O Canada!

Counting tacos was fun, but it did get a bit tedious (plus, I prefer tamales to tacos, and there were a few times when I had the opportunity to order tamales and would have preferred to eat tamales, but I ordered tacos just to up the count . . . the sacrifices I make for this blog!) and so for 2012, I am resolving to do something a bit more abstract, although I will still attempt to assess my progress here at Sentence of Dave . . . and the reason I choose this particular resolution, which I will reveal shortly, is because of an embarrassing conversation I had with my son's soccer coach-- who is Canadian-- in which I revealed a shocking ignorance of Canadian geography and culture, and-- when I was pressed-- I could not name the capital of Canada (and I am not retarded geographically-- I can name loads of obscure capital cities from countries such as Syria, Jordan, Turkey, Qatar, Ecuador, Bolivia, etc. and I present myself as fairly well-traveled individual, which made this exchange even more embarrassing) and so, for my New Year's Resolution in 2012, I swear to Care More About Canada and I will keep a counter of times when I care about something Canadian . . . when I research a fact about Canada or make an attempt to listen to a Canadian musician or watch a Canadian film or TV show or follow some part of Canadian politics or sports or culture . . . and I am confident I can care more about Canada than I did in 2011, when I did not care about Canada even once (I did care about friends that I have in Canada-- I taught with a number of Canadians when I was in Syria-- but that doesn't count . . . I'm going to try to care more about Canada itself, the nation just to our north with which we share a 3,987 mile border).

Pamela Anderson is Canadian?

I'm giving myself several "Caring About Canada" points this week because of the massive amounts of discussion on Canada I have generated recently; this isn't easy because Canada isn't in the news all the time-- Canada isn't media-sexy like Mexico (aside from Pamela Anderson, I learned that she's a Canadian!) and so you don't have easy, controversial topics to fall back on, like the drug wars or hot vacation spots or kidnappings or narcocorridos or snakeheads and coyotes . . . but, despite this, I have forged ahead and I have discovered other educated people who could not name the capital city and I have educated them, I have learned that "Arcade Fire" is from Canada (and so Canada has "suburbs," which is also news to me-- I thought Canada was comprised of cities, hamlets, and moose preserves) and I have completed my first assignment given to me by an actual Canadian-- I learned what "poutine" is, and it sounds delicious (I would start a "poutine" count because it would be a perfect complement to my 2011 Taco Count, but I don't think you can get it in these parts).

This is a really long sentence for a dumb joke

Geoffrey Canada's memoir and call to action Fist Stick Knife Gun is a vivid and intelligent account of life on the streets in the South Bronx by an African American man who grew up there in the '50 and '60s and then, after attending Bowdoin and Harvard, went back to try to curb the violence; much of the book is anecdotal, he explains the rules of the streets, and there is some game theory as well ... Canada explains that when he was a kid, you had to fight, but because of the absence of guns, there were some natural checks on violence -- once the pecking order was established, you knew who you could fight and who you couldn't fight . . . who was too big or too tough, who had friends that would come after you or a badass big brother . . . but the influx of guns changed all that, as "kids with guns see no limits on their power" and often only experience the limits of  firearms when they are dying . . . when Canada was a kid, you only pulled a weapon on kids from outside of the neighborhood . . . and it was serious business to brandish a knife, a broken bottle, or a car antennae, but the culture Canada is trying to change now, with his Harlem Children's Zone program, is one where "America is not number one or even in the top fifteen when it comes, to reading, math, and English . . . we're number one in locking up children" and the streets aren't safer, as a result of this, because we're also number one in possessing guns -- and, Canada points out, the gun industry realized in the 1980's that they could expand the handgun market "beyond white males" by making weapons with names that young people find "enticing, like Viper, and to appeal to their belief that bigger was better" and while this book was eye-opening and frightening, it was a far cry from my suburban youth, almost like a description of a different planet, so I am going to write my memoir of the mean cul-de-sacs of North Brunswick in the 1970s, but I can't come up with a properly dramatic title like Fist Stick Knife Gun . . . all I've got so far is Fish Sticks Nikes Gum.

It's True! (Sort of)

When my wife and I taught in Syria, we occasionally found it easier to claim we hailed from Canada, rather than the United States, especially once George W. Bush invaded Iraq . . . though I occasionally tried to be patriotic and explain U.S. policy, sometimes it was just more convenient to avoid the controversy generated by mentioning America . . . and, of course, mentioning Canada was always safe, because Canada doesn't symbolize anything except back-bacon, tuques, Pamela Anderson, poutine, John Candy, and Celine Dion -- none of which is hated enough to incite violence, and the best thing about saying I was from Canada, was that I could follow this lie with the following technically true (but specious) piece of information: "Yes . . . I grew up just outside of New Brunswick."

