2020 is winding down in typical form:
1) I wanted to heat up my leftover half-burrito last night and when I opened the aluminum foil I found the roll to be empty-- one of the children finished the foil and then put the box back-- and since foil is required to heat up a burrito ( I wasn't going to risk it in our brand new air-fryer) I had to go to the store and it was busy;
2) though I've only got eighty pages left, I'm not sure sure I'm going to finish my 54th book (2020 was a good year for reading books) because I might abandon it . . . it's a fantasy novel by J.K. Jemisin called The Fifth Season and the subtitle is "Every Age Must Come to An End" and it won the Hugo Award in 2016 so I thought it would be a fitting end to this weird and stunted year but it's a bit too apocalyptic and cruel and depressing . . . though it's set in an alternate universe of fissures and tsunamis and volcanoes and an oppressed group of "orogenes," people with the ability to sense and manipulate the wild and restless thermal and kinetic energy that is par for the course in this world-- they can quiet these disasters . . . or set them off-- now that I'm summarizing, I realize it is a pretty great book-- just painful-- and I will probably finish it because of the last kick in the balls from 2020;
3) it is raining and it is going to rain and it will continue raining until well into the New Year.
While I was hiking with the dog this morning (hiking with the dog, online chess, drinking beer, and indoor tennis are my go-to activities during this pandemic winter break) I learned something:
I have not listened to nearly enough Stevie Wonder
and I learned this from an excellent podcast . . . Lost Notes:1980;
the host is poet and essayist Hanif Abdurraqib and in each episode, he takes a deep dive into something musical; the Stevie Wonder piece is excellent and the story of "Louie Louie" is mind-boggling-- I had no idea.
Agency is book two of William Gibson's "Jackpot" trilogy and while it's not as difficult a read as the first (The Peripheral) it is still unnerving because nobody is where or when they seem; the jackpot is only a prize for those who survived this ironically named ecopolitical apocalypse in the near future-- those who made it to the other side of the pandemics and massive climate change and political fallout enjoy a world recovering: low population, greater technology, and some methods of reversing the damage humanity has done; there is also massive quantum computing and through this "server" those rich and powerful enough can send information backward and forward through time-- so it's a time travel story, but even more complicated than Primer . . . no one is where and when they seem-- powerful folks in the future start new "stubs" when they contact and meddle with the past, which they do in drones, with AI, and in various networks-- the perspectives shift rapidly-- you could be in 2136, occupying a drone in 2017-- you could be in 2017, embodying a peripheral in 2136-- and you could be relaying information back and forth, changing timelines in the past and future as you relay information and technology . . . you might be a government agency doing this, a rogue agency, you might be a corrupt plutocrat from "the klept," or even disembodied AI with agency . . . I've read the entire William Gibson ouvre and I trust him implicitly as an author, that's why I hung in with these two books-- and while there aren't giant epiphanic revelations at the end, you get the hang of the way things work (in the same time frame as the characters, often) and I'm interested in how he finishes this subtle exploration of free will and determinism turned on its head.
I highly recommend Ezra Klein's new book Why We're Polarized for both liberals and conservatives-- and it should be the last thing you read that mentions national politics for a long while; warning, this post is going to be epically long-- because I dog-eared so many pages in the book and then used the Google Doc "voice-typing" tool to input all the information into the computer and while it was pretty fun to read aloud and watch the text scroll, the post is a total mess; you're not going to get accurate quotations, as I didn't take my time, but I'm going to boil down Klein's words into a sort of plagiaristic of Dave/Ezra Klein that is perfectly fitting for this ridiculous blog medium; while Klein is a self-avowed liberal (and usually a vegan . . . but not when he travels) who co-founded Vox and is a regular on the podcast The Weeds, this book is not a liberal paean . . . it's an explanation and the take-away is this: stop following national politics like it's more than a football match or a soap opera and-- if you truly want to enact political change-- start worrying about your hometown and the things going on in the state in which you live-- Jersey pride!-- these are the things you can actually influence; anyway . . . here is some stuff from the book, partly paraphrased, partly with Klein's wording, and partly insane rambling;
1) America used to be full of ticket splitters-- and you knew plenty of ticket splitters-- so you didn't identify too heavily with either party;
2) policy was a mixed bag . . . Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush signed legislation raising taxes for instance that would be unthinkable in today's Republican Party-- almost every elected Republican official has signed a pledge promising to never raise taxes under any circumstances; Bush also sign the Americans with Disabilities Act into law and oversaw a cap-and-trade program to reduce the pollutants behind acid rain; Reagan signed an Immigration Reform Bill the today's Democrats venerate and today's Republicans denounce; Reagan supported amnesty for illegal immigrants; President Bill Clinton' stance on illegal immigrants was much akin to Donald Trump's position; Clinton launched his administration with a budget designed to reduce the deficit and an all-out effort to pass the North American Free Trade Agreement NAFTA . . . he famously ran against the left-wing of his own party flying back to Arkansas to preside over the execution of a brain-damaged inmate and publicly denounced the rapper Sister Souljah; in 1965 a Democratic president created a massive single-payer healthcare system for the nation's elderly-- but as liberal as Medicare was in both conception and execution-- it still received 70 Republican votes in the house as well as 13 Republican votes in the Senate; Obamacare, by contrast, was modeled off Mitt Romney's reforms in Massachusetts and built atop many Republican ideas relied on private insurance for the bulk of its coverage expansion and it ended up sacrificing its public option but the legislation didn't receive a single Republican vote in either the house or the Senate;1982 Senator Joe Biden voted for a constitutional amendment that would let States overturn Roe v Wade, etc. etc.
