the court is something you can extrapolate to your marriage in general. I say, "I know you didn't hit that serve into the back of my neck on purpose, I'm sure you were trying to hit it so finely down the tee that there was simply little room for error. So, it was just an unfortunate mis-hit, right? ...Right?" "Of course I wasn't trying to hit you in the neck on purpose, Darling. I was aiming for your butt." 5.) Focus. Just as in life, in tennis it often comes down to focus. There may be many distractions, whether it be something on the court, or the excessive heat, or maybe there are obstreperous children on the next court having fun trying to learn the game. Keep your attention only on the ball. "HEY! Lady! Are those your kids? Doesn't the zoo have a policy against letting them out free like that? What are you, the Angelina Jolie of tennis?" 6.) Love. In the end, it all boils down to love, and she says, "Great, Honey! We lost the set six- love."

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-21-26)

 

      The television industry has gone through a lot of changes since the first nascent broadcasts of the 1930s, including trying to muddle on without me now that I have retired from it. One transformation is the evolution of the television theme song. To accommodate more commercials, the opening songs have lately been reduced to only a few notes, barely long enough to get something unhealthy from the fridge.

     Those catchy jingle-like songs have become anthems to a bygone era. A simpler time, where you could leave things to Beavers, and horses could talk, nuns could fly and you could marry a witch and even mention it to her face, and at the end of 30 minutes, all would be normal again.

     Making up a theme song can't be very easy. You might have to make sense of a show premise that may be ridiculous, like "identical cousins" that are "two of a kind," without going into too many specifics regarding molecular genetic biology.  Or you may be forced to introduce characters who are either uninteresting, like "Potsie" or have a stupid name, like "Potsie." Or you may be faced with the fact that nothing rhymes with "Alf."  

     Often it was up to the writer of these songs to convey the entire arc of a sometimes preposterous plot in under a minute. "Okay. We'll need a 50-second song that explains that a family of Halloween-related nuts and misfits, with a servant who is a disembodied hand, a cousin made up only of talking luxurious hair, a carnivorous creeping vine and a fat kid live in a mansion and are funny. If you get stuck, you can use the word "ookie" if you need to. Where are you going?"

     "We also have a show about a crime-fighting millionaire who lives in a cave powered by a nuclear reactor-type-thing, and he wears a cape and ladies hosiery, but don't worry, it's a flattering color, and he has a youthful ward but in those days that just meant you were unemployed, and he wears tights too and his name is Robin, not too gender-specific but it's okay he wears a mask so he won't die of embarrassment each week, and there's a butler, but he doesn't wear tights, maybe on his own time, and- where are you going?" But the writer returns a few months later with a song that just says "Batman" eight times and YOU figure the damn thing out.

     "Okay. This one's a no-brainer. There's a family of six that plays music together, and they ride around in a school bus and tour in Las Vegas, even though only the Mom is old enough to get in, and the 10 year-old who is the only one who has red hair knows a middle-aged manager with no other clients and no one happens to notice that after three years one of the children is different. You got all that? Hey! Come BACK!"

     You might have to explain the bizarre premise DURING the theme song, so that people know what they're getting into, and leave it for the police to sort out the consequences. "Ma'am, we're responding to a complaint of shots fired at a frozen pizza outside of your home." "Oh, yeah, that was me, trying to see if there was any petroleum reserves on my property, like on the 'Beverly Hillbillies.'" "Ma'am, your home is in Brooklyn." "Yes, but as the theme song said, the poor mountaineer was shooting at some food, and, while I am not poor, I do have some credit card debt, and even though this is not technically a mountain, it is Brooklyn Heights. I never actually saw the show, but I'm exploring alternative avenues of possible revenue."

     You'll have to roll with the punches. You may need to build into the song the sound of Dick van Dyke tripping over an ottoman each week even though it's always in the same place, or you may have to change some lyrics if the Professor and Mary Ann don't want to just be "the rest" anymore, or you may have to figure out an entirely new theme for a show about Americans in a Nazi Germany prisoner-of-war camp during World War Two, because they forgot to tell you it was a comedy.

     Even if you came up with a wonderful theme song, eventually you could count on the suits upstairs to chime in and ruin it. And that's how you end up with phrases like, "who can turn the world on with their smile," or "come on, get happy." If we wanted to be turned on and happy, we'd shut the TV off for four or five minutes.

