How I lived to be 405 - by Ming the Clam

“A clam dredged up off the coast of Iceland is thought to have been the longest-lived animal discovered. Scientists said the mollusk, an ocean quahog clam, was aged between 405 and 410 years and could offer insights into the secrets of longevity.” -- BBC News

People want to know how I lived so long. Was it good genes? Was it luck? Well, I’ll get to that in a second. But first I’d just like to thank Simon & Schuster for their very generous book deal. The book will have to be published posthumously, of course, but I wanted to tell my story. Hopefully--and Oprah, I hope you are listening—it will be a source of inspiration to many readers.

OK. Living to 405 years old is extremely hard work. And by that I mean you have to learn to blend-in and keep your mouth shut. Believe me, that is much more difficult than it sounds. You live to be 405 by keeping steady under pressure and shunning extremes. That also means avoiding religion. I'm I’m just trying to help. And you don’t want to stick your neck out too far because a fish or some other predator may saw it off. I got to 405 and I crushed the previous known age record, which was 220 years, so I know what I’m talking about here, and what we’re not talking about is how to live an interesting or memorable life. Those things are overrated anyway, as far as I am concerned. I’m a clam. What do you want?

I was four hundred and five years old. Just think about that for a second. They named me Ming after the Chinese dynasty in power when I was born. So, I am Ming the Clam, a mollusk who gained fame in death, not in life. Alright. I can live with that. When I was born Shakespeare was writing plays and New York City didn’t even exist. Internal combustion, steel, and plastics were still hundreds of years off. People sailed around in wooden ships, died from plague, and, when they weren’t dying, generally wished they were dead. I’m not sure if things have improved all that much but for some reason you want to live longer and longer. OK, fine. That’s what I’m here for.

If I may be truthful, things were better back then. I mean for clams, not for people. Oh, sure, I know what you’re thinking: here’s another old clam railing against modern society. Fair enough, but my words also carry a certain weight. I made it to 405. How old are you? I spent many a decade hearkening back to when the water was as clean as the newborn sky. There was no oil and hardly a whiff of refuse. But today? Things have gotten so bad I’m glad they dredged me up and killed me by sectioning off my shell and examining me. It was time. I had a good run. I’m not bitter.

But how do you live to be 405? It’s not about the money. Clams don’t care about money. My book deal isn’t about the money. What would I do with it anyway? I’m dead. All of the proceeds are going to Help the Aged, a UK based charity, dedicated to studying quahog longevity. I guess you could say they want to know what made me tick. Or, how I was able to keep ticking for so long. Well, I’d still be ticking if I hadn’t been dredged up and sectioned off. Maybe there’s a lesson there: don’t get dredged. Ah, but the point I was trying to make is this: there’s more to life than money. Believe me, I heard every cliché in the book. I know them all. But that one was around before me and I think it’s true.

I had a nice life down there on the seabed. I had my friends, my family and my health. What else could I ask for? That’s how you live to be 405: enjoy what you have. It’s another cliché but it’s true. We clams never venture very far. Everything we need is right there. You can’t live to be 405 by worrying about everything all the time. What ever is going to happen is going to happen and you can’t control it. One day I was a clam at the bottom of the ocean. The next I was dredged and now I am dead. You just have to roll with it.

It’s not so bad being dead. Truthfully, I was a little bored after 405 years. I had been eating the same food since Guy Fawkes and there was no end in sight. I’m not bitter. I’m here to help. Just read my book, and heed my warnings. All glory is fleeting. Beware the ides of March. And you can, really, have too much of a good thing. Take frosting for example. It’s a good thing, but if you eat a whole can you’ll wish you were dead. Sometimes I wished I was dead, and now I am. Beware what you wish for. But I’m not bitter. I’m dead, but not bitter. I’ll be honest, you do a lot of thinking when you spend 405 years on the bottom of the ocean. I’ve got a lot to say and it’ll all be in my book, I promise, but I’ll tell you this much: I never thought I’d end up here. Life is a crazy thing.

OK, I'm just about out of time, but remember: it’s hard not to be cynical, but try your best. And relax. OK? You only get so many heartbeats in a lifetime. Try not to waste them on things you don’t really understand or can’t control. Why is everyone worried about God, anyway? How much trouble has that caused? I don’t know what He wants, but I’ll bet He wants you to be kind. And, anyway, you don’t live to be 405 by guessing someone else’s plans. That much I know for sure. Just do the best you can, and let life come to you. You have to do that when you’re a clam, and I lived to be 405. There’s a lesson there. We have a saying back where I come from: pondering divine intentions is a good way to get your neck sawed off by a fish. Think about it. And be kind.

rarely make history

I'm not seeing anything in the news that is stoking my ire so here's something I wrote a while back.