3) Policy and ticket splitting is no more . . . it's ALL identity politics on both sides-- and we're going to have to get used to and live with it . . . or maybe not because you probably don't live near people from the other party: House Democrats now represent 78% of all Whole Foods locations but only 27% of Cracker Barrels . . . it's easy to overstate the direct role partisanship is playing in these decisions, and while it's true that Democrats prefer to live among Democrats and Republicans like living among Republicans, people are still people . . . they look at schools and housing prices and crime rates and similar quality of life questions . . . BUT the big decision they make-- or their parents have made-- is whether to live in an urban or rural area . . . and as the parties become more racially, religiously, and ideologically sorted into geographically different areas the signals that tell us a place is our kind of place heightens our political divisions . . . most Republicans (65%) said they would rather live in a community where houses are larger and farther apart and where schools and shopping are not nearby, while a majority of Democrats (61%) prefer smaller houses within walking distance of schools and shopping; that's a preference that seems non-political on it's face but adds to the stacking of identities;Today's sentence is canceled, due to a festering canker sore under my tongue.
Adam Alter's book Irresistible: The Rise of Addictive Technology and the Business of Keeping Us Hooked doesn't offer up any big surprises-- it just slowly overwhelms you with the details until you have to agree-- many, many people have behavioral addictions centered around technology and digital connectedness; and the big problem is because addiction is not as character-based as you might think, and much more dependent on the environment-- and we can't escape the bottomless and ubiquitous environment of the internet-- we're going to need to be creative with solutions; while I try to put up the good fight-- I stay off social media-- aside from two blogs-- and I check my email once a day (I was astounded at how many times workers check their email on average . . . 36 times an hour?) but I've adopted some wearable tech-- a FitBit-- and this book helped me understand that one of those gadgets can lead you down some weird roads-- people get really obsessive about their step-counts and their runnign streaks-- so I'm trying to have some days, usually after tennis or running, where I try to keep my steps as LOW as possible-- really rest my feet and legs-- there's no reason to ALWAYS get 12,000 steps-- some days are for stretching or lifting or resting-- and while I'm not a gamer, I got fairly obsessed with low-stakes online poker at the start of the pandemic-- so I removed all those programs from the computer and gave that up-- it's not worth the time-- and now I'm playing a couple games of online chess each day (but only if my kids won't play) and this is a result of Netflix and "The Queen's Gambit" and I'm being very careful not to bingewatch shows-- you have to break the cycle of the cliffhanger by watching the first five minutes of the next episode and then stopping . . . and while these are first-world problems and it's the rare sort who develops a full-blown life-threatenign World of Warcraft addiction, I am hooked on the NYT Mini Crossword-- it's the crack of crosswords and there's no way I'll ever give it up . . . anyway, Alter points our that we've become far too goal oriented, there's too many ways ot keep score, and we've got to be constantly vigilant about this stuff eating up our time-- and the only way to replace one habit is to find another, when the cue happens and you usually play Candy Crush, you've got to have something else-- a ten minute yoga video or something . . . but enough of this: online chess is calling me (I'm also annoyed that my job is now on a screen, so that when I get done with my job, i have little motivation to record music or write my blog-- because it's just more screens . . . but I've set up my physical loop pedal and analog amplifier again, so that I can get back on the guitar and do some layers of sound, without getting back on a screen . . . again, first world problems but that doesn't mean you can't solve them).
Yesterday in the indoor tennis league I played Barry, and my scouting report was that he was a good player, but "a grinder, who could hit a winner with his forehand" but did not have a big serve-- this was a perfect match-up for me and I played quite well at the start-- I went up 9 games to 2-- and then Barry informed me that he was going to be 65 years old soon-- 65!-- and this really impressed me; Barry was fit and moved around the court well and had a full head of hair . . . I would have thought he was in his late 50s-- and for a moment I thought that I'd better take it easy on him-- so I switched rackets (with no success) and tried some shots I normally don't hit, but then he started lobbing the ball instead of feeding me overheads at the net and he came storming back and won the next five games in a row . . . this was both inspirational and promising-- makes me wonder if I'll be able to play competitive tennis for the next fifteen years . . . I sure hope so (and if you want the opposite of this inspirational and promising sentence, watch Charlie Kaufman's new movie-- it's on Netflix-- "I'm Thinking of Ending Things" . . . it's pretty much the most depressing thing about aging and decay I've ever seen-- and I teach Hamlet-- the film attacks the platitude "age is just a number" with unnerving logic, detail shrouded by memory, and wild perspective shifts . . . I really can't recommend it, though I kind of liked it-- unlike my friend Stacey-- but if you do watch, you might want to read an explanation when you're about halfway through . . . it helps).
In the new season of the super-excellent sci-fi series The Expanse, Amos Burton-- who is one tough motherfucker-- finally returns home to Earth (after a long absence) and to his home town of Baltimore . . . his foster-mom Lydia-- who taught him to survive and thrive-- has died; Baltimore is a futuristic version of the same city that is the protagonist of The Wire-- seedy and criminal and impoverished and drug-ridden-- and the kids and I were looking for some signal that the two great shows had some intersectionality; when Amos arrives at his foster-mom's apartment, he is greeted by his foster mom's lover, Charles-- and after some brief conflict, they begin to reminisce . . . but the best thing about Charles is that he is played by Frankie Faison, who played Ervin H. Burrell, the Police Commissioner on The Wire . . . quite a meta-coincidence (or done purposefully by central casting?)
The boys played hooky from virtual school today so they could earn some scratch shoveling snow-- they amassed sixteen jobs (with the help of my wife's Facebook account) so they had to enlist some help-- and while they are out moving from job to job they picked up a couple of extra projects . . . including the school superintendent's driveway-- apparently he didn't give them too much flak for skipping school (I called them in sick . . . cough cough . . . hopefully no one will connect the dots).
