The J.R.S. #11 - Rogaine, Hot Dogs, & Ancestry.com's DNA Test
Happy Birthday Etta James! At last, you receive the coveted endorsement of your music from a stranger on the Internet.
Welcome to The J.R.S – the newsletter that reviews life so you don’t have to. If you like what you read, have your friends subscribe! Every time I get a new reader, another witty sign from the Women’s march is posted on Instagram. Self-promotion finished, it’s time to sit back, rest easy in the knowledge that The J.R.S. will never face a government shutdown, and read some words.
P.S. Is The J.R.S. going to your promotions tab? Just drag that sucker over to your primary tab, and hopefully, the Google AI will keep it there from now on.
Rogaine
"Like a Clock Outside of a Bank - A Sign of the Times"
There are many different ways to measure the passage of time. Some do it with career milestones, while others break their life into major relationship moments. Other might just stick to the agreed upon nomenclature of months, days, and years.
For me, time is binary. Similar to B.C. and A.D, the easiest way for me to personally measure my journeys around in the sun is in B.R. and A.R.
Becoming a functioning member of society has been a 70-30 success in my humble opinion. I pay my taxes, I vote, and this Christmas, my girlfriend and I received a very fancy gift basket from my Aunt and Uncle. The true sign of adulthood is when you start receiving gift baskets.
There are things that I never want to grow up and out of. Like the joy of throwing rocks off a cliff and realizing that no one will yell at me, (unless I hit someone).
No matter the social setting, if I lock eyes with a baby, I will make a goofy face and try to make it laugh. If someone has a bite-sized snack, I will ask him or her to throw it into my mouth, in an effort to show off my dexterity.
While those are just a few ways I try to stay young, that was B.R. Joey, and he is dead now. B.R.J. was a carefree young man, an individual who thought the world was his oyster, but now that I'm A.R. Joey, I'm just trying to avoid having my head share the appearance of the smooth pearl one discovers in an oyster.
Yes - Before Rogaine, I viewed my brown hair as a constant, much like the rising of the sun or fact that two socks go in, but only one sock comes out. Sure, in the last few years I've seen more and more shocks of grey appear on my noggin, but I figured it gave me a salt and pepper look, all part of the plan of becoming a silver fox.
Alas, my foxy plans were dashed when a few nights ago my girlfriend grabbed a tuft of my hair on the back of my skull and made the "ehhhhh" sound that is the non-word form of "It's probably time you start doing something about this."
Not with a bang, but a silent and woeful farewell, Before Rogaine Joey was slain.
Now I'm in the After Rogaine (A.R.) stage of my life, and I've accepted it. I've accepted that I need to up my personal care to continue maintaining the status quo. I've resigned myself to putting weird foam on the back of the head for...the rest of my life. Or until I go bald.
At this point, I'll let the women who are reading this take a moment to sigh in frustration and mutter "no shit" to the confused and dumbfounded male writer.
Women have been in their personal versions of B.R./A.R. for years, but almost all started at a much younger age. Except it's not Rogaine, it's makeup or lipstick or eyeliner, or whatever weird thing the beauty standards of society have unfairly put on the fairer sex.
So, hello to all of you in your A.R, A.M, A.L, or whatever your personal "after" is. It's nice to be in the club! Well, not really, but I'm trying my best to approach this with a positive attitude. I hear that helps with hair growth.
Rogaine - 3 out of 5 Stars
Hot Dogs
"The Amuse Bouche of BBQ's"
Let's get one thing clear. I love America.
I really do! I've had the great luck and opportunity to live in places beyond our country, and I think only when you have lived outside of the US of A for a significant length of time can you really appreciate the things that we take for granted.
Hot dogs are an American staple. If I say hamburgers, your (probable) immediate response is "Hot dogs." They're one of the major defining objects that turn a picnic into BBQ, and in the right circumstances, they are pretty darn good.
That being said, if tomorrow morning I woke up and hot dogs were wiped off the face of the planet, I wouldn't shed a salty tear.
Let me state my case.
Hot dogs are never filling. Doubt me? I present to you hot dog eating contests. An event so concrete in making my point for me, there is a league of professionals from around the world who regularly eat between 50 and 60 hot dogs in a matter of minutes.
Hot dogs are the preamble to a good burger when you're at a BBQ. If someone asks me if I want a hot dog, I almost always say yes, because I know I won't be sacrificing any real meal space for the inevitable real entree, a hamburger.
In fact, the only people who eat hot dogs at a BBQ and then pass on a hamburger are children or vegans. No one else is silly enough to take the four bites needed to eat a standard hot dog and decide that they are completely satisfied.
I say standard because there are certain situations where a hot dog is a prime entree. Most notably, at baseball games, or outside a bar when you're drunk.
I like baseball games because they're one of the few remaining great social equalizers when it comes to interacting with society.
It doesn't matter where you're from or what your job is, we all have to wait in line to overpay for beer and hot dogs, and then awkwardly spray ketchup and mustard inside the tinfoil of the dog, then do that weird balloon animal-like twist to keep the foil altogether.
Dogs at ballgames are the perfect companions to peanuts, watered down beer, and America's past time. They can be eaten one-handed, and all the mess can be easily contained.