There Is More Than One Female Singer Hailing From Canada

A few days ago the Final Jeopardy! answer was "THE BESTSELLING ALBUM OF ALL TIME BY A FEMALE IS A 20 MILLION SELLER BY THIS WOMAN WHO STARTED SINGING AT AGE 8 IN ONTARIO" and I confidently yelled "Who is Celine Dion!"-- pleased that I knew she was from Canada-- and all three Jeopardy contestants also wrote down "Who is Celine Dion?" but we were unanimously wrong . . . the answer is Shania Twain, and so once again, I realize Canada is more deserving of my attention and care.

Dave Has an Emotion Towards Canada!

While I can't pretend that I care about Canada (though I tried my darndest) I at least harbor some emotion towards our nice neighbors to the north (with the capitol city no one can name) and this emotion is jealousy, as Canada now has the richest middle class in the world, a title the U.S. once held . . . and while our rich our richer than the Canadian rich, our poor are poorer than the Canadian poor, so unless you're one of the 1%, you're better off donning a toque, buying a down vest, and learning to enjoy backbacon and poutine (but I'm NOT learning French, that's where I' put my foot down).

Bonus: Stunningly Ironic New Year's Resolution Development!

The 2011 Taco Count is over (I ate my 200th last night) and I have moved on to a more abstract resolution for 2012-- to Care More About Canada-- and I gave myself one "Caring About Canada Credit" simply for writing a sentence about this topic, but apparently-- according to an actual flesh and blood Canadian (Thanks Melody!) I spelled "Ottawa" incorrectly in this sentence where I vowed to profess a sincere interest and curiosity in the giant country just north of us, and this irony is not lost on me, and so I am resetting my Caring About Canada Counter down to zero, where it belongs, and I will humbly proceed from there . . .

Dave (Inadvertently) Appreciates Canada!

Back in 2012, I made a New Year's Resolution to appreciate Canada more, but apparently that's not the kind of thing you can force yourself to do . . . despite my abject failure at deliberately appreciating our neighbors to the north, I'm pleased to report that sometimes you can end up appreciating Canada by accident (which seems fitting for a country with a capital city that no one can identify) and I've been doing just that: two years ago I learned to play Gordon Lightfoot's ominous and excellent song "Sundown" on the guitar (and my friend Rob coincidentally learned it as well) and then a couple days ago I heard a snippet of a song on the radio and vaguely recognized it and wanted to learn it on the guitar and so I looked it up, and it turned out to be another Gordon Lightfoot song ("If You Could Read My Mind") and so I did some research and not only is Gordon Lightfoot Canadian, but he is one of the most appreciated Canadians; for example, but Robbie Robertson considers him a "national treasure" and Bob Dylan wishes his songs would all last forever . . . anyway, I like his lyrics more than I like his voice, but he's a hell of a lot better than Nickelback.

It's Not Just Me

Before this year's graduation ceremony, while I was milling around with the other educators, I posed this Final Jeopardy! question and then we got on the subject of the capital of Canada . . . and apparently, nobody knows the capital of Canada-- teachers, administrators, students . . . they were all stumped; I also asked this at a July 4th get together and my favorite answer was: "What? Canada has no capital!"

Dave Resolves His New Year's Resolution!

Until last Thursday night, I was performing quite poorly on my quest to "Care More About Canada," but then, in an amazing turn of events,  I scored hundreds of thousands of Canada points in one long evening at the Park Pub, because we played a game that you might call "What is the Canadian Analogue For That American City?" or even "What is the American Analogue for that Canadian City?" and while I can hardly remember all the analogous pairs we determined, I do remember that when our friend Adrian walked into the pub -- a bit late -- everyone yelled this question at him: "WHAT IS THE AMERICAN EQUIVALENT OF MONTREAL?" and he said, "New Orleans?" and we all screamed "YES! HE GOT IT!" and then we found out that one of the regulars is actually Canadian, and we tried to check our answers with him -- Calgary and Dallas; Quebec City and St. Augustine; San Francisco and Vancouver; Toronto and Washington DC; Saint- Louis du Ha! Ha! and Hohokus; etcetera -- but he was having none of that because Canadians don't play those sort of silly American games . . . and the rest of the night was centered around discussions of Canadian comedy, Canadian bands (and some BAD Canadian music was played on the jukebox: Barenaked Ladies and Loverboy) and Canadian and Ukrainian geography (Roman always manages to sneak some information on the Ukraine into whatever topic we're discussing) but despite this dramatic comeback in my quest to "Care More About Canada," I'm not trying anything this difficult next year . . . instead I think I'm going to eat more pizza. 

Trump Causes More Shit

Last week, after visiting the dog park, I tried to walk home along the river. It was damn near impassable. The grass and the path were strewn with goose poop. Disgusting for me, and a health hazard for my dog. She loves to eat the stuff, and it's laden with bacteria and parasites. The last time she chowed down on it, she threw up all over my van. Yuck.