I am giving the new Avalanches album (We Will Always Love You) all the stars that are available: it's smooth and groovy and it's snowing and part of the reason I might be enjoying the new music so much is that I opened and starting drinking the bottle of wine on the counter-- why wouldn't I?-- and it is a very delicious wine . . . but it turns out that this wine was not intended for me . . . it is some expensive kosher wine intended as a Chanukah gift for our neighbors . . . and while my wife called me "exhausting to live with" she finally admitted that there was no way in hell that I could have known that wine wasn't intended for me (unless I read the label and noticed it was kosher and from Israel or saw the gift bag lying next to the bottle) and I reminded that I HAD told her to buy some wine-- you've got to drink some wine when it's snowing-- and so I figured that everything was just coming together for Dave . . . the wine was on the counter, The Avalanches released a new album, and it was snowing . . . so why wouldn't I start drinking?
Ian and I were on the way home from playing tennis today and we stopped at Wawa for snacks and the cashier said, "Mr Pellicane?" and I looked down and quickly read the girl's name-tag and realized it was one of my virtual students-- a senior named Jolie-- and I had never met her in person before, so it was kind of like a celebrity sighting, as I only knew her from the screen . . . we were both very excited to actually meet ( and she was a lot shorter in person).
It's nice to know that though my kids are getting older-- they're fifteen and sixteen now-- they can still bring me back to when they were little tots: it was time for me to drive them to tennis last night and-- just like when they were young-- they weren't a bit prepared; Alex hadn't put his shoes on yet, Ian hadn't filled his water bottle, they had no idea where the rackets were . . . and-- just like back when they were toddling tykes-- I lost my shit, nearly burst a blood vessel in my skull, ranted and raved, and told them that they were spoiled ingrates with no appreciation for the fine things-- such as a ride to go play indoor tennis-- that they are provided on a daily basis . . . it's good to know we can all get back to that reminiscent place from years past (how do you sit there on the couch, playing on your phone when it's nearly time to go, wearing socks?)
This morning, I notched my first victory in the Saturday indoor tennis league; I came from behind to defeat a heavy-hitting, big-serving guy named Bud . . . I learned a few things: I stopped trying to hit his serve back and instead just put the racket in the way and let the ball's momentum do the work; I switched to my lighter Yonex racket because I wasn't getting my heavy Wilson Blade back quickly enough to deal with his harder shots; and I started serving hard to his backhand because if you gave Bud a meatball, he hammered a winner . . . I also tried to subscribe to Bud's mantra: if you're going to double fault, do it like a man.
Deacon King Kong is the 51st book I read this year-- 2020 was good for something-- and it is the best piece of fiction I've run into in a long while; I'm not going to write a long review-- just read the thing-- but I will post up my Kindle notes . . . my favorite sentences from this fever dream that's exploded from James McBride's brain-- a fictionalized account of the Brooklyn housing project in which he grew up . . . the year is 1969 and it's all going down in this book, which is about urban decay and revitalization, baseball, drugs, race, language and tall tales . . . it is so much fun, even when it gets dark-- and there's some romance and a mystery to keep the plot cooking . . . the book begins with Sportcoat-- the old drunk church deacon, walking up to a young heroin dealer (who he coached as a child) and shooting him in the ear . . . but really the book begins with the mystery of the free cheese:
“Look who’s talking. The cheese thief!” That last crack stung him. For years, the New York City Housing Authority, a Highlight hotbed of grift, graft, games, payola bums, deadbeat dads, payoff racketeers, and old-time political appointees who lorded over the Cause Houses and every other one of New York’s forty-five housing projects with arrogant inefficiency, had inexplicably belched forth a phenomenal gem of a gift to the Cause Houses: free cheese.
and then there's some backstory on Sportcoat:
When he was slapped to life back in Possum Point, South Carolina, seventy-one years before, the midwife who delivered him watched in horror as a bird flew through an open window and fluttered over the baby’s head, then flew out again, a bad sign. She announced, “He’s gonna be an idiot,”
At age three, when a young local pastor came by to bless the baby, the child barfed green matter all over the pastor’s clean white shirt. The pastor announced, “He’s got the devil’s understanding,” and departed for Chicago, where he quit the gospel Highlight and became a blues singer named Tampa Red and recorded the monster hit song “Devil’s Understanding,” before dying in anonymity flat broke and crawling into history, immortalized in music studies and rock-and-roll college courses the world over, idolized by white writers and music intellectuals for his classic blues hit that was the bedrock of the forty-million-dollar Gospel Stam Music Publishing empire, from which neither he nor Sportcoat ever received a dime.
At age five, Baby Sportcoat crawled to a mirror and spit at his reflection, a call sign to the devil, and as a result didn’t grow back teeth until he was nine.
Sportcoat was a walking genius, a human disaster, a sod, a medical miracle, and the greatest baseball umpire that the Cause Houses had ever seen, in addition to serving as coach and founder of the All-Cause Boys Baseball Team.
and then-- in contrast to old school Sportcoat-- you've got the corrupted youth:
you've got the Clemens was the New Breed of colored in the Cause. Deems wasn’t some poor colored boy from down south or Puerto Rico or Barbados who arrived in New York with empty pockets and a Bible and a dream. He wasn’t humbled by a life of slinging cotton in North Carolina, or hauling sugarcane in San Juan. None of the old ways meant a penny to him. He was a child of Cause, young, smart, and making money hand over fist slinging dope at a level never before seen in the Cause Houses.
and the requisite Italian mobsters . . . this is Brooklyn in the late '60s:
Everything you are, everything you will be in this cruel world, depends on your word. A man who cannot keep his word, Guido said, is worthless.
and various kind of crime:
“A warrant ain’t nothing, Sausage,” Sportcoat said. “The police gives ’em out all over. Rufus over at the Watch Houses got a warrant on him too. Back in South Carolina.”
“He does?” Sausage brightened immediately. “For what?”
“He stole a cat from the circus, except it wasn’t no cat. It got big, whatever it was, so he shot it.”
Where’s the box?” “The church got plenty money.” “You mean the box in the church?” “No, honey. It’s in God’s hands. In the palm of His hand, actually.” “Where’s it at, woman?!”