Here is something sad and crazy all at the same time: I still sleep on only one side of the bed. What is this all about? It's my bed. I've had it for years. Christ. I've had it for ten years and now it's only half mine. I opened it up and I can't get the other half back. How damn stupid is that? What may be even crazier is that I didn't even realize I was only sleeping on half of the bed until just the other day, long after she left, wearing a snappy blue and white striped sweater and the cat under her arm. She walked right out that door. And I'm still on half of the bed.It's habitual and pathetic and all at the same time. Now I always slide into the left side of the bed. A wounded soul feeling his phantom limb. I never go to the right. Ever. Sometimes I stand there and look and let it dare me. For extra measure it's the side closest to the closet. But I change my clothes and walk around the bed to the left side and get in. Can you believe that? The right side of the bed is lost to me, and, rather than take it over, I cover it with books and magazines and go to sleep.

On my side, on my nightstand, is an alarm clock, a reading lamp, and issues of The New Yorker I have set aside. And on her side, on her nightstand, is...nothing. It's blank. The drawers are empty too. They used to hold her things. Now that nightstand is lost. It's useless. A placeholder. I may have to throw it away. All of it, everything, is just haunted. It's a vacant lot. Like the half-empty dresser, and the half empty closet. The bathroom drawers where her junk used to live are all empty. And the craziest thing is they still are. It's not that I don't have things to put in them, I just never thought to do it.

I've heard of similar behavior from formerly sane people. After I went away to college my father would sit on his riding lawnmower, tracing circles around the yard, thinking back on the last eighteen years of his life and mine together. This was a guy who had only one piece of advice for me in high school: if you get her pregnant, don't come home. That was it. And then, months after I went away, he wrote me that letter telling me how he taught me to throw left-handed because Mickey Mantle threw left handed, and that he paces the backyard on his lawnmower, lost in memories. My room remained the same as it had ever been until my sister squatted on it and painted it over a neon green. She had no emotional connection to the space, and I'm sure my parents were grateful.

Now I understand why parents leave rooms in the same condition they once stood, long after their children have gone away. Dolls remain on beds. Books remain on shelves. Everything stays the way it was so than when the loved-one returns they can fill it again, the way things always were. To re-arrange it, to move it, to paint over it, to fill it, is to violate it. And what is harder to kill than a dream or a memory? I could take over her side of the bed, sure. I could re-claim it with force and sprawl myself over it, but, then again, I can't. I'm here to admit I'm not that strong.

The other day I read an article on phantom limbs and the current theory on phantom limbs is that the brain attempts to re-map those nerve endings which no longer receive input. The result is that the re-mapped endings are put to use on other types of sensory input, but the individual sometimes still perceives the input as coming from the part which has been lost. The brain enjoys what the brain is used to. Old sensory habits die hard. I can't prove it but maybe something similar occurs in relationships. When two people try hard to blend their lives together, and then they suddenly fall away, all of those connections have to be re-mapped and, sometimes, it is just more comforting to save their space, and keep them mapped the way they were, because in your heart you know they were mapped that way for a good reason.

8-Limbed Girl Has Successful Surgery

"Doctors in southern India completed a grueling 24-hour operation Wednesday on a girl born with four arms and four legs that surgeons said will give the 2-year-old a chance at a normal life." - Washington Post


Bangalore, India - Nature was thwarted again as doctors removed six limbs from a young girl born in India. This event caps a series of successful evolutionary checks by humans, grinding adaptation to a halt.

"People are too smart for their own good," Nature was quoted as saying in a wide ranging interview. "I'm trying everything I can think of. I give them two heads and they pair them off. I give them extra limbs and they just discard them. Hello? Work with me here."

Nature expressed dismay over man's lack of appreciation for innovation.

"Humans need to learn to take the long view," Nature advised. "Sure, they're not used to seeing someone with eight limbs but a million years from now that could be the norm. Eight limbed people! Think about it! The first human with an opposable thumb was viewed with contempt too. Well, who's laughing now?"

Meanwhile doctors rejoiced at the successful outcome of the 40 hour surgery.

"This girl can now lead as good a life as anyone else," said Dr. Sharan Patil, who led a team of more than 30 surgeons in the marathon procedure to remove Lakshmi's extra limbs, salvage her organs and rebuild her pelvis area.