This was the last straw for me. The geese never shit on the river path. There are a few areas in Donaldson Park that are consistently covered in fecal matter (and they are easy enough to avoid) but this winter-- perhaps because we never got solid snow cover-- the entire park was littered with the stuff. Every sporting field, every paved path . . . from the grassy meadows to the muddy banks. Poop poop poop poop. The only spot in the park not covered with goose poop was the dog park. But I couldn't walk through the other sections of the park to get to the dog park. There was too much shit. So I had to take the street along the park and cut into the park on the trail just past the public works building and the diesel fuel tank. This route is not scenic at all. It's damn near tragic. I live next to Donaldson Park so I can walk around in Donaldson Park.

My New "Scenic Route" to the Dog Park

I generally managed to keep Lola from eating goose poop on my way back from the river, but it was not pleasant or relaxing. So I was pretty irate when I got home. I had been through a scatological minefield, and I was certainly suffering from PTSD: Post Traumatic Shit Disorder. I was fired up. But instead of my usual complaining into the void, I decided to do something: I would write an email to the powers that be. I cranked out a couple paragraphs of crackpot commentary to the county parks director. I was vivid. I was livid. I was graphic. I was gross. I mentioned bacteria and parasites. I recalled that there used to be a guy that would come in and scare the geese away. He would set off fireworks and place silhouettes of dogs in the fields. What happened to that guy? Donaldson Park needed that guy! My tone was polite but frustrated. What other tone is there when you're dealing with goose-shit?

Here's what I got back. I was very pleased with the prompt reply (and properly indignant about the causes of the excessive poop).

A Prompt Clarification on the Shit Storm

Mr. Pellicane,

Thank you for your message regarding Canada goose numbers at Donaldson Park.  The County currently contracts with the Wildlife Services Division of the USDA, Animal and Plant Health Inspection Services for Canada goose management on all County properties.  This include harassment and egg treatments.  They cover over two dozen sites throughout the County.  With our proximity to water, open space and mild winters, controlling geese is always a challenge.

The biggest problem we are having this year is with the somewhat milder winter.  Many geese that pushed southward last year, simply did not this year.  Additionally, with the federal government shutdown for 35 days in December and January, all contracts were suspended.  Harassment during this time was minimal – only what our staff could get to.

We are certainly behind on behavior modification and it is apparent in many of our parks.  Our USDA tech is back on the job (for now, anyway) however, we are playing catch up across the County.  I have asked for increased visits to Donaldson Park over the next week and if there is not another shutdown, continued aggressive harassment for the next few.  This should hopefully help alleviate some of the pressure on Donaldson Park from the geese.

Thank you,

Rick Lear

Director

Office of Parks and Recreation

Department of Infrastructure Management

Let's Assign Some Blame!

Trump! This was Trump poop. Caused by his government shutdown. And even better, Rick Lear alluded to Trump's arch-nemesis. He didn't call it by name (perhaps, like the EPA, he's forbidden). But when he refers to the "mild winter," we all know what he's talking about. Climate change! So I had stepped in Donald Trump's shit, caused by something he refuses to believe in, the Chinese hoax. I couldn't have been happier. English teachers love irony.

The biggest problem we are having this year is with the somewhat milder winter.  Many geese that pushed southward last year, simply did not this year.  Additionally, with the federal government shutdown for 35 days in December and January, all contracts were suspended. 

Rick Lear

I was also happy because getting upset about Trump shit is fun. This is because Trump is temporary. His ideas are outdated. He's a throwback, a dinosaur, soon to be extinct. A last gasp. In fact, despite the bipartisan quagmire and the incorrigible stupidity and corruption of the Trump administration, I'm feeling pretty good about the world, goose poop and all. This is mainly because I'm nearly done with Steven Pinker's book Enlightenment Now: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism, and Progress. It's also because my wife is doing a lot of Zumba and looking great (but that's besides the point).

Pinker uses an avalanche of charts and statistics to remind us that we are living in the best of times. And this is because of th enlightenment values mentioned in the title: science, reason, secular humanism, liberal democratic ideas. The world has never been less violent, more healthy, more prosperous, safer, and more liberal. Despite what the naysayers prophesy, more people have rights than ever before, less people are at war than ever before, knowledge is more accessible, and democracy is on the rise. While there are challenges, we keep coming up with solutions. And the two existential threats-- the things that worry Pinker the most-- the environment (including global warming) and nuclear war . . . both of these things are improving. Slowly, but they are definitely improving. As countries grow richer, they do a better job preserving the environment; they reforest and recycle and use less fossil fuels and look for alternate energy sources. And we are slowly whittling down the number of nuclear weapons on earth. That number may never reach zero, but it doesn't have to. As long as we accept and understand the challenges, there are solutions on the horizon.