“You ought to trade your ears in for some bananas,” she said, irritated now.
and superstition:
His wife put a nag on him, see, like Hettie done to you.”
“How you know Hettie done it?”
“It don’t matter who done it. You got to break it. Uncle Gus broke his by taking a churchyard snail and soaking it in vinegar for seven days. You could try that.”
“That’s the Alabama way of breaking mojos,” Sportcoat said. “That’s old. In South Carolina, you put a fork under your pillow and some buckets water around your kitchen. That’ll drive any witch off.”
“Naw,” Sausage said. “Roll a hound’s tooth in cornmeal and wear it about your neck.”
“Naw. Walk up a hill with your hands behind your head.”
“Stick your hand in a jar of maple syrup.”
“Sprinkle seed corn and butter bean hulls outside the door.”
“Step backward over a pole ten times.”
“Swallow three pebbles . . .”
They were off like that for several minutes, each topping the other with his list of ways to keep witches out, talking mojo as the modern life of the world’s greatest metropolis bustled about them.
“Never turn your head to the side while a horse is passing . . .”
“Drop a dead mouse on a red rag.”
“Give your sweetheart an umbrella on a Thursday.”
“Blow on a mirror and walk it around a tree ten times . . .”
They had reached the remedy of putting a gas lamp in every window of every second house on the fourth Thursday of every month when the generator, as if on its own, roared up wildly, sputtered miserably, coughed, and died.
and there's a shooter in the vein of The Wire's Brother Mouzone:
He wanted to say, “He’s a killer and I don’t want him near you.” But he had no idea what her reaction would be. He didn’t even know what Harold Dean looked like. He had no information other than an FBI report with no Highlight photo, only the vaguest description that he was a Negro who was “armed and extremely dangerous.”
and a romance between an Irish cop and an African-American church sister:
“I’ll be happy,” he said, more to the ground than to her, “to come back and bring what news I can.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Sister Gee said. But she might as well have been speaking to the wind.
the dark side of the drugs:
Men who made their girlfriends do horrible things, servicing four or five or eight men a night, who made their women do push-ups over piles of dogshit for a hit of heroin until, exhausted, the girls dropped into the shit so the men could get a laugh.
and, finally, a clash of values that is epic and poetic:
"I’m in the last Octobers of life, boy. I ain’t got many more Aprils left. It’s a right end for an old drunk like me, and a right end for you too that you die as a good boy, strong and handsome and smart, like I remembers you. Best pitcher in the world. Boy who could pitch his way outta the shithole we all has to live in. Better to remember you that way than as the sewer you has become. That’s a good dream. That’s a dream an old drunk like me deserves at the end of his days. For I done wasted every penny I had in the ways of goodness so long ago, I can’t remember ’em no more.”
He released Deems and flung him back against the bed so hard Deems’s head hit Highlight the headboard and he nearly passed out again. “Don’t ever come near me again,” Sportcoat said. “If you do, I’ll deaden you where you stand.”
Unusual stuff for a pandemic, but my family was doing all kinds of new shit today:
1) I played my first official league tennis match at the East Brunswick Racquet Club; I joined the winter league and I was a bit nervous about it-- I'm a scrappy player but there are some serious holes in my game (Andre Agassi said, "You're only as good as your second serve" and my feeling about that piece of advice is it's not very nice of him to say that) and my first match was against Scott-- a club regular known as one of the better players in this 4.0 league-- and when I saw his serves, first and second, I knew I was in for it-- they were both excellent; he could hit the T or pull it wide and didn't lose much pace with his second attempt and his groundstrokes were very accurate and angled-- I had never played anyone like this before-- but he wasn't big or fast and though I threw away the first four games-- I learned that the net is a LOT HIGHER indoors than the droopy things at our local park-- but I started chasing down everythign and hitting the ball deep to his backhand and getting to the net and I actually took the lead at one point, eight games to seven . . . and this guy was very complimentary-- he said he had never played anyone who could get to all his crazy angled shots (one sequence, I dove to my right, punched a net shot, hit the ground, rolled, got up, and won the point) and though he ended up winning the match nine games to eight (you play for 90 minutes, no sets just games) I'm happy that I gave him a run for his money . . . I think with some practice I could beat him but hopefully, next week's match will be a little less grueling (and I didn't drink all week, in training for this, but I'm going to enjoy a few well-earned beers today . . . you know, for working hard at the racquet club)
2) my older son Alex has been up in his room all day at a virtual Model UN convention . . . he's representing Israel and trying to deal with domestic terrorism . . . yikes . . . I think he does five hours of it on both Saturday and Sunday;
After insulting my Spotify Wrap-up, my friend Neal suggested that I listen to The Allman Brothers instead of the Grateful Dead, and since I'm open-minded and amenable, I renamed my "Dead" playlist "Dead, Etc" and added some Allman Brothers-- and put them on shuffle-- and I was enjoying the Southern style-rock until the guitar started wailing a bit too much-- so much so that it was shooting right through my brain, though I was in the other room, and I said to my wife, "That guitar is TOO high-pitched" and she said, "That's the tea-kettle, stupid."
Both my older son and my friend Ann were super-excited yesterday and their enthusiasm proved infectious; they were pumped for the annual Spotify wrap-up, something I never experienced-- and while it sounds pretty banal, it's a visual summary of your listening habits over the year, it's actually full of surprises . . . earlier in the year, I fell in love with the Yo La Tengo album "I Can Feel the Heart Beating as One" and it ended up dominating my 23,000 minutes of listening . . . I generally listen to The Grateful Dead and Jimmy McGriff when I need to unwind, and 2020 required a lot of unwinding (the older I het, the more I like The Dead) and The Talking Heads and Tom Petty are mainstays-- I think I will listen to them until my own final wrap-up (as a bonus to this ode to saccharine self-reflection, here's one of the first videos I made to send a message to my Creative Writing class-- in the height of the pandemic . . . before all the Zoom and Microsoft Teams and such).