The girl, named Lakshmi, was revered in her remote Indian village before the surgery. Children born with deformities in deeply traditional parts of India are often viewed as reincarnated gods. The young girl is no different she is named after the four-armed Hindu goddess of wealth.

"You see? She could have been a god!" Nature said. "I just don't understand people at all. I'm giving up. I'm going to concentrate on dolphins for a while. Humans just don't know a good thing when they see it."

Nature then predicted that within a few hundred millennia Dolphins could conceivably have the ability to govern themselves and be on the verge of inventing the sitcom.

"That is if I don't get called into a lot of bullshit meetings," Nature said. "These things take time."

Indie Bloggers

Heads up! An essay I wrote called "The Minivan Life" is being published on Indie Bloggers tomorrow, Nov 7. I encourage everyone to go browse the writing on their site, I'm happy to be among it.

Read it here, up in lights.

Check ya later!

Writing Lamp

There is a lamp on my writing desk
Forgotten and left behind
Rescued from an old store
Beautiful but not affected
Original and eternal
The shade is the same color as her name

The Minivan Life

The bumper sticker clearly stated: Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History. I saw it with my own eyes, perfectly centered on the back of the minivan I was now sitting behind. Curious I followed it around for a few minutes. It never exceeded the speed limit. It made no right turns on red. It paused for an extra second when at the yield sign. Behind the wheel was a woman, in her mid-30s, who would not be making history.

So what was I to make of her bumper sticker? Was it there as a warning to other women, as if to say, abandon all hope, ye who drive the minivan? Or, perhaps, did the driver fancy herself historic and atypical, this woman driving the red Dodge Caravan, busing her children to dance class, or some other typical event? And what is it like to carry the burden of such proclamations but have to attach them to the back end of something so quotidian? The bumper sticker was worn and faded, applied back when the minivan was new and exciting. But it was never that exciting was it? And the message never really trusted.

And I couldn't help but think of her, of course. She owned a shirt with the same message, but I'm sure that woman was exactly the woman she did not want to become, a woman I certainly had no interest in her becoming. In-fact, I quite enjoyed it when she misbehaved, I thought that was when she was at her best, confident and creative, and I tried to nurture that side as much as I could because I do believe well behaved women rarely do make history. Sometimes it happens but I don't need them. I'll take the one who just can't be obedient.

Still, I suppose she saw that house--with its fenced-in yard, and its family pet--as the first step in a slide towards oblivion, and, in modern life, it is hard not to keep all of these things mutually exclusive. I suppose she pictured herself resigned, with an apron on, working in the kitchen, and sweeping the floors, even though I never asked her to, and never complained. Anything she did was fine with me. And if she did nothing I joined right in. But I suppose she pictured herself, someday, behind the wheel of a red Dodge Caravan, her old beliefs stuck to the tailgate, covered in a thin layer of dust and that is why, you see, she ran for her life.

The thought is terrifying, and anyone with an atypical bone in their body would flee if they saw themselves going there. But the funny thing is I find it terrifying too. And, had she ever mentioned these fears to me they would have resonated, in the same way all of her other dreams resonated with me, when she shared them. But, I suppose she thought I had no interest in them anymore, and no desire to even know. After all, how could I love her and have the nerve to introduce her to such banality? It was like I didn't know her at all. But she had stopped sharing her dreams with me long before that, convinced, perhaps, that I couldn't be trusted, and still I trusted.

She nodded her approval as we moved forward because she stopped wanting to build, with me, the life she wanted, but was still curious to see if I would commit to her. And when I did commit I had allotted enough rope to hang. Lost, I had shown myself uninspired, the unforgivable sin, and her dreams were only the first of things she packed away, all in an effort to avoid the minivan life. But didn't she trust that I would never have allowed that to happen? What were all those conversations I tried to have with her all about, if not to get down to the truth? Didn't she trust that even if we had to leave this forsaken place, and find a home away from it all, in a life less ordinary, that I would have done so with force? Didn't she see that, when we dreamed together, our dreams were really one and the same? And does she wonder, like I do, what such a life would have been like, and how hard it is to watch it drive away?

How I lived to be 405

“A clam dredged up off the coast of Iceland is thought to have been the longest-lived animal discovered. Scientists said the mollusk, an ocean quahog clam, was aged between 405 and 410 years and could offer insights into the secrets of longevity.”

Transcript of How I lived to be 405.

By Ming the Clam

People want to know how I lived so long. Is it good genes? Is it luck? Well, I’ll get to that in a second. But first I’d just like to say thanks to Simon and Schuster for their very generous book deal. It’ll be written posthumously of course but I wanted to tell my story. Hopefully--and Oprah, I hope you are listening—it will be a source of inspiration to many readers.