The Robots Are NOT Coming

Pinker also dispels some of the ridiculous notions that cause folks unnecessary anxiety: artificial intelligence experts don't fear the singularity. AI is not going to rebel and replace us. It's too hard to make a semi-conductor. It's too hard to make anything. It takes teams and teams of people and many highly technical factories and lots of resources. And we humans control all that. We are the kings of meat-space. And most of this perceived conflict is online. This is also the reason we probably don't have to fear technological nightmare scenarios caused by lone wolf lunatics. It takes too many smart people to create technology that advanced. Your computer may get a virus (but nothing as serious as Y2K) but you need a team of specialists to make a nuclear bomb or a super-virus, and it's hard to assemble that many people down with destroying the human race.

This is why rational people don't fear Donald Trump. He's not the face of the 21st century, he's a wart that will soon dry up. And fall off. He's an old wart.

Pinker does acknowledge that Trump will have an effect-- especially if we let him-- on some of these precious enlightenment ideals that have served us so well. He's an impediment to "life and health" because of his anti-vaxxer rhetoric and his role in dismantling our healthcare system. He's a threat to worldwide wealth because of his idiotic zero-sum notions about trade. Countries that are tied together economically cooperate. They don't go to war. He's certainly not helping economic inequality, nor is he a boon to safety, on the job or otherwise. He hates regulations, which often spur progress and make business seek solutions to problems (such as car crashes, plane crashes, poisoning, tanker leaks, lead levels, mileage restrictions, etc). He's not particularly keen on democracy and seems to have a penchant for dictatorial strongmen. He's no fan of equal rights, and his speeches and Tweets often have an undercurrent of xenophobia and racism. And he's a liar liar pants on fire. So he's not an ambassador or advocate to the wonders of available and accurate knowledge.

The Glass Is Half Full? So Lame . . .

Optimism is not cool. Pinker is an utter nerd. It's more fun to obsess over Trump and predict the end of civility, the end of civilization. Trump is certainly a shitshow, and Michael Lewis does a nice job illustrating some of the consequences of his incomptetence. And he's an environmental disaster. But we are progressing despite him. You need proof? Listen to Adam Ruins Everything Episode 1, where Adam talks at length with the Los Angeles DOT Seleta Reynolds. Streetcars, bike lanes, public transport, walkable neighborhoods and plazas . . . in the car capital of the country. In LA? Sounds like a hippie's dream and a conservative's nightmare. But this progressive vision is happening, despite Trump, and with federal funding. There are difficulties, of course, but when you hear this dedicated and intelligent government employee explaining that the market won't solve these problems of morals and values, it's really heartening. She's also really funny.

Pinker is an atheistic utilitarian who may not have enough feelings about anything to move the stalwarts on the left or the right. He glosses over some pretty bad shit. But that's because he's looking at the numbers, not at the emotions. Not at identity politics or anything particularly political. He's in the same corner as President Obama, who wrote a miniature version of the Pinker book for Wired Magazine. It's an essay called "Now Is the Greatest Time to Be Alive." It's not nearly as fun as visions of rusted out towns full of drug-addled opiate addicts (not the whole story) and porous unwalled borders which allow terrorists, criminals and rapists to pour into our nation. Statistically supported optimism can't match Chinese bandits stealing our intellectual property, black people who don't know their proper place (let's make America Great Again! And Institutionally Racist!) and liberal socialists who want to empower the government so that it controls every aspect of our lives. The end of times. That's what gets the clicks.

But I'm siding with Rick Lear. He's going to be around long after Trump is gone, directing county parks and rec infrastructure, fighting the good fight against the geese. He'll suffer mild winters and government shutdowns, deal with cranky emails, and continue to make this country greater than it's ever been. I have faith that he's going to make my local park greater. He's going to get rid of those geese (and their shit).

I believe.

Pinker's incremental pragmaticism does have it's problems. Robert Gordon, in his comprehensive work The Rise and Fall of American Growth claims that we've captured all the technological "low hanging fruit" and that advances will be tiny and slow for a long time. And Charles C. Mann provides a much more balanced picture in his new book, The Wizard and Prophet. Pinker is a fan of Norman Borlaug, the agricultural engineer who founded the Green Revolution‌, but there are those scientists who don't believe technology will bail us out of every dilemma. We might need old-fashioned conservation to preserve our way of life. Mann uses ecologist William Vogt to represent this perspective. It's one worth noting.

Pinker is also not very romantic. There's no room for honor and zealotry and fanaticism and mysticism and martyrdom and certain types of selfless ascetic heroism in his philosophy. He's no Hamlet, who says to his buddy Horatio: "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." But Hamlet has seen a spirit, his father's spirit. The time is out of joint. Something is rotten. That's not so in Pinker's secular, statistical view of progress. Society will be less varied, but I have to admit, I don't really care. I won't miss the zealous fanatical whirling mystical martyrs one bit.

I'd much rather have a river blindness vaccine. And people are working on it.