Yesterday, I found out that several Spotify users have plagiarized the name of my favorite playlist-- Tip Top Hip Hop-- and this made me feel both annoyed and vindicated; annoyed because when I ask Google to play it, sometimes it doesn't access my playlist, vindicated because my son Ian told me it was a stupid name, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery so it's obviously NOT a stupid name . . . anyway, this led my son Alex and I to collaborate on an excellent Criminal Minds plot: folks are being murdered around the country and while there's no apparent connection, they are being killed with the same gun and the same M.O. and then Spencer figures it out, of course . . . all the people that have been brutally executed have playlists entitled "Tip Top Hip Hop" and the murderer wants to possess the one and only version of this playlist . . . which raises the question: do playlists live on when you head to the great-festival-seating-concert-in-the-sky?
This Sunday at 10 AM, which is normally the time I play pick-up soccer at the turf, but you know, the pandemic-- so I was rollerblading . . . and I saw my fellow soccer buddy Guillermo jogging and I waved hello but neither of us was happy . . . it's a sad state of affairs (but I'm excited to start playing in a tennis league next Saturday . . . so I'll get my competitive fix then).
I thoroughly enjoyed the Netflix mini-series "The Queen's Gambit," even as I recognized sports trope after sports trope; it's a Cinderella story and this scene pretty much summarizes the film:
Due to the pandemic, Thanksgiving felt pretty weird this year, but I still have a hell of a lot to be thankful for . . . sorry, I have a hell of a lot for which to be thankful; here's an incomplete list:
1) Winston Churchill's retort when criticized for ending a sentence with a preposition:"This is the type of errant pedantry up with which I will not put"
2) the fact that my family was able to get together at all . . . it was just ten of us, which leads me to the next thing I'm thankful for;
3) this amazing COVID-19 Event Risk Assessment Planning Tool . . . apparently there was an 18% chance of someone having COVID at our Thanksgiving get-together, which seems like a reasonable risk . . . so pull out this Risk Assessment Tool and you'll be the life of the party!
4) the amazing weather . . . this might be due to global warming, but most of us might be dead long before that's much of a problem, so whatever;
5) the dog beach at Asbury Park . . . my wife and I took the dog there today-- this was contingent on the absurd late November weather;
6) the fact that my kids love to play tennis-- we're getting a lot of outdoor play before the (costly) indoor winter season begins;
7) the fact that our ping-pong table is still in the driveway-- we've been playing every day, crossing our fingers that this weather lasts, and my son Ian is actually getting good enough to beat me (occasionally)
8) the fact that we've stepped up our ping-pong game to real paddles (Pro Spin Carbon)
9) this astoundingly funky Jimmy McGriff album "Groove Grease," which is excellent writing music and has a racy cover;
10) Jersey craft breweries, such as Cypress and Beach Haus;
11) the fact that my wife has taken up tennis-- I get a lot of exercise when I play with her . . .
12) the fact that I can do my job from home right now, without wearing a mask-- while remote teaching is kind of sad and occasionally gives me eyestrain and vertigo, it's a hell of a lot easier than hybrid;
13) a bunch of other stuff, but there's a Zoom happy hour with my fraternity brothers starting in 30 seconds, which I am also thankful for . . . sorry, for which I am thankful.
Happy Weirdsgiving . . . may your stuffing and gravy contain very little COVID . . . or perhaps this will be a true American Thanksgiving and the native population will be decimated by disease, in the same way that the Native Americans-- through many a Thanksgiving-- suffered from smallpox, tuberculosis, measles and influenza.
The Wailing-- an epic 2016 Korean horror film-- is a cross between The Exorcist and The Naked Gun . . . and the imagery and cinematography, which is astounding and beautiful, is somewhere between Deliverance and Apocalypse Now . . . the movie features angels and demons and all of us bumbling idiots in between, there are shapeshifters and possession, zombies and infection, ghosts and senseless violence . . . but all of these tired tropes are given new life . . . the film is streaming on Amazon Prime, watch it before it vanishes.
A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine is big-brained sci-fi and it will take a little while to understand what's going on (I didn't realize there is a glossary of terms in the back of the novel . . . the existence of which often indicates the kiss-of-death for comprehension and readability, but I managed to figure things out without referring to it and I'm an idiot) but I recommend giving it a shot . . . it asks this question:
--how do you preserve your culture and memory when you are on the verge of being subsumed and appropriated by a gigantic galactic empire?
and the mining station Lsel has an answer: proprietary technology that fuses the memories of past people with present citizens, in the form of a neurological implant and a grueling physical and mental process that allows the voices of the past to coexist in the same body as the present person; diplomacy is at the heart of the novel, but there's plenty of action, violence, insurrection, and politics as well; the author is also a Byzantine scholar and the book won the Hugo award . . . it ain't an easy read, but I will probably read the next in the series as well-- and I hope the next book I read is a little easier on my brain (just as writing a blog is a much easier way to preserve memory and culture in a world being subsumed and appropriated by algorithmically polarized social media).