OK. Living to 405 years old is extremely hard work. And by that I mean you have to learn to blend in and keep your mouth shut. Believe me, that’s much harder than it sounds. You live to be 405 by keeping steady under pressure and avoiding extremes. That also means avoiding religion. You just can’t live to be 405 when you’re running around as God’s chosen instrument. I’m just trying to help. You don’t want to stick your neck out too far because a fish or some other predator may saw it off. I’m 405. And I crushed the previous known age record, which was 220 years, so I know what I’m talking about here. And what we’re not talking about is how to live an interesting or memorable life. Those things are overrated anyway, as far as I am concerned. I’m a clam. What do you want?

I was four hundred and five years old. Just think about that for a second. They named me Ming after the Chinese dynasty in power when it was born. OK, fine. I’m Ming the clam and I was alive when Shakespeare was writing plays. New York City didn’t even exist. Internal combustion, steel, and plastics were still hundreds of years off when I was born. People sailed around in wooden ships, died from plague, and, when they weren’t dying, generally wished they were dead. I’m not sure if things have improved all that much but, for some reason, you want to live longer. OK, fine. That’s what I’m here for.

If I may be truthful, things were better back then. I mean for clams, not for people. Oh, sure, I know what you’re thinking: here’s another crusty old mollusk railing against modern society. OK, fine, but my words also carry a certain weight. I’m 405. How old are you? I’ve spent many a decade hearkening back on how clean the water used to be. There was no oil and hardly a whiff of refuse. But today? Things have gotten so dirty I’m glad they dredged me up and killed me by sectioning off my shell and examining me. It was time. I had a good run. I’m not bitter.

But how do you live to be 405? It’s not about the money. Clams don’t care about money. My book deal isn’t about the money, what would I do with it anyway? I’m dead. All of the proceeds are going to Help the Aged, a UK based charity, dedicated to studying quahog longevity. I guess you could say they want to know what made me tick. Or, how I was able to keep ticking for so long. Well, I’d still be ticking if I hadn’t been dredged up and sectioned off. Maybe there’s a lesson there. Don’t get dredged. Ah, but the point I was trying to make is this: there’s more to life than money. Believe me, I heard every cliché in the book. I know them all. But that one was around before me and I think it’s true.

I had a nice life down there on the seabed. I had my friends, my family and my health. What else could I ask for? That’s how you live to be 405: enjoy what you have. It’s another cliché but it’s true. We clams never venture very far. Everything we need is right there. You can’t live to be 405 by worrying about everything all the time. What ever is going to happen is going to happen and you can’t control it. One day I was a clam at the bottom of the ocean. The next I was dredged and now I am dead. You just have to roll with it, OK?

I try to make the best of it. It’s not so bad being dead. Truthfully I was a little bored after 405 years. I had been eating the same food since Guy Fawkes. I’m not bitter. I’m here to help. Just read my book, and heed my warnings. All glory is fleeting. Beware the ides of March. And you can, really, have too much of a good thing. Take frosting for example. It’s a good thing, but if you eat a whole can you’ll wish you were dead. Sometimes I wished I was dead, and now I am. Beware what you wish for. I mean, my god, sometimes I just thought, enough already. But I’m not bitter. I’m dead but not bitter. I’ll be honest, you do a lot of thinking when you spend 405 years on the bottom of the ocean, I’ve got a lot to say and it’ll all be in my book, I promise. But I’ll tell you this much: I never thought I’d end up here. Life is a crazy thing.

OK, I’d better close. It’s hard not to be cynical, but try your best. And relax. OK? You only get so many heartbeats in a lifetime. Try not to waste them on things you don’t really understand or can’t control. Why is everyone worried about what god wants them to do? How much trouble has that caused? You don’t live to be 405 by guessing someone else’s plans. That much I know for sure. Just do the best you can, and let life come to you. You have to let life come to you when you’re a clam, but there’s a lesson there. We have a saying back where I come from: pondering divine intentions is a good way to get your neck sawed off by a fish. Think about it. And be kind.

Dumbledore Says Boston in Six

Is it just me or has nothing interesting been going on all week?

Dumbledore is gay? Zounds, people, it was sooo obvious! Why is this even news? How can a fictional character be anything if it's not even hinted at in the novels? And frequent use of the word "wand" doesn't count. If you want my take, and I know you do because you're here, this is some crafty prestidigitation by author J.K. Rowling. It's like George Lucas saying Luke Skywalker was colorblind. If a character is anything, and that anything is relevant at all, shouldn't it be brought out on the fictional pages he lives on? Otherwise, what's going on here?