Prepare to Be Confused, Then Outraged, Then Confused Again

You may have heard some news about the exorbitant price increase for the Epipen, the ubiquitous life-saving anaphylaxis injection, and that the Heather Bresch-- the CEO of Mylan, the company that produces Epipen-- is the new Martin Shkreli, but the the issue is more complicated than a couple of greedy executives incentivised by stock prices and financial gains; if you really want to understand some of the context and the big picture, listen to the first third of Slate Money in their Worse Than Marxism edition, as they can explain it better than me; their point is this: sometimes markets and capitalism work worse than Marxism . . . markets are great for fungible items that aren't totally necessary and don't need to be on constant flow-- oranges, sneakers, houses, milk-- but crazy things happen when markets and regulation coexist (because the item or service is necessary for day to day infrastructure) so when you have electricity markets (Enron) or health care markets, where there is regulation, monopolies, the hurdle of the FDA, middlemen (pharmacy benefit managers) and no consumer transparency, and so in this instance, Mylan has increased the price of an Epipen from 100 dollars in 2007 to over 600 dollars today AND they did an incredible job marketing the need for the product (which remains mainly unchanged) so that dental offices and schools and Disneyland are required to have these things, generally in first aid kits-- which rarely get used, as most people who need an Epipen carry one-- and so most of these Epipens will gather dust and expire in a year (do they really?) and so you've got to replace them all and while, of course, we should try to have Epipens in as many places as possible, we should have them in as many places as is reasonably possible-- without incurring insane expenses (and I recognize this is cold utilitarian morality in the face of peanut and bee sting deaths, and so I'll let Louie CK do his thing . . . I put it up top, go 40 seconds in) while Heather Dresch is saying the system is broken, deductibles are too high, and we never wanted consumers to pay full price for these items, and then she's offering a 300 hundred dollar rebate card to consumers, this means that the health care system is going to foot that bill, and unless a big story breaks like this, most of the time-- because of opacity, collusion, and the inability for our government to negotiate and regulate prices on drugs-- we'll be unwittingly paying for all this because we never know what anything costs . . . and Heather Bresch, in her CNBC interview, blames the system for the price and she does offer a silver lining-- which is probably specious-- is that Americans are subsidizing drug prices for the rest of the world . . . because you can get an Epipen in Europe and Canada for less than 100 dollars-- the problem with this logic is that there hasn't been many blockbuster drugs developed recently, as big pharma has been more interested in researching older very specific drugs that have no generic, improving them slightly, and then jacking the price way up and marketing these drugs effectively, and so getting Epipens into restaurants, hotels, etcetera and we will again unknowingly foot the bill in increased deductibles and health care costs . . . so Heather Bresch has shown she can be just as big an asshole as one of the guys, but she's a product of the system . . . in Australia, Europe and Canada, health care is treated like water and electricity and there are bureaucratic means to set prices so that the services flow steadily . . . markets and capitalism work well in some instances, but without the right regulations they can also produce things like the institution of slavery (supply and demand . . . Europe needed sugar!) and the stock market crash of 1929 . . . near the end of the interview Bresch finally says, "I'm running a business" and she's right, that's what health care is in America, and--like education-- it probably shouldn't be.

When in Rome, You Run Over the Geese

I was absolutely appalled by the behavior of a man in a construction pick-up vehicle last Friday evening; Catherine, the boys, and I were on our way to my brother-in-law's wedding in Hazlet, cruising down Route 516, when we came to a line of stopped vehicles -- and at the front was this white pick-up with an orange light on top of the cab . . . and in front of the pick-up was a small flock of Canada geese, taking their time crossing the road . . . and I should have mentioned earlier that the pick-up had New York plates, so I beeped at him, to indicate that he was now in New Jersey, and here in New Jersey we hate our plague of constantly defecating Canuck fowl, and we certainly don't stop traffic to let them wander in the road (and this guy stopped a good fifty yards from the geese, really giving them a wide berth, like they were some kind of endangered hummingbirds) and after I beeped, I tried to sneak past him in the shoulder, because I am familiar with the behavior of the Canada goose, and know that if you drive your car (or bike) straight at them, they get out of the way, but this guy in the pick-up -- this friend of all creatures great and small, turned and blocked the shoulder as well, so that I couldn't get by, and then, before things got really ugly, the geese vamoosed, and I'm thankful that they did because I was working myself into a righteous indignant rage that may have ended in fisticuffs, and I'm not sure my defense would have held water, that the reason I assaulted this guy was because he wouldn't run over some geese, and then he had the audacity to stop me from running over the aforementioned geese.

Neal Stephenson Cares About Canada . . . and by the transitive property, so do I

The first seven hundred pages of Neal Stephenson's new novel Reamde take place in exotic locales such as Xiamen, Taiwan, the Philippines, and the MMORPG T'Rain, but the last three hundred pages follow international terrorist Abdullah Jones as he makes his way through the mountains of British Columbia towards the U.S. border-- and though the Canadian portion of the novel is a bit slower paced than the rest, it is well worth the wait until the entire international cast of characters descend on the inaccessible and mountainous border of Idaho and Canada-- Stephenson has a miniature war play out there, and his detailed, steady description of multiple plot threads is so arresting (not to mention that after 1000 pages you're rather attached to the characters) that your heart will race, your palms will sweat, the outside world will vanish, and when you finish the final page, you won't believe that the experience was NOT virtual, not generated by any sort of technology, and simply the result of well-placed squiggles on the white pages of a very thick book.