Joe Rogan is the Bruce Springsteen of podcasting; he's indefatigable and manages to be both a dude and a pro-- a weird combination of everyman and talent . . . here are some recent episodes I recommend:
1) #1566 Nicholad Christakis . . . required pandemic listening-- this enlightened me to the fact that pandemics are nothing new-- throughout history, they have been the norm-- and while this current one could be far worse, it's also not going away any time soon;
2) #1555 Alex Jones and Tim Dillon . . . Rogan does a great job fact-checking and slowing down Alex Jones-- he often sounds like a high school teacher, chastising Jones for talking over him and not connecting the dots . . . but he does it in a pleasant way and allows Jones to actually get across what he's all about, uncovering corruption-- some of which may be based on fact-- and linking this corruption into wild insane global conspiracies that sound utterly insane when you put them under a microscope;
3) #1550 Wesley Hunt . . . Hunt is a black Republican that ran (and lost) in Texas's 7th Congressional District; he's a veteran of the Iraq war and former AH-64D Apache Longbow helicopter pilot and he's a great reminder that there are plenty of reasonable Republicans out there-- who are interested in promoting business and creating jobs but still understand environmental externalities-- and have no interest in promoting QAnon;
4) #1554 Kanye West . . . this one takes a while to get going, but it eventually becomes Kanye's beautiful religious twisted fantasy . . . he mentions "God" quite often;
meanwhile, if Joe Rogan is the Boss of Podcasting, Sam Harris is some kind of demanding and complex jazz-- Ornette Coleman-- or perhaps prog rock . . . Harris is the Steely Dan or the Mars Volta of podcasting . . . intellectual, sincere, a little too earnest, and very smart . . . his new one, Republic of Lies, has some excellent logic and analogies about Trump's fight to dismiss the election results:
-- he likens Trump's move to use the courts to challenge the election results to a soccer player late in the game who flops in the penalty box, hoping to be awarded a penalty kick by a clueless referee . . . and he makes the point that the soccer player is acting in bad faith-- he knows he hasn't been fouled but he's going ahead with the ploy anyway-- and the other players on the team and the coaches also know the player hasn't been fouled, but they've got to go along with it as well . . . so Trump is writhing around on the ground in fake pain and everyone on his side is in on the ruse . . . Harris contrasts this with the many liberals who think there is systemic racism everywhere in America-- while he doesn't think this is true (and neither do I, listen to his reasoned take on this) he understands that the liberal who believe this truly believe it . . . they're not faking it and there's more at stake than a game . . . democracy is at stake;
--Harris points out that all this "deception" was all done in plain sight: Trump began setting up the fraudulent claim that mail-in ballots are corrupt early, he tried to defund the post office so they couldn't deal with the ballots, he made no attempt to get the states to begin counting mail-in ballots early, and then he claimed that the results on election night should stand . . . wow;
--and finally, if the Democrats engineered massive systemic voter fraud, they would have also won the House and Senate races . . . he's willing to give Trump voters a "mulligan" and I see his point-- there's no reason no harbor animosity-- the real blame right now lies with the right-wing media demagogues-- who have jumped on the presidential bandwagon-- and all the folks on Trump's team (especially Rudy Giuliani) who are going along with this particularly egregious and high-stakes "flop" in the penalty box of American democracy.
A bonus of doing school from my home-bunker is that when I use my iMac, I don't have to remember to click the dreaded "share computer audio" button when I share my screen and want to play a video clip . . . for some reason, Apple computers do this automatically (I don't know why they wouldn't).
It was the first day of school all over again today . . . the first day COVID caused remote school-- and I had first day jitters-- I was holed up in my study/music studio/junk room, which has a survivalist-bunker vibe (because of the cardboard boxes, the tools, the do-it-yourself-shelving, and all the cans of dog food) and Microsoft Teams wasn't playing all that nicely with my iMac . . . but I got it together and delivered the goods-- including an especially appropriate lesson on conspiracy theories (unshaven and poorly lit, I looked the part)) and while I missed my colleagues and the spaciousness of my classroom, I enjoyed fast internet, hot coffee, mask-free teaching, frequent snacking, walking the dog on my free period, no commute, time to sleep until the late late hour of 6:30 AM, and a sense of empathy with the majority of my students-- who have been virtual since day one . . . we'll see what I think of this whole endeavor when January rolls around.
Winter is coming, it's getting dark before 5 PM, the pandemic is worsening, and my school has gone all remote so I'll be teaching at home until January 11th-- and my children are also doing school virtually as well-- so we'll all be home . . . for a while . . . I'm getting a Shining vibe about this winter (and I can't even think of an alternative winter-vibe that is fitting . . . Fargo? Dumb and Dumber?)
I'm nearly done with Timothy Gallwey's classic The Inner Game of Tennis: The Classic Guide to the Mental Side of Performance, and while I won't reveal any of the secrets I've learned (because I might have to play you in tennis) I will let you in on one thing: this is probably the only instructional tennis book that refers to T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men."
The chances are now even greater that there will be a split between memory of theory and memory of action. (I am reminded of the lines from "The Hollow Men," by T.S. Eliot: "Between the idea/ And the reality/ Between the motion/ and the act/ Falls the Shadow.")
As I was cleaning out our kitchen-junk-drawer I noticed dangerous thing number one:
1) Krazy Glue looks like Chapstick . . . which can lead to this error;
and while I was reading my library book A Memory Called Empire, I created dangerous thing number two . . . I was eating a Honeycrisp apple slathered with peanut butter and:
2) I got peanut butter all over the fore-edge of the book and the page I was reading (which, coincidentally, was about an intergalactic diplomat who died from an allergic reaction) so if someone with a severe peanut allergy checks out the book once I'm through with it, they are headed straight for anaphylaxis;
3) dangerous thing number three happened when I was driving to work this morning . . . I was in traffic on Route 18 and it was raining and foggy and a medium sized spider-- I won't call it large because I've seen large spiders and they are obscene . . . but it was certainly the size of a quarter-- and this spider descended on a thread of silk from the driver side window and was headed straight for my arm hair . . . so I grabbed my lunch bag and swatted at it, but also nearly hit the divider and slowed down-- I was lucky not to cause an accident-- I think I finally got the spider out my window, but I'm not sure . . . we'll see if it's gone on my ride home today.
For the second time this year, the school where I teach is going completely virtual (and while this will be easier for me and probably simpler for my students-- the hybrid model is really difficult to execute, technologically-- but all-remote schooling going to be really tough for certain special needs students-- especially those that have been attending our school five days a week; I covered a class down in that world yesterday, and those kids desperately need in-person school . . . my younger son could also benefit from some structure-- I got home yesterday and found him making fresh pasta in the kitchen-- which is an ambitious endeavor, especially since he was supposed to be working on some kind of history assessment, which he blew off . . . I guess now I'll be home to keep an eye on him).