     So, the next time you're watching "Seinfeld" and you hear that theme song that sounds like popcorn popping, just remember that someone had to write those tunes that make you want to go where everybody knows your name, and it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and your friends will be there for you when the rain starts to pour, and all it takes to get there is the courtesy of Fred's two feet.

ROCKET SCIENCE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (05-07-26)

 

      Now that the Artemis II spacecraft has safely splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, we can all breathe a sigh of relief and thank the crew and NASA for a job well done. What exactly was the job? NASA lists the mission as a "crewed lunar flyby," which is a nice way of saying "sightseeing trip." Of course, I jest. There were important reasons for this flight, mainly testing the capabilities of the Orion spacecraft that is to be used for future adventures. But it seems like NASA has a unique way of adding more syllables to a phrase to make it sound more interesting. For example, a spacewalk is referred to as an "extravehicular activity." Try it yourself: you just take a noun, add a prefix and then a second word that could mean just about anything. So, an Easter egg hunt becomes, say, a "post-ovulation reconnaissance operation."

     Anyway, there are other less tangible benefits to the spaceshot, such as bringing together a deeply divided country to share in the glory of the culmination of decades of scientific advancement. I remember watching the lunar landing of Apollo 11 as an 11 year-old, along with the rest of the world, wide-eyed as Buzz Aldrin saluted a flag with the MTV logo on it while a song by the Buggles played in the background. I might be getting some of the details confused, but it was a long time ago. 

     Those were the days when you were told that in America, you could be anything you wanted to be, if you would only "apply yourself." I'm not sure a generous application of ME would have helped the space program, but I was forced to do my homework anyway. Did I really need to know the value of x to become an astronaut? Y? As long as you trained hard and were in peak physical shape, ANYone could become an astronaut in America. Not if you have bone spurs, of course. In reality, only a select few become astronauts- there were only four missionary positions available on the latest flight, for example. But you never know.

     One exciting thing the Artemis mission has done for the first time is get a good look at the dark side of the moon. And what they found is that it's NOTHING like the Pink Floyd album. It has less light and fewer synthesizer solos than previously thought. What if there are space beings living on the dark side of the moon, and we never knew about them because we never saw the dark side of the moon, and all this time they wondered if there was life on other planets, and they concluded, maybe, but they're never going to find there way here, and then all of a sudden they see this spacecraft go by, a flying object which they can't identify, but the government denies it and tries to cover it up, and then everyone sees that it landed and space aliens come out of it and start shagging golf balls?

     Sound far-fetched? Maybe. I've always said that mathematically there has to be life on other planets, that seems like an easy one. But are they planning a trip to visit Earth? It's probably going to take a long time to get here, so I hope they don't have six kids traveling with them like my parents did. "If you don't cut that out right now I'm going to STOP this car and you can all WALK home." And that's when we were sleeping. My parents could only hope that aliens would come and abduct us, maybe perform a few experiments involving how much pain a human could take after not doing the dishes.

     It seems like NASA could have thought up some other important tasks for this mission, to justify it to those who might say we could have spent some of that 93 billion to fix a few things here on Earth, like maybe health care. I've come up with a few: 1.) From a vantage point in outer space, maybe we could find out what exactly does make the world go 'round? Is it money? Is it love? Is it beer? There were a few times at college where beer made the world go 'round and 'round, and it was tough to get it to stop. 2.) More experiments with weightlessness. I don't know what we might specifically learn from it, but I just love to see stuff floating around the space capsule. Let's see how mayonnaise reacts in a zero-G sandwich. 3.) Can you do anything about the weather while you're up there? I don't want to seem selfish, but if we could agree to stick to one season at a time it would be great. 

     It's not all fun and games up there. Apparently, the toilet failed. I would NOT want to be the astronaut that broke the toilet, and then tried to explain it to the others, while looking a little flushed. There is the boredom factor. Ten days is a long time to be away from decent wi-fi. And there is also that dangerous period where you lose all communication while burning through the Earth's atmosphere, and no way to get yourself out of an emergency situation. It's like driving through Passaic with no cell phone and no car radio.

     And yet, I read that the entire National Science Board has been fired. Let's hope that soon, we'll have leaders that lead the way in knowledge and learning, so we don't find ourselves living on the dark side of the Earth.

