These days, I feel like new and creative ideas rarely surface in class, but today a senior offered something worth thinking about: the British Monarchy is analogous to Fisher's runaway model of sexual selection-- essentially, an ornamental trait like the peacock's tail goes through two stages, one where the tail indicates health and vigor and then a coevolutionary spiral where the trait detaches from practicality and becomes unhinged from natural selection—and the monarchy fits this-- the monarchy was once the most effective way to rule and protect the country (Queen Elizabeth leading the British against the Spanish Armada) and the British saw this ruler as appointed by God-- and there was certainly an element of survival of the fittest among these monarchs, with much plotting and murder and intrigue, but slowly the monarchy detached from practicality and became more for show—an expensive and pompous and ornamental display that survives because of preference and popularity, not for any practical reason-- the peacock's tail of Britain, while the Prime Minister and Parliament are the actual genetic code of the country.
Certified Mail Part Two: A Satisfying and Ironic Resolution to a Genuine Cliff (Clavin) Hanger
Reffing Inside Plato's Cave
I am finally home and drinking a cold beer after a taxing weekend: I reffed six games-- three on Saturday and three today-- and I worked three games as the center ref and two games as AR where the home team was running a serious offside trap, so I got some good experience calling various infractions, from the center and from the side-- and while I'm really starting to get the hang of things-- checking players in, keeping order during substitutions, calling fouls and restarts, and the various organizational duties of the ref, but I still haven't given out a yellow or red card yet and I haven't called a penalty kick-- but I'm ready to do so-- and this weekend, i worked with some veteran refs, including Rocco, an older Italian gentleman who condemns Venmo and only operates with cash and our one-armed assignor, who told a youngster who was nervous about his performance "the best ability is AVAILability"-- which is a fucking great old man statement; anyway, I've noticed that the difference between being a ref and being a coach is that when you're coaching, you are looking for reasons the ref should call a foul, but when you are reffing, you are looking for reasons to NOT call a foul: advantage, there was no contact, the player tripped over his own feet, the player's hands were against his body, little kids are just generally spastic, the ball is stuck in a pack of seven children and there's going to be random bumping without malevolence, a player tripped over the ball, etcetera . . . and there's definitely no way to get it all correct-- reffing is an exercise in futility, an exercise in unreliable narration-- but you have to be confident with your calls-- you can't reveal to the crowd and the players and the coaches that your perspective is limited, that you are at the mercy of your angle and your eyes and your old legs, you can't reveal that we are all residing in Plato's metaphorical cave, only perceiving the shadows of reality, not the actual truth, and your calls are just one subjective view among many, from one particular view of the field, your calls are not biased by rooting for one team or another, your calls are biased because you are a human, living within the flow of time, unable to stop it, run it back, rewind it, slow it time, look at it frame by frame-- this isn't TV-- and there's something very excellent and fun about this, you make a call and sometimes you nail it, and sometimes you wonder, and sometimes you get it wrong (and sometimes your AR corrects you) but you are outside, in the sun, watching sports and listening to passionate fans and players-- so, as a retirement job, it sure beats tutoring kids for the SAT or helping them write a college essay (plus, I got a shitload of exercise-- my feet hurt . . . also, if you bring any of this up during a game, I'll give you a yellow card for dissent).
Certified Mail Part One: A Cliff (Clavin) Hanger
I received a postal notice yesterday that the postal service unsuccessfully attempted to deliver a piece of certified mail from the State of New Jersey . . . but I went to the post office today, and they don't have the letter—it's still out there somewhere, but they said I could come pick it up Monday: very mysterious . . . either I've inherited loads of money or I'm being subpoenaed for tax evasion . . . or perhaps something in between-- my pipes are lead-free? -- who knows-- I'll fill you in on Monday.
Knicks!
I am still basking in the glow of last night's epic Knicks victory over the Hawks-- the Knicks were up 51 points at halftime-- a margin large enough for us to watch an episode of West Wing before returning to the game--. I should tell you that West Wing is a very good show that we missed and still feels quite relevant (although also totally dated because it's a bunch of smart, talented, dedicated, clever, wonky folks running the White House) and this enormous early lead also assuaged my anxiety about missing game seven because I am scheduled to referee a soccer match on Saturday evening (also a fantastic Sixers win to stretch the Boston/Philadelphia series to seven games . . . things are looking up for the Knicks!)
Kids: Moving Fast, Taking Chances (A Very Special Sentisode)
Martha Wells Kills It With Murderbot
Network Effect, the fifth book in Martha Wells "Murderbot Diaries" series, is longer and more complicated than her earlier novellas-- it's definitely "hard" sci-fi, replete with malignant code, memory wipes, killware, infectious alien remnants, future legalese, hostage protocols, wormholes, surveillance drones, futuristic space-opera content, and many other specific and developed sci-fi tropes-- but none of that matters all that much . . . at it's heart it's another story of Murderbot, the rogue and existentially curious Security Unit cyborg, learning how to "network" and have relationships in a world not governed by its governor module-- and the relationhip between Murderbot and the AI that runs a deep-space research and survey ship-- nicknamed ART (Asshole Research Transport) by Murderbot, is especially poignant . . . and often awkward and humorous-- brilliant voice, brilliant sci-fi, brilliant Martha Wells.