A few minutes before our JV team was about to step on the field for today's home game against Sayreville, the opposing coach jogged over to me and told me their team had to cancel-- as his AD had called him and told him that a kid who missed the bus had tested positive for COVID-- and then they beat a hasty retreat to the bus . . . this was the icing on the cake for today's game, which qualified for several firsts:
1) the first time I ever simultaneously coached and attended a faculty meeting . . . I kept one earbud in while I organized warm-ups and chatted with the refs;
2) the first time I ever had a game canceled due to a pandemic when both teams were on the field and ready to play;
3) the first time I ever took a phone call from the school that employs me as a coach while attending a meeting for the school that employs me as a teacher, while attempting to coach my team . . .
the lesson here is that multi-tasking makes me feel like my heart is going to explode; I'm a one-thing-at-a-time person.
This one is a bit shorter than my Halloween 2020 special . . .
Two Four Six Eight
Trump is gonna litigate!
Seven Eight Nine Ten
We will count the votes again!
Eleven Twelve
I tire of this.
Catherine and I went to NYC today-- we drove in instead of taking the train because covid cases are rising around here-- and the drive was fairly traffic-free--weird-- and the streets were fairly deserted, which I prefer to the normal throngs of humanity (but the economy doesn't prefer this, which is pretty tragic) and after a stroll through Central Park, we went to the MOMA . . . it was mainly empty and quite pleasant to browse all the famous and wacky art . . . then we went back to Central Park by way of Fifth Ave-- a lot fo the expensive stores were all boarded up in preparation for protests, riots, and God-know-what-else, and we encountered some brazen squirrels on a nature trail in Central Park and then we went for a late lunch at Westville Hells Kitchen . . . best veggie burger of my life-- and then we went back to the lot, took off our masks, and beat a hasty retreat back to Highland Park . . . in time for Ian and I to hit some tennis balls at the lovely and large p[ark right next to our house . . . had to be tough to wait out the pandemic in the city and it's going to be a long winter there.
In order to distract myself from all this election nonsense, I've been listening to Tom Petty and reading science-fiction; I just finished one of the most difficult sci-fi books I've ever read-- William Gibson's The Peripheral-- usually I'm down with Gibson's prose, but this novel that seems to be about cyber-space and controlling three-dimensional peripheral avatars is actually about quantum information time-travel through a server-- surprise?-- and I was never comfortable with the plot, the characters, or what-the-hell-was-going-on . . . but I made it through and the end finally made some sense (this article with spoilers helped) and then I shifted gears and read one of the funniest, easiest, most entertaining and illuminating books I've read in a long while: Set my Heart to Five by Simon Stephenson-- a screenwriter for Pixar-- who takes a dental bot named Jared on a poignant and cinematic journey through human emotions, culture, and connection . . . it's so much fun that I watched election coverage from 9 PM to 9:20 PM last night and then went and finished the book and fell asleep, only to awaken to more ambiguity, so I'm starting another sci-fi novel: A Memory Called Empire.
Fall Break was off to an auspicious start-- Friday afternoon, I participated in the 9th Annual Scary Story Contest (and took third with my scary poem!) and Saturday Cat and I were about to attend an outdoor Halloween Party when I got a text from a JV player informing me that he had tested positive for covid (and so had his entire family . . . they were getting hit pretty hard by it) and so I switched from party mode to contact tracing mode . . . luckily, the player was very responsible and stopped coming to practice right when his mom grew ill, so the last contact was eight days prior-- but the head coach and the AD and I still had to make a spreadsheet of emails, inform all the players and the administration, and tell folks that we might have contracted the virus . . . the JV team ended up getting quarantined for six days-- which would be fourteen days from the initial contact-- but it was highly unlikely that there was any spread since we were outside and no one had any symptoms . . . my family got tested, just to be on the safe side-- we went to a fairly grubby old school doctor's office in a desolate strip mall-- lots of old leather furniture, a big fish tank, and yellowed linoleum on the floors-- and we had our first experience with the nasal swab . . . it wasn't too bad (I said I would do it again if someone paid me $20 and Cat and the boys said they would do it again for $5 . . . I said I don't need $5 dollars that badly) and we all turned out negative . . . we got results in 24 hours; hopefully we will get back to soccer at the end of the week; in other pandemic news, I bought a portable cheap exercise bike from Amazon, so we could ride it while we watch TV-- I think it's going to be a long winter-- and for 104 bucks the thing is miraculous, but they didn't ship us the seat, so while we wait for that, we duct taped a bunch of towels to the metal frame where the seat is supposed to go and that works pretty well.
On my way home from school the other day, I was able to snap a picture of an endangered species: the extraordinarily rare, extremely literal, proud and unreserved, completely-on-the-nose, totally lacking self-awareness Jaguar owner (and Jaguar vanity plate owner) who never learned the lesson Chip Kidd presents at the beginning of this TED Talk.
The Chinese Curse
What’s on your mind, Blair?
video photo feeling
What’s on my mind? Do you really want to know, Face-suck?
Or do you just want to mine my data?
What’s on my mind?
The Chinese Curse, that’s what. May you live in interesting times.
October 31st, 2020. Interesting times. Four more days until the election. Two more months left in this mess of a year.
Interesting times suck. I can't get them off of my mind. Or out of my mind.
But maybe, I can change things. Have some control. Do some lexical magic.
At least over you, my so-called Facebook friends . . . in my so-called life during this so-called pandemic. Maybe you’ll pass my incantation along and this year will turn itself inside out.
What if I could cast a spell?
Dissipate this weary hell?
I should at least give it a try. My mom used to do tarot readings. I might have some kind of gift.
Hocus-pocus, maybe I can learn to focus?
Zuckerberg’s clairvoyant vision
Find this with your algorithm:
Make my post go super-viral
Pull us from this deadly spiral.