WHAT'S LEFT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-26-26)

 

      I've got advanced arthritis in my right wrist, and I think I know what caused it. The same thing that's responsible for everything else that's wrong with every male of the species: saying immediately after we sprained something, "It's probably fine," and then going right back to whatever we were doing that caused it to probably not be fine at all. The lesson here folks, is listen to your body- it's trying to tell you something. It starts with a polite whisper: "You know, it might behoove you to have this checked out," and you think, if my body used the word, "behoove," how serious could it be? And after a few months, your body is hitting you over the head with a crowbar and yelling, "HEY STUPID, I told you before to see a doctor! Now LOOK- your stupid head ruined my crowbar."

     At my age, my body is trying to tell me so many things at once I have to yell, HEY, HEY, HEY- ONE AT A TIME. Meanwhile, I'm one limb short. One hand no longer washes the other. If something costs an arm and a leg I have to pay through the nose. My wrist is in such pain I had to use a pair of Vise-grips to open a bottle of Tylenol (true). It was still hard to do, and I almost plugged in my Milwaukee Sawzall to get the job done, but I felt like I wouldn't have stopped with the bottle once I powered up the saw.

     There are some things I cant do lefty, as a mostly right-handed person. I'm a drummer however, and drummers can do things with their left hand that other people wouldn't even attempt, such as half a paradiddle. But if you're used to paradiddling with your right hand, you might be in for a bitter disappointment.

     Brushing my teeth left-handed is a challenge. It's hard to do without also brushing my nose and my chin. I thought it might help to do it while looking in the mirror, but it was worse since I could the see how stupid I looked. Opening a can of soup is next to impossible using a right-handed can opener. I found out that I could open the can upside down with my left hand using the same can opener, which turned out to be much worse than not opening it at all. I hate to open up a can of worms, so I'm glad that I can't at the moment.

     Trying to open "easy-open" packaging is problematic even with two hands. Once you locate the "easy open" tear tab and pull it, you then try to find the two "easy open" edges of the "easy open" zipper pouch and pull them apart. With only one hand, a bag of grated cheese was all of a sudden Fort Knox. I could have tried to open it with my teeth if I wasn't afraid that I would somehow sprain my tooth. So I grabbed a pair of scissors to simply cut it open, and that's when I realized that trying to use a pair of scissors left-handed is a major cause of mental illness.

     My handwriting has gotten worse and worse throughout the years, since I don't write very much in long hand and care much less about what it looks like. As a result, it appears that I'm trying to disguise my own handwriting to cover up a crime. I can't even make out myself what I wrote on the grocery list. Only my wife can, and if she can't decipher it she just assumes that it says "Kit Kat Bars." Even if it doesn't I'll be much happier with the Kit Kat Bars than whatever it really said. So writing lefty is actually a rare improvement, since I have to do it slower.

     Putting on clothes with buttons is difficult with the wrong hand. I read that women's clothing has buttons on the left side because back in the days when women had dressers, it was easier for right-handed buttoners to button. So maybe it'll be easier if I pick up a couple pretty blouses while I'm waiting for my hand to heal, or maybe I'll bring the tube top back into style. It's also harder to zip your fly left-handed. The bottom part and the top are easy, but the middle is tough. If that's true it may be easier for me to zip your fly, and I hope the opportunity never arises. 

     There are a few things I do better lefty, like making a left-hand turn on the ski slope. I admit I'm not the greatest skier, and I've found that if you make too many left-hand turns you end up facing back up the slope. I can also stand on my left leg longer and steadier than my right, which isn't a particularly impressive skill unless you've been asked to do field sobriety test. I don't drink and drive, but if I do ever get stopped by the cops I intend to show them that I can open a can of soup upside down, as an alternative measure of sobriety.

     The one thing I've always excelled at is left-handed compliments. "This meatloaf is AWFULly good!" "Oh! You really think so?" "Yes! TERRIBLy good! And your new hairdo. It makes you seem like a very highly-paid executive! At the Department of Motor Vehicles!" 

     I've never trusted left-handed people. They don't even have hands, they have paws; a left-handed pitcher is a "south-paw." You never heard of a north-paw, did you? Of course not. Did you know that the Latin word for "left" is "sinistra," or "sinister?" That's right, I took Latin in school after hearing a lot of talk about "Latin lovers" and grossly misunderstanding how to become one.

