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.