All the Cute Girls Live in Canada

I've been telling this story to whoever will listen: a teacher who will remain nameless was walking around his class with a spur on his shoe (it had something to do with teaching True Grit) which the class found weird, but one of the girls simply said, "he's a single guy, he can do what he wants" and the teacher-- who is dating another teacher in the department-- said, "Actually, I'm not single--I have a girlfriend," and the girl looked and him and just laughed and laughed, sincere laughter, the laughter of someone who's heard a clever and surprising and completely absurd punch-line, and he said, "No, really, I do" and she said, "Well then, what's her name?" and he was about to say it but then realized they might recognize it was a fellow teacher, and he didn't want to spill that information, so-- and this is my favorite part-- he genuinely stuttered (you can't fake that unless you're a trained actor) and this teacher is NOT a good liar, so after some hemming and hawing, he finally said, "Uh, I can't say" which made everyone laugh even more, and finally he retreated to the classic response when cornered about a girl . . . "uh . . . she lives in Canada."

Dave Reads Fifty Before Cat Turns Fifty

My wife is turning fifty tomorrow-- quite a milestone-- but more significantly, I just finished my fiftieth book of the year  The Anthropocene Reviewed: Essays on a Human-centered Planet by John Green. . . and judging by the number of passages I highlighted on my Kindle, it's a good one-- here are the highlights, with some fragmented commentary:

there's a lot of stuff on understanding the vastness of time . . .

Complex organisms tend to have shorter temporal ranges than simple ones . . .

When you measure time in Halleys rather than years, history starts to look different. As the comet visited us in 1986, my dad brought home a personal computer—the first in our neighborhood. One Halley earlier, the first movie adaptation of Frankenstein was released. The Halley before that, Charles Darwin was aboard the HMS Beagle. The Halley before that, the United States wasn’t a country. 

Put another way: In 2021, we are five human lifetimes removed from the building of the Taj Mahal, and two lifetimes removed from the abolition of slavery in the United States. History, like human life, is at once incredibly fast and agonizingly slow.

John Green, who is very literary, actually missed an easy allusion here-- see if you know what I'm talking about:

Eventually, in what may have been the most entitled moment of my life, I called and requested a room change because the ceaseless tinkling of the Gatsby Suite’s massive crystal chandelier was disturbing my sleep. As I made that call, I could feel the eyes of Fitzgerald staring down at me.

he should have referred to the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg on the billboard over the valley of ashes-- as they were the eyes of God, staring at the corrupt and immoral wasteland of America . . .

on imagery

We’ve long known that images are unreliable—Kafka wrote that “nothing is as deceptive as a photograph"

on the stupid geese in the park . . .

Like us, the success of their species has affected their habitats: A single Canada goose can produce up to one hundred pounds of excrement per year, which has led to unsafe E. coli levels in lakes and ponds where they gather.

on the lawns which we mow, water, fertilize and manicure:

In the daily grind of a human life, there’s a lawn to mow, soccer practices to drive to, a mortgage to pay. And so I go on living the way I feel like people always have, the way that seems like the right way, or even the only way. I mow the lawn of Poa pratensis as if lawns are natural, when in fact we didn’t invent the suburban American lawn until one hundred and sixty years ago. And I drive to soccer practice, even though that was impossible one hundred and sixty years ago—not only because there were no cars, but also because soccer hadn’t been invented. And I pay the mortgage, even though mortgages as we understand them today weren’t widely available until the 1930s. So much of what feels inevitably, inescapably human to me is in fact very, very new, including the everywhereness of the Canada goose.

on the past and the future

And I suspect that our choices will seem unforgivable and even unfathomable to the people reading those history books. “It is fortunate,” Charles Dudley Warner wrote more than a century ago, “that each generation does not comprehend its own ignorance. We are thus enabled to call our ancestors barbarous.”

something that might be true (but would make me uncomfortable)

Taylor Lorenz tweeted that office air-conditioning systems are sexist, a blog in the Atlantic wrote, “To think the temperature in a building is sexist is absurd.” But it’s not absurd. What’s absurd is reducing workplace productivity by using precious fossil fuels to excessively cool an office building so that men wearing ornamental jackets will feel more comfortable.

a sports essay that made me cry

Dudek’s spaghetti legs, and this will end, and the light-soaked days are coming. I give Jerzy Dudek’sperformance on May 25, 2005 five stars.

and another sporting essay that made me cry-- this one on the yips-- I am a sucker for sports . . .