     Well, I suppose I will have to see somebody about this wrist. And if I do want to see someone, I guess I had better bring my glasses.

WHY I'M NOT RICH

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (04-09-26)

    I could have been Rich, but instead I'm just Rick. I missed it by one stinking letter. But the real reason I'm not rich is because I don't think I'd enjoy it as much as I think I should. Having all that money never really makes your problems go away, it just makes them more expensive.

     I'm reasonably comfortable, enough to live in Westchester, which ain't cheap. And yet, there's a whole stratosphere of rich out there, people with money to burn. I asked one of them, do you actually incinerate money? And they said yes, of course, but it doesn't stay lit very long and smells like burning fingerprints. So I sometimes just imagine what it would be like to be wealthy. 

     Who are my real friends? Are they just using me? If so, what for? I'd prefer to remain somewhat useless, as I am now. Instead of a bunch of poor friends who like me only for my money, I'd rather have a bunch of rich friends who don't like me at all because I don't have any. I think.

     Sometimes rich people don't seem like they're having as much fun as the rest of us. At nightclubs there used to be a "V.I.P. section" off to the side, far away from the crowded dance floor, separated by a purple velvet rope. There would sit a beautiful blonde girl on a plush couch, next to a big bottle of champagne in a bucket on a stand. She is snapping her gum, her false-eyelashed eyelids losing the struggle to remain open. But she had worked hard to get that seat. On the other side of the champagne bucket is a beautiful dark-haired guy who appears to have no interest in any subject. He's scrolling through his phone, but it's turned off. She seems to ask him a question, maybe, "Can we go outside of the rope sometime?" And shakes his head without looking up from the phone.

     Rich people often have annoying dogs. They are very small and usually unappealing, because rich people don't want to lose your attention to a mammal lower than themselves on the food chain. They want you to SAY they have a cute dog and not mean it at all. The pet is an accessory, a way to own authentic fur without being politically incorrect. The poodle is sporting a diamond-studded collar, a Valentino Garavani dress, two pairs of Christian Louboutin silver pumps and a superior attitude. But you have to admit it looks great.

     I don't like to drink wine. It gives me asthma and intolerable pretension, and both are hard to get rid of once you have them. In my rich fantasy I order a bottle using an Inspector Clouseau accent, and a sommelier comes to tell me my wine will not go with what I ordered. I tell him neither does my date, but neither of them has to be together for very long, and he leaves in a huff. 

     I don't even like the foods that go with wine. Escargot is a dish that rich people order, so I've been practicing eating snails, in case I come into money. I'm using garden snails since I don't have the money yet for escargot. I just wish someone had told me that you should remove the shell. Something a rich person would say at a restaurant is, "That souffle is simply to DIE for!" Whereas something I might be overheard to say is, "What is IN that? Tastes like something I could die from."

     I hope I don't have to walk the red carpet in a custom-made designer outfit. "Here comes Rick Melén, wearing a suit that appears to be made entirely of cat hair. Rick, who are you wearing and what is its story?" "Actually, there is an Armani suit under here somewhere, it's just that my cat sheds a lot." Then I proceed to sneeze 23 times, because I'm allergic to cats. "I promise you, the suit is nothing to sneeze at." The only satisfaction I have at the moment is that I think my cat is also allergic to me.

     The pressure that money brings is unbearable. If I have a party and something isn't right, people will talk about it, and my name will be mentioned in the same sentence as "simply isn't done." Everything has to be spotless and pristine. "So, is this China Chinese?" a woman whom I've never met before asks. "Yes," I say, "It's almost 400 years old, from the Qing Dynasty." "Oh. So, you bought it used?" God forbid something goes wrong with the toilet, or a weird smell comes from someplace that's not the kitchen. 

     Have you ever heard the phrase, "not a hair out of place?" Well, my hair has never really had a place. Sure, it's often right there on top of my head, but each one of my hairs seems to have different aspirations that are inconsistent with being part of a collective unit. Someone once convinced me to have my hair styled at an expensive salon, and when I came out I had the urge to buy Barbra Streisand records. Perhaps I came too far out.