Pickleball is the New Frisbee Golf?
Adapting to Adaptive PE
Rocco Knows Best
Go Southampton (or whatever) but Go Knicks!
Wait Up!
Made a semi-triumphant return to 6:30 AM basketball this morning-- basically the reverse of the Knicks last night-- nailed my first three-point attempt in months but then missed the next three . . . most importantly, my knee and hamstring held up, although I am moving slowly now-- I couldn't keep up with my wife and the dog when we took a walk in the park-- and I certainly couldn't keep up with the old man we saw running in the park, and not only was he running at a brisk clip, into the wind, but he was also holding an umbrella to block the sun-- you don't see that everyday.
Caffeine Regrets
It is right about now-- 6:30 PM-- that I wish I had my usual post-work cup of coffee.
Tuesday Zemblanity
Yesterday-- even though it was Tuesday, the stupidest day of the week—I tried to start my day with some purpose, and I started cleaning out my file cabinets: stacking folders everywhere; tossing old photocopies that I knew I would never use; organizing photocopies that I needed for the fourth quarter-- I had folders and stacks of papers all over the room-- and I was doing this because I have first period off on B days and so I have 83 minutes to plan, grade, and get organized-- but then I went upstairs to the office for a moment, to chat with a colleague, and when I came back downstairs, I was surprised to find my room was full to the brim with teenagers and a gym teacher . . . and he informed me that my room was going to be used for Health Class for the fourth quarter-- so all my folders and photocopies were on the floor and my first period B Day sanctuary was corrupted . . then I spent a typical day with the seniors-- laziness, lateness, narcolepsy, etcetera-- but the weather turned nice after school so I biked over to Bucheuh Park to play pickleball with some friends-- and it only took me fifteen minutes to bike over there, which was wonderful-- and the courts were full of half-naked college kids and are one group of old people (the dudes next to us asked if we could give them some lessons) but after an hour-and-a-half of fantastic play, we were beset by gale-force winds-- and it's nearly impossible to play pickleball in high winds-- so we called it and I started biking home, into a serious headwind-- perhaps that's why I arrived so quickly; I must have had a tailwind-- and by the time I got over the bridge, I was wiped out and decided to walk my bike across the crazy intersection with the stairs, instead of attempting some dangerous uphill mountain biking tactics-- and this was unfortunate because as I was walking my bike across the intersection, my old acupuncturist spotted me from her car-- and I have happily switched to a new, much more sane acupuncturist, as I thought this lady stopped practicing-- but apparently not-- and she started yelling at me that I should text her or she would text me and she wanted to get me back on the table-- and I was walking my bike so I couldn't make a quick escape and it was very awkward-- I don't want to get into the whole thing but I was hoping to make a clean break of things . . . I thought I HAD made a clean break of things . . . but, you know, Tuesday zemblanity.
New Things Get Old
When I see a "New Driver, Please Be Patient" bumper sticker, my first thought is "how long has this fucking thing been on that car?"
No Merging For You
Go Knicks!
My wife returns from Florida tomorrow morning, and then life will regain its usual rhythm-- not that I did anything wild while she was gone, it was mainly business as usual-- but I tried to do a bit of socializing even though my instinct when I am left to my own devices is to hole up and read and get high and strum my guitar: I went to Happy Hour yesterday at B2 Bistro, but I only had one beer (and then a Coke, which Cunningham roundly insulted for drinking) because I had pickleball practice at 7 PM and needed my wits about me (Terry also only had one beer because he was reffing a soccer match at 7 PM but he had a Diet Coke after his beer) and pickleball practice was fun-- my calf is healed and my new paddle seems to be functional (Vatic Pro V-sol Power) but because my friend Ann wasn't there-- her knee hurt-- there was only one other non-Mandarin speaker at practice and so I really did not understand exactly what was happening-- and then this morning I substituted for Catherine and had coffee at her friend Johanna's house (Connell and Adrian were there too, so I wasn't the only guy crashing) and I talked to my neighbor Pernille quite a bit about the state of education and AI (she's a Rutgers professor) and tonight I'm hanging out with Ian and his friend (and possibly Alex) for the Knicks game-- I'm buying sandwiches so that the youngsters will socialize with me-- but I will be very glad when Cat is back in Jersey.
So Hard to Find Good Help . . .
I recognize that this Study Hall bathroom duty is a very easy job-- but it's also interminably boring . . . class should not be 83 minutes long: I've read, I've graded, I've planned, I've paced, I've stretched, and now I've even written this sentence-- I've done everything except fall asleep, which is what I feel like doing.
Dave as a Bachelor is No Gourmand
My mom had heart surgery yesterday, and she is already checked out of the hospital-- the miracles of modern medicine . . . and she didn't even need Donald Trump to lay hands on her!-- meanwhile, back at the ranch, I miss my wife-- she went down to Naples with my brother to help my mom out . . . Ian and I have been eating the baked ziti she made before she left, but we're nearly at the end of it, so we got some sandwiches from Park Deli for dinner tonight-- and I did cut up some peppers and lettuce and cucumbers and eat a salad with the ziti last night, to get some roughage-- but it seems that if my wife leaves town, the menu mainly consists of pasta and beer (and takeout) and so I will be glad when she returns.