And then one day in 2007—six years removed from the wild pitch that took away his control forever—the St.Louis Cardinals called Rick Ankiel back to the major leagues as an outfielder. When Ankiel went to bat for the first time, the game had to be paused because the crowd’s standing ovation was so long and so loud. Rick Ankiel hit a home run in that game.

Two days later, he hit two more home runs. His throws from the outfield were phenomenally accurate—among the best in baseball. He would go on to play as a center fielder in the major leagues for six more years. Today, the most recent player to have won over ten games as a pitcher and hit over fifty home runs as a hitter is Rick Ankiel. I give the yips one and a half stars.

more on lawns . . .

more land and more water are devoted to the cultivation of lawn grass in the United States than to corn and wheat combined. There are around 163,000 square kilometers of lawn in the U.S., greater than the size of Ohio,or the entire nation of Italy. Almost one-third of all residential water use in the U.S.—clean, drinkable water—is dedicated to lawns. To thrive, Kentucky bluegrass often requires fertilizer an pesticides and complex irrigation systems, all of which we offer up to the plant in abundance, even though it cannot be eaten by humans or used for anything except walking and playing on. The U.S.’s most abundant and labor-intensive crop is pure, unadulterated ornamentation.

Green writes about my favorite literary term, the pathetic fallacy!

There’s a phrase in literary analysis for our habit of ascribing human emotions to the nonhuman: the pathetic fallacy, which is often used to reflect the inner life of characters through the outer world, as when Keats in “Ode on Melancholy” writes of a “weeping cloud,” or Shakespeare in Julius Caesar refers to “threatening clouds.”

and he writes about my favorite poem . . .

There’s an Emily Dickinson poem that begins, “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain.” It’s one of the only poems I’ve managed to commit to memory. It ends like this:

And then a Plank in Reason, broke, 

And I dropped down, and down - 

And hit a World, at every plunge, And

Finished knowing - then -

and he writes about America's proclivity for large balls of stuff, like the largest ball of paint, which started as a baseball:

“My intention was to paint maybe a thousand coats on it and then maybe cut it in half and see what it looked like. But then it got to the size where it looked kinda neat, and all my family said keep painting it.” Carmichael also invited friends and family over to paint the ball, and eventually strangers started showing up, and Mike would have them paint it, too. Now, over forty years later, there are more than twenty-six thousand layers of paint on that baseball. It weighs two and a half tons. 

and he describes a photo I'd like to know more about and a novel based on the photo . . .

Richard Powers’s novel Three Farmers on Their Way to a Dance

I gave John Green's new book five stars!

The Top Ten Montreal Expos

For no other reason than it has come up in conversation twice in so many months, here is my list of the top ten Montreal Expos:

1) Tim Wallach-- for his comment on summer in Canada: "I went 0 for four";

2) Gary Carter-- for the perm;

3) Tim Raines-- because doing a little blow won't keep you off this list;

4) Andres Galarraga-- for his nickname, El Gato;

5) Andre Dawson-- for being a triple crown contender year in and year out;

6) Otis Nixon-- like I said, doing a little blow won't keep you off this list;

7) Pete Rose -- he wasn't there long, but he did get his 4000th hit in Canada;

8) Al Oliver-- for the mustache;

9) Jeff Reardon-- for the beard;

10) Vladimir Guerrero -- for the talent and the Hispanic-Slavic name.

The Chinese Curse, American Style

If you want to hear some scary political stuff, listen to Dan Carlin's new episode of Common Sense: Disengaging the Lizard Brain . . . he wonders if our country needs a post-civil-war style reconstruction to assuage the absolute hatred in our country between liberals and conservative, and he doubts the country can proceed forward without doing something about this antipathy . . . both of our presumptive presidential candidates are regarded as loathsome by their detractors-- and this hatred isn't restricted to those of the opposite party-- there are plenty of Democrats who won't vote for Clinton, and plenty of Republicans who won't vote for Trump . . . and while I'm sure most of it is hyperbolic, there are a lot of people claiming they'd rather move to Canada then endure a Trump or Clinton rereign; Carlin wonders if it would be better to break America into five separate countries and let people go their separate ways, rather than continue in this manner; Ezra Klein, who hosts Vox's policy podcast The Weeds, has studied a corollary to this idea . . . his article "No one's less moderate than moderates" explains that the American moderate is "a statistical myth," and that people labeled moderate tend to have a diverse variety of extreme opinions-- some of the opinions may be to the left and some may be to the right-- but there's no moderation of thought and logic . . . we're talking about people who want legalization of recreational marijuana and want a much harsher immigration policy-- they aren't moderate in either opinion but the mean of the two categorizes them somewhere between liberal and conservative, and so Klein argues that when we say moderate we actually mean what corporations want, because corporations don't want radical changes in policy in any direction . . . and while it's best not to think about this stuff too hard, because if you do then you might begin to think our country is a powder keg, and that this presidential election might light the fuse, it did make me reflect differently on the tired cliche "America: Love it or Leave it," which I just saw written on the side of a landscaping company trailer which was parked on my block . . . "love it or leave it" is a either/or logical fallacy if I've ever heard one, and it makes no sense whatsoever . . . the phrase leaves no room for revision (although that's not particularly catchy . . . America: love it or revise your thoughts about much of our government policy and look for diplomatic solutions that will mollify the polarization between the political parties) and also presents an option that's damned close to begging the question . . . most American don't even have passports, let alone the ways and means to emigrate to another country.