     There are a couple things I wouldn't mind having the money for, like flying first class. As it is, I usually travel in steerage with the hazardous materials. I'd like to have my own limo driver. I don't even need the limo.

     I have to go now, the paparazzi could be lurking anywhere, waiting for me to do something gross. When do I blow my nose? I have an itch, and it's near enough to my crotch to cause a stir in the society pages.

DNA AND ME

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (03-26-26)

    My sister had her ancestry tested using one of those DNA-based services that compares your sample to millions of users, to uncover secrets about your past that could come back to bite you in the future, such as that you are the illegitimate child of Thomas Jefferson. My family always thought we were of Swedish descent, but it turns out our genetic background is primarily Danish. They use a sample of your saliva to develop a single nucleotide polymorphism, and just saying that left a bad taste in my mouth, so now is not the time for me to swab. Those Denmark genes came from my sister, so perhaps she had a Danish for breakfast that day and it skewed the results.

     23andMe is a genetic testing company named for the fact that there are 23 pairs of chromosomes in a human cell (and You). If you send your DNA to them, they will compare it to others of the same genotype in their database of over 3 million applicants. This information can be helpful to those whose family has a history of certain medical conditions that can be proactively treated, such as Parkinson's disease, celiac disease or Alzheimer's disease. Baldness, too is something that is passed down from your mother's side of the family. My own mother wasn't bald, so I should have nothing to worry about. Sometimes I think I might have memory loss due to old age, but usually I just forget about it and it goes away.

     DNA is so much more interesting now than it was when I was in school, and there were things like "endoplasmic reticula" lurking around every corner waiting to jump out at me during a pop quiz. Now DNA actually has practical uses, other than just showing off its polynucleotides. Genetic engineering, for instance, takes the process of animal or plant breeding, which could take generations, and speeds it up so that can be done while you're doing your laundry. 

     I watch a lot of "true crime" shows, and police are always following suspects around waiting for them to throw out their straws, so that they can collect their DNA. Even if I haven't committed any crime, I take a look around after I'm done with my straw, to see if anyone is looking at me holding a Q-tip. But if I HAVE committed a crime I'm much more careful. I don't lick anything even if asked, and if I so much as order an ice cream cone I hold it over my mouth in direct sunlight and wait until it melts, even if I have to wait until spring. I don't secrete ANY bodily fluids, unless I do it in secret. I would like to know what is the grossest thing the police will try to retrieve in order to get my DNA? "Did you see what Melén just threw away there? Go retrieve it, it's gotta have his DNA on it." "I'M not going anywhere near that. YOU go get it." "He's only wanted for jay-walking in a pedestrian zone, so let's just ask him not to do it anymore."

     If the case goes to trial, the DA says, "Mr. Melén's DNA was found at the scene, so he is the bad actor here." "I object," I object. "I was in that scene and there were other actors way worse than I was." And then the DA says, "The presence of that DNA means that Mr. Melén was the only one out of a blahbity-illion people that could have committed the crime. That's a one followed an infinite amount of zeroes." Every time I hear one of those astronomical numbers I wonder whose job is it to actually count to make sure the number is accurate? 

     Advancements in the field have given rise to a new branch of investigation called "forensic genealogy," where even if your third cousin committed a crime, your DNA could identify him. If he was your third cousin once removed though, he might have an alibi depending on when he was removed. The technique is credited with solving the case of the "Golden State Killer," a serial murderer who committed numerous unsolved crimes in the 1970s and 1980s. He was finally identified through DNA samples submitted by his sisters, unrelated to the original investigation. The killer blamed "Jerry," an alter-ego personality, for some of the murders, although it's not clear whether alter-egos have DNA.

     Every time I read that somebody heard a "voice in their head," I wonder why it only ever tells you to kill somebody? It never tells you how to put together the P-trap under your sink, now that you took it apart, for instance. I recently heard a little voice in my head that asked me, "Wouldn't you agree that statistically, the chance of getting a childproof cap open is only slightly higher for adults?" That's when I began to suspect that the little voice in my head was my own.

     Anyway, it's possible that I am biologically related to someone whom I don't even know about, and they're out there, trying to find me, using 23andMe. If it's 23andYou, and you'd like to get in touch, and I don't owe you any money, please feel free to contact me. If it turns out that I am your long lost son, there might be a good reason that you lost me for so long, which you'll find out after I move in with you.