It was the year of twenty-twenty,
It is the year of twenty-twenty . . .
Twenty-twenty, twenty-twenty
Why do you rub me
in this way?
Why can’t you love me?
You push and shove me
Day by fretful day by day.
Boil and bubble, Trump is trouble,
O Lord don't let him win the double
Yes! Let my soul turn to lead
and sink to hell if he were dead.
If he were dead, if he were dead.
Banish these thoughts from my head!
My busy brain should not be fed
By such bitter vengeful bread.
Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies
covid covid we all fall down . . .
Safety, safety, safety first
Safety dance, the Chinese curse
Living safely is the worst
But is it better than the hearse?
Lady liberty not Trump tower
Used to give our country power.
Hippies filled their hair with flowers.
Now . . .
abortion makes Coney Barrett sour.
Blues and reds, they all glower--
Children at the border cower.
They say the pen is mightier than the sword.
But what if the Populus is polarized and bored?
Pandemic, plan-demic
A fiction Democratic.
You have my word
November third
It disappears like magic.
Meatpackers work, shoulder to shoulder
The policy gets colder and colder.
Carcass, virus,
virus, carcass . . .
Cut that meat or they will fire us.
Covid covid, we all fall down.
Black lives matter, blue lives matter,
George Floyd’s ashes we must scatter.
Pitter-patter pitter-patter
The blood of Rayshard Brooks did spatter--
Tasers, guns I’ll take the latter.
Breonna Taylor’s door got battered.
Some say the world will end in fire,
But for migrant workers,
ICE will suffice.
That’s great, it starts with an earthquake,
Birds and snakes and aeroplanes,
Dave Chapelle is not afraid
Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn
While the outback burns and burns.
It’s the end of the world as we know it,
Grandma don’t feel fine at all.
Covid covid, we all fall
down.
Fly of Pence, tongue of Stone,
Bannon’s nose hair
Kushner’s throne
Ivanka’s fabric
Mnuchin’s money
Tongue of Miller
Pompeo’s arm
Mix these for a deadly charm.
Yes! Let my soul turn to lead
and sink to hell if he were dead.
I make this bargain readily,
Like Faustus with Mephistopheles . . .
I wear my mask and then I sneeze
Don’t stare at me, pretty please.
Here we are now, entertain us.
TV shows to make us famous,
Social feeds will try to change us
We bare our souls, can you blame us?
Bail out the airlines and the banks,
To Donald Trump we give our thanks.
The rest of us must share the wealth--
And hope he subsidizes health.
Plumes of smoke, tear-gas, fire
Men in armor, guns for hire
We're all so very very tired
But am I preaching to the choir?
Twenty-twenty when you end
Will our fractured country mend?
Or have we gone around the bend?
I see two paths, both portend.
Yes, two roads diverged in yellow wood . . .
One repulsive, one not so good
Three roads, four roads, five roads, six,
There will be no easy fix
Epstein’s minors turn their tricks.
Safety dance, safety first
Safety is the Chinese curse
Will November make it worse?
What rough beast slouches towards Washington to be reborn?
Once I pondered weak and weary, on a scientific theory
Then I learned of QAnon and thought: “Fuck yeah! IT IS ON!”
Now I fight the pedophiles,
Me and Trump, we do battle
The rest of you are sheep and cattle
Do your research on Seattle
Protesters, they mass and gather
Law or chaos, would you rather?
Widening on the turning gyre,
the center cannot hold
Things fall apart, it’s getting cold
The virus once again grows bold
Airborne particles
Fake news articles,
Winter is coming, enjoy the carnival.
My thoughts grow wild, I can’t control them,
I wish that I could turn them off,
I wish I were allowed to cough
I wish that I could turn them off
I wish I were allowed to cough
until my lungs come out my ears and throat
The devil is inside a goat
Bubble, bubble Trump is trouble
Will he be elected double?
Twenty-twenty, a dozen more?
Will he change the terms to four?
Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan
Let’s enact a travel ban!
Illhan Omar and AOC
Want us all to work for free.
Socialism . . . not for me . . .
We mourn the mighty RBG.
Twenty-twenty, you have offended,
But in a year, will all be mended?
Perhaps we have just slumbered here
While these visions did appear?
No . . . this is no idle theme--
It’s not a dream, it’s not a dream
I give you full consent to scream.
Stop these thoughts, away begone!
Yet they continue on and on . . .
What’s on my mind, Facebook feed?
I can’t choose which way to proceed.
I cannot do a single deed.
I’m paralyzed and by booze and weed
Safety safety, safety first
The safety dance, the Chinese curse
Living safely is the worst
My brain won’t stop until it bursts.
I poke and scroll on my phone
There’s no such thing as home alone.
O lord I feel so weak and weary, fatigued and futile, eyes so bleary,
My mask lies soiled and forgotten, dirty, dusty smelling rotten
Fallen from the special spot on my car mirror to the floor--
Now I need it, I must retrieve it, I’m on an errand to the store.
But can I enter? Dare I enter? I do not want to touch the door--
The doorway entrance, a deadly sentence, full of germs I can’t ignore.
What’s on my mind?
Only this and nothing more.
Facebook-- make this post go super-viral,
Release me from this deadly spiral,
I’m feeling mad, my mind is wild,
Like a surly red-faced child--
I want to stomp and throw a tantrum--
Redrum, redrum! REDRUM!
Murder mayhem bloody-mary
Twenty-twenty, you shock and scare me
Like some spider black and hairy.
I can’t sleep my way through this disaster
Twenty-twenty: you are the master
Of my whirling anxious brain--
Release me from this grisly reign.
Dash these thoughts against the stones,
Let them live among your phones,
Free me from these dreadful times
Cast this spell, release these rhymes.
What’s on my mind, what’s on my mind?
It was the year of twenty-twenty,
It IS the year of twenty-twenty.
Only this and nothing more.
Post