Drunken hot dogs are another delicacy that deserves mention. In Los Angeles, we have various "street meat" vendors outside of events and bars, and they always have sizzling griddles preparing bacon-wrapped hot dogs and onions. If ordered (for $5), they are covered with cilantro, jalapenos, and whatever sauces the specific vendor has whipped up.
They're disgusting, but when you see them, all thoughts of the inevitable bowel consequences go out the window, and you'll find yourself chowing one down on the street, murmuring to passersby’s how they're missing out.
In Iceland, my girlfriend and I went on a hot dog tour. Apparently they're sold all over Reykjavik, and Bill Clinton ate one at a stand, so of course, we went there. They were a little sweet to my liking, but overall they weren't bad. Not the highlight of the trip though.
Baseball games, BBQ's, and bar-adjacent. Those are really the only acceptable places to eat hot dogs, and we all know that it's not a full meal.
There is one place where hot dogs have gained normalcy in society, and I find it absolutely infuriating. Somehow, some evil marketing genius started selling hot dogs in movie theaters, and it boggles my mind.
How did hot dogs, an outdoor delicacy, become an okay meal to eat in a large dark room with hundreds of other people? Fancy theaters have full menus, and I'm okay with them because I know what I signed up for. But most regular theaters have hot dogs now, and I know people who swear by cinema schnitzels.
Movie theaters are for snacking, and to a minimum at best. This is not mealtime. Hot dogs have no place in a theater.
So, enjoy this food outdoors, but let's be honest, we both know you're just waiting for the burgers to be ready.
Hot Dogs - 2 out of 5 Stars
Ancestry.com's DNA Test
"You Already Knew"
Every year during Cyber Monday, I indulge myself with one thing that I never would buy if it was full price. Past purchases have been boots (never worn), books (read), and other assorted knick-knacks.
This year, I saw that there was a good deal on one of those home DNA test kits, and my interest was perked. My girlfriend had done 23andMe when we started dating, and we really enjoyed learning her results.
Even more fun were the interesting little statistical tidbits that 23andMe extrapolated from her spit. The percentage of relatives that have the same eye color for example, or the probability of a relative being a lefty, (Girlfriend is a lefty, and I have to patiently bear witness to tirades against right-handed designed tools - like can openers for instance).
For some reason, I didn't immediately just get a 23andMe test. No, I did "research" and compared the other major brand that was offering a DNA spit test - Ancestry.com.
Ancestry.com's marketing has always been wonky to me. It was like that one relative who knew way too much about the family tree was suddenly a website, and they had a budget to do commercials. Their target audience seemed significantly older than me, but I think they're really trying to position themselves as an equal product to 23andMe, which is why I decided to do some research.
I stumbled upon an article (not using actual stumbleupon - RIP Firefox widgets), where the author had done both tests and explained which one she liked better. From my reading comprehension, the biggest takeaway was that 23andMe told you the region of where you were from, while Ancestry.com told you what country you were from.
Throughout my life, people have always told me that I'm Jewish. Or they've said "You're Jewish right? You look Jewish".
This has always bothered me, because my Mother is Irish Catholic, and my Father is Jewish. According to Jewish law, I am not "Jewish". If we need to dive deeper, I was never baptized nor was I bar mitzvahed, so I'm not really anything. I'm just Joey. Which is my favorite description of me.
I've always been jealous of friends who were fierce about their genetic heritage. They would celebrate weird holidays, eat cultural cuisine, and have an easy identity. I'm a bit of a mixed bag, given my parent's racial backgrounds, so I ended up choosing to go with Ancestry.com to see if there's one country that I could strongly hoist a flag for.
I spat in a tube, mailed it off, and forgot about it. I didn't really forget about it, in fact, I bothered my girlfriend almost daily asking her if she wondered what I was. Her guess? Annoying.
After almost ten weeks, I was antsy. Then I had the foresight to check my spam folder, and lo and behold, my test results were there!
Eagerly, I signed in, and was presented with a confusing dashboard that...wanted me to fill out a family tree? What the shit is this? After some clicking around, I found my "DNA Story" that held my ethnicity estimate.
Want to guess what it told me?
THE SAME SHIT I ALREADY KNEW! I am 44% European Jewish, which means that my father's side of the family (according to Ancestry.com) is maybe from Poland, Lithuania, or Belarus...or also Central or Western Europe.
I'm 19% Irish - I knew that already.
15% Scandinavian - Well that's sort of interesting. It's not often someone looks at brown haired brown eyed 5'10 me and says; "There goes some solid Scandinavian stock".
It’s rounded out with some British, Iberian, Finnish, and some other confusing stuff.
Which leaves me...exactly where I was before last Thanksgiving, except $60 poorer. There's no one ethnicity I can latch on to, nor is there a home country where I will be welcomed with open arms like the long-lost son that I am.
That's fine. I'm really a Californian when it comes right down to it. When my great great grandchildren do their DNA tests, they'll just find out that they're like 25% Avocado and 25% Sunshine.
Moral of the story? Buy 23andMe.
Ancestry.com's DNA Test - 1 out of 5 Stars
That's a full lid on this version of The J.R.S! Thank you so much for gracing me with your eyes. Don’t hesitate to telegram me at JRSdiaries@gmail.com and let me know your thoughts, opinions, or family genealogy. Like most wedding DJs, I do take review requests.
Love you. Miss you!
Joey