Speaking of which, let's talk about the Red Sox vs the Rockies in the World Series. Why did the Indians have to blow their season to Boston? The last thing we need is another reason for New England to celebrate (it's a foregone conclusion that the Patriots are going 19 - 0). So, let's go Rockies, huh? Do what the Cardinals did last year and pull a rabbit out of your hat and sign David Eckstein while you're at it. Game one is tonight. Boston, the favorite, has home field advantage thanks to Tony LaRussa's managing gaff in this year's All Star Game.

From the BBC's World Series preview / 2007 season review.

The 2007 All-Star game saw the American League's seeming dominance extend to a 10th consecutive victory as they won 5-4. However, with the NL trailing by one run and the bases loaded, St Louis manager Tony La Russa's decision not to pinch-hit with Cardinals star batter Albert Pujols (his last remaining bench player) seems as mystifying now as it was then.

And, in the words of the great Dumbledore: Boston will have this shit sewn up in six games.

Bah! I banish thee back into the closet whence you came!

In happier news, now that Mark Cuban is finished on "Dancing with the Stars" he can get down to buying the Chicago Cubs. Next year is here five months away.

Area man comes up with another great band name

Belleville, Ill - Henry Keller is a 42 year old auto mechanic, divorced father of two, and avid classic rock fan. But his friends are amazed at his uncanny ability to come up with great band names.

"I can't really explain it," says Keller, fresh from working on a 1976 Chevrolet Impala. "I'll be talking to my friends or what ever and I'll say something and then realize, hey, that would be a great band name."

His friends almost always agree.

"He's really good at it, no doubt about it," says Martin Brown, a life long friend of Keller's. "He's been doing it since high school, really. He just came up with another one last night, 'Hokey Spoke.'"

Keller has been responsible for lending his talents to various local groups such as Wither, Soggy Jog, and Slow Jam Grapevine.

"I guess I'm sort of a local celebrity now," Keller laughs. "People come to me for band names. I have a whole notebook full of them and I just start tossing them out and when they hear one that fits their style they go with it. All I ask is that they send me a flier so I can add it to my scrapbook."

Keller has left his mark all over the local band scene, and as far away as Chicago.

"You know that band Dead Science Project? They were a big deal in the tri-state area. That was me too," he adds.

With all his exposure to music and bands Keller admits that he is only an amateur musician.

"Oh, I was in a band after high school," he explains. "We batted around a few names and finally settled on the Henry Keller Experience. We were sort of a mix of Moody Blues, The Alan Parsons Project , and Flock of Seagulls. Oh, and by the way, those are all great band names. I've got a tape around here somewhere."

"I don't really know how it happens," says Keller, trying to explain his methodology. "I know a lot of people think it's cool to mix two words that shouldn't go together. I call it Led Zepplining. Well, that's not really my style. I try to just let it happen naturally. I've learned you can't force the creative process."

Keller also boats an impressive collection of classic rock albums in their original vinyl, and he reads voraciously. He suspects all of that information becomes a jumbled mess in his head which overflows as a random band name.

"I joke with everyone that my head is sort of like a rock polisher," Keller says. "You know, junk goes in, tumbles around, and out comes something nice. The fun part is I never know when it's going to happen next; watching football, in the shower, or working on a car. If that's my gift then I guess I could have been stuck with worse."

First boomer applies for Social Security

WASHINGTON - The nation's first baby boomer applied for Social Security benefits Monday, causing administrators of the trust fund to scream, "Oh my God! Run for your lives!!"

Kathleen Casey-Kirschling, a former teacher from New Jersey, applied for benefits over the Internet at an event attended by Social Security Commissioner Michael Astrue, while hundreds of concerned citizens watched on horrified. Casey-Kirschling, who now lives in Maryland, was born one second after midnight on Jan. 1, 1946, making her the first baby boomer.

"This is just the beginning...of the end," Said Martin Slesinger, 42, of Passaic, New Jersey. "Or is it the end of the beginning? Who the hell cares? We're doomed!"

An estimated 10,000 people a day will become eligible for Social Security benefits over the next two decades. The Bush administration has taken the necessary precautions, raising the terror alert level to a soothing doily white.

"The most important thing to remember is that the government has plenty of money to cover all baby boomers, and those coming after," said President Bush. "If we run out of money we'll just print some more."

The Social Security trust fund, if left alone, is projected to go broke in 2041. A few hope Congress will address the issue, perhaps after the 2008 presidential election. Many more plan on looting, lying, and cheating their way to a comfortable retirement.