Can You Even Buy Pants in Florida?

I didn't bring any pants on our trip to Orlando-- just shorts-- despite the fact that I had space in my bag, because I thought we were headed to the tropics . . . but I was wrong, we were headed to the sub-tropics (still, I'm far more knowledgeable than my son Ian . . . when the plane touched down in Orlando he said, "So now we're in Canada?") and I have learned in the past few days that sometimes it gets kind of chilly in the sub-tropics, but it's worth being chilly to see the satisfaction on my wife's face . . . because I briefly tried to persuade her to not bring any pants, but-- wisely-- she ignored my advice, and brought plenty of pants (and she's gotten good use of them) and nothing makes a person happier than being able to say "I told you so," especially if it's about something trivial, like pants, and not something awful and awkward, like, "I told you not to have sex with your first cousin, and now look at that kid!"

The Usual Quarantine Stuff

Last night was Zoom pub night. Again.

Earlier Thursday, it was more TV. So much TV. I watched some Bosch with the wife, The Expanse with the kids, and The Wire with the wife and kids. I tried my best to watch some of the Parks and Rec reunion but found it awkward and sluggish. Headed back to Zoom pub night (which is also awkward and sluggish, I think that's just what Zoom is like).

I woke up at 4:45 AM this morning. Decided to get up and get some grading done. Waded through a bunch of narratives and some other assignments. Then went back to bed. That's a plus about remote learning: you can work on your own schedule.

Zoom meeting with the English Department at 8:30 AM.

Then I did some community service and went shopping for an old guy. Bought the usual stuff: liverwurst, ham turkey, pineapple chunks, soup soup soup, grapes, applesauce, etc. Old person food. I'm getting quicker in the store. Listening to electronica helps (Amon Tobin and Boards of Canada).

When I dropped the food off, a cute lady finally witnessed my community service! She answered the door. She was either a relative or some sort of aid. It's nice when someone cute sees you doing community service, but-- unfortunately-- I was dressed like a homeless person.

Note to self: if you wear a mask and you forgot to brush your teeth, you're going to smell some bad breath. Your own bad breath. And there's no way to escape it.

Ian and I did our usual three-mile run. It started pouring rain ten minutes in and didn't stop until we got home. Huge drops. Now it's warm and sunny. Springlike.

Ian stumbled on a fawn while walking the dog.

I just finished my second Josephine Tey mystery: a Shilling For Candles. She's a great writer. Weird characters, a run-of-the-mill detective without the tortured past, and a great ear for dialogue.

Here is a sample passage, summarizing the information the police received about possible sightings of an alleged murder suspect on the run:

By Tuesday noon Tisdall had been seen in almost every corner of England and Wales, and by tea-time was beginning to be seen in Scotland. He had been observed fishing from a bridge over a Yorkshire stream and had pulled his hat suspiciously over his face when the informant had approached. He had been seen walking out of a cinema in Aberystwyth. He had rented a room in Lincoln and had left without paying. (He had quite often left without paying, Grant noticed.) He had asked to be taken on a boat at Lowestoft. (He had also asked to be taken on a boat at half a dozen other places. The number of young men who could not pay their landladies and who wanted to leave the country was distressing.) He was found dead on a moor near Penrith. (That occupied Grant the best part of the afternoon.) He was found intoxicated in a London alley. He had bought a hat in Hythe, Grantham, Lewes, Tonbridge, Dorchester, Ashford, Luton, Aylesbury, Leicester, Chatham, East Grinstead, and in four London shops. He had also bought a packet of safety-pins pins in Swan and Edgars. He had eaten a crab sandwich at a quick lunch counter in Argyll Street, two rolls and coffee in a Hastings bun shop, and bread and cheese in a Haywards’ Heath inn. He had stolen every imaginable kind of article in every imaginable kind of place—including a decanter from a glass-and-china warehouse in Croydon. When asked what he supposed Tisdall wanted a decanter for, the informant said that it was a grand weapon.

And here is my favorite line from the book:

It is said that ninety-nine people out of a hundred, receiving a telegram reading: All is discovered: fly, will snatch a toothbrush and make for the garage.

It's interesting what people lose themselves in during quarantine. Some people are watching old sports. My buddy Whitney is mainlining music documentaries. All I want is crime stuff. The chase scenes, the investigation, the freedom of movement, the bars and dives, and the various localities pull my mind from the reality of quarantine confinement.